The Weaver's Source

Chapter 51

I woke sharply when I felt something brush my cheek softly; cold and leathery. My eyes snapped open as my throat closed in fear, memory of the dream and that demonic howl making my stomach curl in terror, and I pushed myself up sharply; chest fluttering anxiously and hair wild. Grigore was in the chair beside me, brow furrowed and that large hand that had woken me hovering near my cheek. My gaze frantically drank him in; his tiredness, the stiffness to his broad body, the darkness to his stormy eyes, but I didn't spy any tear to his clothes, no signs of blood or wounds. He was unharmed, as he promised.

Relief swamped me so thickly that I reacted impulsively. I flung myself at him and buried my face in the rough cloak surrounding his neck and locked my arms around him. My heart pumped, fear and relief mixing into a strange burning mess in my chest, and I clung to him tightly, pressing myself into him, overjoyed I could feel him again and inhale his wonderful song.

He was stiff in my embrace, his hands gripping my hips to keep me from falling out of the bed. I felt flashes in him; hot stabs of confusion and surprise before it shifted into gathering rage and steeling protectiveness.

"What happened?" Grigore growled dangerously, surprising me when he pulled me roughly forward, gathering me into his lap and wrapping his strong arms around me securely. The relief I felt abruptly shifted into shyness and my heart thumped loudly when all I could feel was him.

"Did someone hurt you?" He asked tightly.

"No." I stammered into his cloak. "I'm just glad you're back."

The rise in his temper stalled and calmed, his body unwinding slightly but not letting me go either.

"Why?" He murmured.

"I had a dream about the black dog killing someone. I don't know who, I just...I remember blood and screams. When I woke up, I heard a howl. It terrified both me and the magic." I faltered a little and squeezed my arms around his neck tighter, suddenly feeling intensely timid. "I was scared you weren't going to come back. That you were going to get eaten."

Grigore stiffened. "Why?" He asked again, this time his tone guarded.

"Why?" I echoed, feeling a little confused by the question and not quite sure I wanted to answer when it made my cheeks burns and heart flutter awkwardly.

"Yes, why. I'm a Weaver, Lyra. My job is to face down monsters. I've been doing it longer than you've been alive and longer than I care to remember. If I get hurt, I get hurt. If I die, I die. It's fine. You shouldn't be scared of it."

My body tensed up at the dismissive tone of his own safety and pushed myself sharply away from him, my hands gripping his broad shoulders and my eyes full of fire as I locked my gaze with his, not liking how calm his eyes were.

"It's not fine, Grigore. Don't degrade yourself like that."

"Lyra, that's the norm. I'm a weapon and quite replaceable, only a handful of people would fuss over my death." He pressed firmly, his jaw tight. "So why are you scared I won't come back? Is it because you'll have to go home? Because your magic tells you to?"

I abruptly became flustered under his intense gaze and the firm curiosity there that turned his eyes black and stiffened his shoulders. My cheeks burned a little, my eyes marbling with various colours as outrage and uncertainty touched me. I didn't know why exactly I worried so much, I cared about his safety, that much I knew, but I didn't know what kind of bond I had with him that made me fuss about him so much. Our relationship was strange, almost begrudging companionship rather than friendship, but my chest still tightened at the memory of the crooked house.