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Hair wet from the washtub, it drips water down my back and dampens my chemise, and I feel the freshness lighten my steps.

My hand slaps down on the banister. Gripped on, I drag my weight around the landing to the next corridor, where my bedchamber door awaits.

I stumble right into a solid marble chest.

I stagger back a step.

Lifting my chin, I look up at the ocean eyes gleaming from shadows.

My throat tightens.

Daxeel is home. He is here in Hemlock—waiting for me.

The tired lull of his lashes eases me.

If he knew anything about Rune and Aleana, there would be rage. Not fatigue.

I loosen a soft breath.

Daxeel looks down at me.

I stare up at the exhausted lull of his kohled eyes.

He lifts his hand, a slight movement shielded by the dusk of Hemlock and his shadows, but I feel the brush of his touch on my damp arm.

My skin prickles, fast.

Then his hand firms around my wrist.

Gaze locked onto mine, he speaks that one word in a whisper, “Come.”

A command.

That’s all it takes for the muscles to bolt to my bones.

I follow him.

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My legs move on their own accord.

Daxeel is the puppetmaster, holding the strings to my muscles, my bones, my will. And he manoeuvres me with that one spoken command all the way through Hemlock’s dusky corridors to the door of his bedchamber.

Daxeel doesn’t look back as he grips the brass knob. And the moment he does, the untreated wooden look of the door suddenly darkens. Inky vapours lick over the surface, like thick, black smoke.

He pushes open the door, then draws back to let me pass.

I brush by him, not a word on my tongue.

The heat of the bedchamber hits me like a punch. It’s an instant, suffocating sensation that rolls over my shoulders and soothes my pebbled flesh.

The warmth kneads through my muscles to my bones when Daxeel comes up behind me.

His gentle breath disturbs my hair. It rustles at the crown of my head.

“Do you miss me?” His voice is a whisper weaved with exhaustion.