Page 29 of Claimed In Darkness

29

NAIRA

T he morning is too quiet.

The kind of quiet that presses against my inside, overflowing and suffocating. It sinks its claws into my skin and doesn’t let go.

I stare at the ceiling, at the flickering candlelight casting long, jagged shadows across the stone.

My limbs feel wrong. Heavy.

Not sore, not bruised—just wrong.

Like something inside me isn’t entirely mine anymore.

Like something is… missing.

I exhale slowly, willing my body to move, to shake off the creeping unease curling in my gut.

But when I shift, I feel him.

The fiery inferno of his skin against mine.

Zephiran is still beside me, one arm thrown over his face, his other hand resting low on my stomach, fingers spread like he means to keep me there.

Shoving him away is the smart choice.

I should slip out of this bed and pretend last night never fucking happened.

But a part of me screams not to.

The stupid part clings to what happened between us.

Slowly, carefully, I shift out from under Zephiran touch, my breath hitching as my bare feet hit the cold stone.

I expect him to wake up.

To reach for me.

Maybe to say something sharp and knowing, something to remind me that he always wins, that I always break.

His breathing stays even, his body unmoving.

As if even he is exhausted by this.

By me.

I force myself to stand, my spine aching, my muscles tight.

A headache pounds at my temples, dull and relentless, my skin too hot, my vision too sharp at the edges.

I feel strange.

Like something is slithering beneath my skin, unseen, waiting.

I shake my head, trying to ignore it, trying to focus on the one thing I know how to do—walk away.

The washroom is dimly lit, the air overflows with the scent of damp stone and stale perfume.

I grab the basin of water near the hearth, dipping my hands inside, splashing it against my face.

The chill does nothing.

I grip the edges of the wooden basin, breathing hard, my pulse skittering too fast.

Something is seriously wrong.

I catch my reflection in the polished steel of the washbasin.

And freeze.

My veins.

Just beneath my skin—they are dark.

They don’t look like bruises.

Like something black and ancient is threading through me, coiling under my flesh.

A shudder rips through my spine.

I press my fingers to my throat, to my pulse, to the spot just above my collarbone where Zephiran mouth had been last night, where his teeth had sunk into my skin, where his hands had held me down and left their mark.

The veins flicker of something not mine.

I suck in a breath.

What the fuck is happening to me?

That relic. When I shattered it, I felt something slithered inside me.

Gods.

This started the moment my blood touched him.

The realization is slow.

Horrifying.

The relic is inside me.

I stagger back from the basin, my breath coming too fast, my skin crawling.

The relic was a binding artifact, a thing meant to consume.

And when I broke it, when I offered my blood to save him, it must have?—

No, I can’t think about this.

Not with him still sleeping in the other room, his body tangled in sheets that still smell like us.

Like his sweat, his mouth, his hands gripping my hips, holding me still as he took what he wanted, as I let him, as I fucking wanted him to.

I dig my nails into my palms.

Hard enough to hurt.

Harsh enough to drag me back to reality.

I can’t let him know.

Not until I figure out what this means.

If he realizes that I am what’s keeping him alive, that I am the price of his salvation?—

I don’t know if he’ll save me or fucking destroy me.

I force my body to move, turning from the basin, my heartbeat hammering against my ribs.

I step back into the bedroom.

Zephiran is awake.

He’s propped on one elbow, his gaze locked on me, unreadable, dark.

His hair is still a mess, falling into his face, his lips slightly parted, like he had been about to say something before he stopped himself.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is our breathing.

Slowly, his gaze drags down my body.

Not lustful. Nor hunger. In calculation.

He sees something.

Maybe the way my shoulders are too stiff.

Perhaps in the way I am standing just a little too carefully or with my fingers curling into fists, hiding the way they are trembling.

His eyes narrow slightly.

"Naira," he says, voice low, edged with something sharp.

I keep my mouth shut.

If I say something, I don’t know what will spill out.

He shifts, pushing himself up further, the sheets sliding down his bare chest, revealing the marks I left on him.

Marks I don’t remember making.

His head tilts.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

I force a breath.

"Just tired."

A weak fucking lie.

His expression doesn’t change.

He doesn’t press.

But I see the suspicion in his eyes.

See the way he’s watching me now, too carefully as if studying me.

Like he knows what I’m hiding.

I need to get out of here.

Now.