Page 23

TRINITY

I slip out of the bed, unable to take being in here any longer. The sheets whisper against my skin as I move, my bare feet silent on the cool stone floor. Moonlight filters through the gap in the curtains, painting silver stripes across the floor.

On my way to the nursery, I pause in the hall, peeking through Vael's partially open door. He doesn't want to close it in case the girls need him. I can't help but stare at him, at the way moonlight casts across his sleeping form.

This vulnerability of his while sleeping still startles me. In waking hours, he's all coiled power and sharp edges. But in sleep, the hard lines of his face soften, and I'm left wondering what it might be like to truly belong here.

But I don't belong. Not really.

The nursery door makes no sound as I ease it open, slipping inside to check on the twins.

Both sleep peacefully, their tiny chests rising and falling in perfect synchronicity.

I brush a finger across Liora's cheek, marveling at how she already has Vael's stubborn chin.

Kaelin stirs slightly, her rosebud mouth working in her sleep.

"Sweet dreams," I whisper, willing it to be true for them even if it isn't for me.

Back in the hallway, I pause. The thought of going to Vael's bed—of curling against his warmth—beckons like a siren song. But the lingering tendrils of my nightmare still claw at my consciousness, making me restless.

Instead, I find myself wandering to the kitchen, lighting a single lamp with trembling fingers. The flame casts dancing shadows across the walls as I prepare a cup of meadowmint tea, hoping it might quiet the chaos in my mind.

The same nightmare. Three nights running now.

I settle at the kitchen table, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. Outside, Aerasak's strange, crimson moon bathes everything in bloody light. Even after months here, I still find the alien sky unsettling.

"You're not there anymore," I remind myself, voice barely audible in the quiet kitchen. "You're safe."

But am I? The question lingers as I sip my tea, wincing as it burns my tongue.

My mind drifts back to the nightmare—so vivid I can still smell the smoke, feel the twigs snapping beneath my feet as I ran.

In reality, I never had a chance to run.

The attack on my village had been swift, efficient.

One moment I was hanging laundry to dry, the next I was thrown over a demon's shoulder like a sack of zynthra.

But in my dreams, I always run. Through familiar woods now set ablaze, past the burning shells of homes I'd known all my life. The screams of neighbors, of friends, providing a horrific backdrop to my flight.

And always, always, the sound of pursuit behind me. Heavy footfalls crushing undergrowth. The hot breath of a predator at my neck. Sometimes I glimpse him—the captain, his cruel smile gleaming in the firelight as he stalks me through the inferno.

" You're mine, " he'd growl, voice scraping like stone against metal. "You'll always be mine."

I shudder, spilling tea onto the table. Quickly, I mop it up with the sleeve of Vael's tunic, blinking back the burn of unshed tears.

Why now? Why, when I've finally found some measure of peace, do these memories resurface?

Setting down the mug, I press my palms against my eyes, trying to block out the images.

But they come anyway—flashes of the dungeon, the iron bars, the hungry eyes of demons as they selected women like cuts of meat at market.

The captain's hand around my throat, squeezing just enough to remind me who controlled my breath, my life.

"It wasn't just a dream," I whisper to the empty kitchen. Something feels wrong—a prickling awareness at the base of my neck, an instinct honed through years of surviving as prey among predators. The nightmares aren't random. They're a warning.

But a warning of what?

I finish my tea, staring at the leaves gathered at the bottom of the mug. I wish they would form some pattern, give me some clue. But they're just leaves, soggy and formless.

I should tell Vael. The thought forms before I can stop it, and I immediately push it away. Tell him what? That I'm having bad dreams? That I have some formless dread with no evidence to back it up?

And what if voicing my fears somehow makes them real? What if I shatter this fragile peace we've built—this strange, unexpected sanctuary where I've found myself caring for a demon and his children?

No. Better to keep it to myself. Better to be strong, as I've always been.

I rinse my mug and return it to its shelf, moving quietly through the kitchen. At the doorway, I pause, glancing back at the crimson light spilling through the window.

"It's just dreams," I tell myself firmly. "Nothing more."

But as I make my way back to my bedroom, the prickling sensation returns—the feeling of being watched, hunted. I quicken my pace, suddenly desperate for the protection of at least being near him, even as I tell myself I need no protection.

I slide under the covers, my heart still racing. I do everything I can to try and calm my heart.

But I don't sleep again tonight.

And the dread never leaves me.