I paused at a rain-streaked window that overlooked the front garden and circular drive, bathed in an orange glow from the scattered lampposts. A ferocious wind drove the rain sideways and moaned through the castle’s intricate architecture.
As I turned from the window, I glimpsed a hint of light from the bedroom at the end of the hall. Curious—as far as I knew, we were the Sinclair family’s only guests tonight—I tiptoed to the open door and poked my head inside. Twice the size of mine, it featured a canopied bed, a full sitting area in front of the stone fireplace, and a broad window with a built-in, deeply cushioned bench in front of it.
A warm yellow glow glimmered through the glass panes, silhouetting the figure sitting sideways across the window seat, his back against the wall and head resting against a pane. The hood of his sweater was pulled up, but I didn’t need to see his face to recognize him.
“Ezra?” I blurted.
His head turned. “Tori? What are you doing up?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you.” This wasn’t his room—his was between mine and Kai’s. I walked across the deep carpet to join him. “I’m just restless and stretching my legs. Why are you over here?”
“I was restless too, I guess.”
As I stopped beside the window seat, he tipped his head back to look up at me. The dim light caught on his features, his pale left eye gleaming like ice. All at once, I noticed details I’d somehow missed over the last couple of days: the dark circles under his eyes, the hollowness of his cheeks, the lines of stress and exhaustion around his mouth.
I’d known he was tired, but I hadn’t realized how tired.
“Oh, Ezra,” I whispered. “It’s that bad?”
He rested his head against the glass again. “I’m okay.”
Nudging his feet closer to the window, I squished onto the bench with him and leaned against his legs so we faced each other. I propped my arm on his upraised knees.
“You’re not okay,” I said firmly. “Tell me what’s going on.”
His gaze dropped and he let out a long, weary breath. “It didn’t seem like a big deal at first. I kept telling myself I’d sleep fine the next night.”
“It’s been weeks, Ezra,” I pointed out gently, unable to get upset when he looked so painfully fatigued. “I’ve hardly seen you.”
He closed his eyes again, his forehead creased. “I know. I’m sorry.”
I opened my mouth, but it took me two tries to speak the words. “I missed you.”
It wasn’t just that he’d stopped visiting me at the pub, working out with us, or coming to my apartment. It was the small things I’d missed most. Bouncing ideas off him for a college assignment. Laughing in the kitchen as he helped me prepare dinner. Wisecracking through whatever terrible film we’d picked for movie night. Spending half my afternoon making dumb jokes until his impassable poker face finally cracked, just because I could.
At my confession, his eyelids flickered, dark lashes shadowing his cheeks, but he didn’t meet my gaze. Instead, his hand closed around mine. “I missed you too.”
My heart buzzed, electrified by his admission. “How much sleep have you been getting?”
“Depends on the night. I can fall asleep, but after a few minutes, sometimes an hour or two, I wake up …” He pressed his hand to his chest, fingers tightening around the soft cotton of his hoodie. “I jolt awake with my heart pounding and adrenaline flowing and this feeling like …”
His other hand still held mine and I twisted our fingers together. “Like what?”
“Like I’m in danger. Like I need to fight something.”
“This started after Halloween, right?” I asked. “Could it be related to the fight with the Keys of Solomon?”
“That would make sense, but …” He grimaced ruefully. “This is going to sound terrible, but that isn’t the worst thing I’ve been through and I’ve never had problems sleeping before. Not like this.”
“What is the worst thing you’ve been through?”
His chin dipped down, shadows cloaking his expression. Apprehension sizzled along my nerves and I didn’t dare breathe as I waited to see what he might reveal.
Finally he spoke, the words quiet and rough. “Watching someone I love die in front of me.”
His words took a moment to sink in, then my breath caught. Without thinking, I leaned forward. My hands went into his hair and I pulled him to me, pressing his face into my shoulder. I didn’t know who he’d watched die—his mother, his father, the mysterious blond girl in the photo he kept hidden in his dresser—but I was certain he blamed himself for that person’s death. Another burden he carried, a painful scar concealed behind his warm smiles.
His hands found my waist, then he slid his arms around me.
“Don’t try to be so strong all by yourself,” I whispered.
His shoulders moved with a silent laugh. “That’s really something to hear from you, Tori.”
“Kai and Aaron have been hammering that exact lesson into my thick head for months.” My hands fisted in his hair. “You should’ve been taking notes too.”
He let out a long exhale, his warm breath brushing across my neck, and I shivered. Somehow, I was sitting sideways across his lap, my legs hanging off the seat as I held his head against my shoulder. His arms were around me, hands tangled in the hem of my sweater.
My treacherous heart thudded too quickly, and tantalizing heat seeped through my center like a slow tide.
He rested his forehead in the crook of my neck. As I fought an internal battle with my stupid libido, his quiet breaths slowed. His weight against me grew heavier. One hand slid from my waist to my hip, his forearm resting languidly on my thigh.
I closed my eyes, intensely aware of every spot where our bodies touched. It hadn’t used to be like this, but now I couldn’t control my thoughts, my silent reaction. Couldn’t stop wondering what would happen if his hand slipped a little lower, if his palm slid down the hem of my shorts, if his warm fingers pressed against my bare thigh.
I pulled myself together. “Ezra,” I breathed, combing my fingers through his hair. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
He dragged his head up and my shoulder instantly felt cold. I hopped off his lap and tugged him to his feet. Locking our hands together, I led him out of the bedroom and down the cool, quiet hallway. Eyes hazy with exhaustion that had been building for weeks, he followed like he had no idea where I was taking him and didn’t care.
I could lead him into my room. Push him into my bed. Climb in with him.
My feet carried us past my door to his room. The interior was dark, the bed a hulking shadow—and, I noted dryly, it was a significantly larger room than mine.
“Go sleep,” I ordered, giving him a gentle push across the threshold.
He turned, eyes half-lidded with drowsiness, sweater rumpled, curls tangled from my fingers. “Tori …”
His whisper was husky, almost shy, and for a moment, I was convinced he was about to invite me into his room. Into his bed. And the thought ripped the floor from under my feet.
He stepped back. “Thank you.”
Turning, he sleepily wandered to his bed. Before I could do something stupid, like follow him, I reached in, grabbed the handle, and pulled his door shut. The latch snicked, and I let out a shuddering breath.