I should be frightened, but I have dreamed this dream before. I have swum this sea a thousand times, my slumbering mind returning again and again to the plundering depths, to the swells that crash around me with frothing whitecaps. To the currents that caress and cajole as they drag me to the bottom, whispering sweet nothings even as they kill me.
This deadly sea of dreams is not the sunny shore of Seahaven, but somewhere else—a place I’ve never been. A figment of sleep-fueled imagination. For if such a place exists, I’ve never seen it. Yet it feels so real, so vivid, sometimes I think it must be a memory left over from a past life, carried through the aether as my soul sprung into existence.
When I gasp awake, I can still taste sea salt on my lips.
It takes me a moment to shake off the residue of the dream. I glance around, eyes wide, struggling to get my bearings. Searching for threats. Finding none.
I’m alone.
Alone in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room. No sign of my belongings anywhere. Not my bow, not my quiver, not my dagger, nor any of my clothes. The bedspread clutched in my hands is light blue; the plush feather mattress beneath me is of the highest quality. The chamber itself is the color of sand, while the floors are a luminous ivory tile.
It looks like an ordinary—if rather richly appointed—bedroom, everything finely crafted out of light-hued wood, from the carved writing desk to the nightstands to the wardrobe. Across from the bed, a large window with crisscrossed panes dominates the wall.
I throw off the thick blankets and stalk toward it on bare feet, legs wobbling like jelly with every step. I am not sure how long I’ve been unconscious, only that it was not long enough to counteract my exhaustion. I am spent, every ounce of strength sapped from my bones. This soul-deep weariness I have never before experienced is not only physical. It centers at the mark embedded in my chest the same way a headache gathers at one’s temples, then radiates outward.
Evidently, using my power comes at a price.
I wonder where my boots are as the tile’s chill seeps into my soles; wonder who took me out of them when they put me in the flimsy nightgown I’m wearing. My heart thuds as a face jolts into my thoughts—the man I encountered on the riverbank. His bright blue eyes are the last thing I remember before everything went dark. That predatory gleam. That self-satisfied smirk. That voice, like a deadly fall of water, ribboning the air.
Well, well. Aren’t you interesting.
I do not like to think he was the one to strip me to my skin and dress me in this garment. The nightgown is borderline indecent, the fabric so gauzy and light it is almost sheer against my skin. Not silk, but something far finer. The stitching is so tiny andprecise, I can barely detect a single seam. It flows around me like liquid as I stop before the window.
My mouth gapes.
While unconscious, I have undergone a vast change in altitude. The Cimmerians are spread out before me—above me, rather. Wherever I’ve been taken is situated at the base of the range. If I squint my eyes toward the summit of the centermost peak, I can just make out a dark scorch staining the snow-topped tract of evergreens. A smoldering wound, scarring the face of the mountain—the only remaining trace of the raging wildfire. It looks to have consumed half the slope before finally burning itself out.
Looking at it, I can hardly believe I walked away unscathed. My eyes ache with unshed tears as I think of Penn and his men, fighting for their lives. They’d been at the very heart of the blaze. Even if they’d survived the Reavers…
Could anyone survive such a fire?
The door swings inward with nary a knock of warning. Tears forgotten, I spin around to face the intruder. I backpedal a step when I see it is the fae man from the river, my spine pressing against the sill so hard it will undoubtedly leave a bruise.
“You’re awake,” he says, strolling into the room like he owns the place. Which, it occurs to me, he likely does. “Good.”
He stops six paces away. We stare at each other in silence, each taking the other’s measure. He is just as alarmingly attractive as I remember. A tall, powerful frame encased in tailored navy fabric. Deeply tan, almost golden, skin. Dark, lush hair framing a face that could make an artist weep. Bone structure fodder for a thousand sonnets. The crystalline eyes are balanced by a jawline so chiseled, sculptors could labor for a lifetime and still never quite capture its finer nuances.
“Did you sleep well?”
Did I sleep well?
As if I’ve taken a nap in a field of wildflowers, not been knocked unconscious and dragged down a mountain. Is he insane?
“What did you do to me?”
He arches a single brow at the thick accusation in my tone. “What didIdo to you?”
“You…” I shake my head, trying to sort out my thoughts. “You brought me here.”
“And?”
And?Is that not enough? “You…you knocked me unconscious! You must’ve drugged me or hit me or—”
“No.” A muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw tightens. “I did not lay a finger on you, except to carry you here when you so foolishly drained your powers to the point of exhaustion and collapsed at my feet in a pathetic heap. Though, if I’d known this was the kind of thanks awaiting me…” He shrugs with a nonchalance I do not believe, even for a second. “I might not have bothered.”
There is a frigid pause.
“Oh,” I whisper weakly in its aftermath.