Until she was small and flat and lightless.
He uncurled his fingers and released her gently.
She took a step back.
Then another.
And Lorcan watched her face flash white, then scarlet, then white again.
Two hot pink spots remained high on her cheeks.
Then there was a silence that seemed to whine as if someone had fired a gun next to his ear.
They stared at each other.
She looked blank with shock.
“Good heavens. Of course you aren’t. No need to take on so,” she said lightly.
He said nothing. He could not. He was flooded with horror. As if he’d crushed a butterfly in his hands.
“Good night, Lorcan.” She said it brightly.
If there was a tremble in her voice, it was slight.
She turned. Spine straight, she headed straight for her room.
She quietly closed the door and turned the key in the lock.
He stared at her closed door.
Then covered his face with his hands.
Everything was too loud, suddenly: the fire echoed like whip cracks.
The wind moaning, as if in pain.
The frantic, slamming beat of his own heart, trying to get out of its jail. Furiously pounding its rage at what he’d subjected it to, despite its efforts to defend itself from pain. Furiously pounding as if it wanted to leap out of his chest and go to her.
He was in pain. He was in pain.
Daphne lay on her bed and held herself very still in the dark.
As if in so doing she could prevent the shocking pain of his words from flooding her entirely. As if she could save one tiny corner of herself from it.
As it was, she felt as though her lungs had been punctured.
She thought she knew why he’d done it. Why he’d said it. How he felt.
And therein lay both salvation and heartbreak.
But she could not know for sure, and she felt like she’d just leaped into the dark from a crate, only to endlessly fall.
“Daphne?” he said quietly to the door.
There was no response.
He cleared his throat.