Flinching at my voice, he turns his head. His skin is parchment-pale under the lamp, his green eyes glassy and distant.
“I looked all over the hospital for you. What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”
“I needed air.”
I wait for him to explain, but he doesn’t.
“Have you been out here the whole time?”
“Not the whole time.” He blinks too slowly, his gaze sliding past me to the hospital’s glowing lobby, and a full-body shudder rolls through him.
I step closer. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he says, tone clipped as he pulls out his phone. “I’ll text the driver.” He taps out the message, jaw tight, making itclear that whatever sent him bolting from that building, it’s not something he wants to talk about now.
A few moments later, the town car that brought us here eases to the curb, headlights bright against the flakes drifting to the ground. The driver exits and pulls the back door open, and we slide into the heated interior. I let out a sigh, grateful to escape the cold.
But five minutes down the road, Hugo’s still shaking.
And he’s avoiding me, his focus on the snow-covered streets beyond the window. His breath fogs the glass, then fades before fogging it again. Every few seconds, his fingers twitch.
At first, I didn’t notice his rituals for what they were. I thought of them as ordinary quirks—the clicks of a pen, the tap of fingers, the pause before he speaks. What I didn’t understand until now is thewhybehind them.
It’s how he copes.
Except tonight, the ritual does little to calm him, because he’s counting under his breath and still coming apart, and there’s nothing I can do for him.
And even if I thought hewantedmy help, I don’t know what’s causing this reaction in him.
By the time the tower rises against the night sky, the shudders going through him have run their course. The car glides to a stop at the entrance, and Hugo steps out first before holding the door for me. His eyes don’t meet mine once as we take the elevator to his floor, where he walks me to my quarters.
“Goodnight, my queen.”
“Goodnight,” I say, rooted on the threshold as he disappears into the room across from mine.
Sleep is elusive.
My mind chases itself in circles, catching on Hugo’s ashen face in the snow and the miraculous wail of Elise’s baby. Justas my thoughts finally settle toward rest, a choked scream rips through the wall.
I’m across the hall and yanking his door open before my heart recovers, braced to find him thrashing on the floor again. But he’s asleep, sheets tangled around his pajama-clad body, one arm flung over his eyes.
As if the nightmare came and went with the midnight wind.
I press a palm to my sternum and ride out the adrenaline spike. Slowly, my breathing evens out. So I don’t wake him, I take extra care in pulling the door closed before returning to my bed.
His second nightmare since I came into the House of Aquarius starts a string of nightly episodes. Sometimes it’s a single cry that fades before I make it out of bed.
Other nights are worse.
Those are the ones that plant me on the edge of his mattress to wait out the worst of it, close enough to help, careful never to wake him.
Morning always finds him clear-eyed over his cereal. Sometimes, he mixes it up with oatmeal or eggs. I haven’t found the nerve to bring up the nightly disturbances. We’ve both suffered through it for over a week now—him asleep, and me drowning in worry for him. I keep trying to find a way to approach him about it, but the moment never comes, and I’m afraid if I push, he’ll lock down completely.
Meanwhile, I’m hollowed out, jumpy, running on coffee and the kind of sleep that doesn’t count. And I’ve got too much on my agenda today to let personal matters sidetrack me.
Blurry-eyed and holding back too many yawns to count, I trek through the halls on the ground floor toward my studio. I’m expecting another full schedule, first with my instructor, then the afternoon with Greta and the team, juggling two complex samples.
There’s no time to spare, because the gala is right around the corner.