Page 151 of The Trials of Ophelia

Jezebel catapulted across the room, then, arms and legs tangling around her partner’s body like she’d never let go. “I missed you so much,” she breathed, voice catching in her throat with a rawness I’d rarely heard from the girl.

She had been through so much lately, trying to navigate this newfound power while fearing what it meant. And since she and Erista parted ways back in the mountains—on the heels of an argument, from what Ophelia had implied—she’d seemed lonely.

She had her sister—she had all of us—but we weren’t Erista.

“This is the reunion I’ve been waiting for!” Barrett cheered, clapping his hands. Cypherion, Tolek, and I embraced Erista, too, but my eyes kept sweeping over the scene, looking for one person.

Finally, I caught Lyria’s gaze. With a subtle downturn of her lips, she inclined her head toward the stairs. Without another word, I slipped up to the second door on the right.

I rapped my knuckles on the wood, the sound as hollow as the hole widening in my chest.

“Mila?” I said quietly enough that no one in the living room would hear. The last time I stood outside this door flashed through my mind. When I’d walked in on her in nothing but white lace and scarred skin. So much had changed since then, and still one thing had not: I wanted to support her. Whether that meant bickering during training, avenging those scars, or sitting quietly beside her while she found her voice again.

Finally, a dull voice floated through the wood. “Come in.” And my chest nearly collapsed to hear her speak again.

The room was lit by candles, not a hint of mystlight brightening the warm wooden walls. She stood before the mirror, mindlessly running a comb through her hair. Leathers and dirt still clung to her and that damn haunting stare met mine in the glass.

“Are you okay?” I asked, hesitating in the doorway. Stupid question. Of course she’s not okay.

I wasn’t sure if I should approach or give her space. Wasn’t sure at all what was going through her head or what she needed. All I knew was I wanted to be here.

“Mmhmm,” she hummed, but it was flat. Unconvincing.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped fully into the room. When she didn’t argue, I closed the door behind me. I waited for her to ask me to open it, to ask me to leave, but she only kept combing her gnarled hair. Her strokes only skimmed the knots, not truly trying to detangle them at the roots but burying them beneath a silken facade.

With hesitant steps, I approached her. I made sure to keep myself fully visible in the mirror. Her pleas to not be touched echoed in my mind.

“May I?” I asked, pointing at the comb in her hands.

Without saying anything, she held the comb over her shoulder. Relief unfolded in my chest.

There was clearly still so much wrong, but this—a slight offer of her hand, a bead of invitation to stay here with her when she was drowning—it was something.

In silence, I parted her hair into small sections and began running the comb through it. I’d spent enough time with Ophelia and Jezebel to understand I needed to work from the bottom up. At the larger tangles, I sprinkled water over the strands to ease the damage.

With the proximity and a physical action to assist her with, my nerves cooled. I thought her frame relaxed a bit, too.

“Sorry,” I gasped, when the comb jerked her head.

“It’s okay,” she said, voice hollow still. “Didn’t hurt.”

As I worked a particularly stubborn knot through the ends of her hair, the questions pushed up my throat. I suppressed them until I was done. Only once I’d set the comb down on the dresser did I capture her eyes in the mirror again and asked, “What happened in the Labyrinth, Mila?”

Fuck subtlety, I supposed. She wasn’t going to be coaxed out of this mood gently after days.

Her spine straightened, fingers curling into fists. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you disappeared on us.” I swallowed. “On me. You were there one day and gone the next. When I found you— ” She flinched, and I cut off my question. “Why?”

She was quiet.

“You can trust me.” I hoped after all the hours we spent together, after the steps we’d been steadily taking to unravel the scarred parts of ourselves, she knew that was true. “Whatever happened, I won’t repeat it.”

If someone had hurt her, if whoever had been dead beside her had done something to cause this, I might summon an Angel just to resurrect the bastard and kill him again. But I wouldn’t have to tell anyone why.

Mila was too lively to shrink into herself this way. The effects of that hopeful light had brightened my shadows in the temple in Damenal and every day we’d trained since. It pushed my own boundaries, forcing me to address the pain I buried. It couldn’t be snuffed out now. She couldn’t be.

“Nothing happened,” she mumbled. Her eyes stayed on mine, though, and there was a silent question there. A tremor of someone begging for help but unsure of the words. Of someone trapped in her own mind when she’d fought so hard to break free.

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