Page 55 of Fear the Flames
Wait.
This is Cayden’s pillow.
I’m in Cayden’s room.
“Oh my gods,” I mutter while jolting forward in bed. I’m thrust into the present like a crack of thunder waking me from a deep slumber. I grip the blankets to my chest while wading through the hazy fog that surrounds my mind. I push myself into a sitting position and lean my back against the headboard while digging the heels of my palms into my eyes to shake off the remaining drowsiness as best I can.
My eyes take in the details of the room—Cayden’s room, I correct myself. It’s much cozier than his room in the castle. Dark wooden walls mirror the floor, and a stone fireplace radiates heat into the room. There’s a desk directly in front of me, sandwiched between a bookshelf and a weapon rack and piled high with papers, maps, and leather journals. There’s an unoccupied chair to the right of the bed, and I notice a half-eaten tray of food on the floor when I peek over the edge. My knives and leathers are nowhere to be found.
My arm is bandaged: someone must have put ointment on it because it doesn’t hurt as much. My fingers poke at my neck and jaw—both are sore, but it’s nothing more than a dull ache. My back stiffens when the door cracks open. Saskia’s dark eyes are blown wide while she looks me over; her full lips part in a smile.
“You’re awake!” she shrieks, stepping forward to throw her arms around me. I embrace her after a brief moment of surprise. She’s nearly suffocating me in her tight hold, but she’s clinging onto me like I’m important to her, and it feels nice. After she releases me, she grabs a glass of water from the nightstand and hands it to me.
“I’m in Cayden’s room?” And in his clothes and in his bed, but I leave those facts out.
“You are,” she confirms before hopping off the bed and reaching into his wardrobe to pull out my leathers. Someone must have cleaned them. “I forced him to come downstairs five minutes ago to look over some reports we received because there’s too many to keep running them up and down the stairs.”
She said she had to force him to come downstairs—did he stay with me the whole time? Images of his face above mine before I passed out flash in my mind. That wasn’t a dream?
“Your knives are downstairs. You can meet us down there once you’re dressed.” She slips from the room before I can thank her.
Rather than attempting to filter through my foggy memory, I climb out of bed and put my clothes on after folding the sweater and placing it on the chair. I know Cayden doesn’t always stay in the castle, but I didn’t realize he has a house. His room makes me feel like I’m surrounded by him without him even being present; just the idea of him is overwhelming. I slip into his bathroom to get a look at myself and do a makeshift morning routine even though, through the window, it looks closer to evening.
I run my hands through my chaotic hair before tying it in a low ponytail and slipping from the room after making his bed. Voices filter up from the staircase on my left. My boots creep silently down the dark hallway and down a staircase before I stop halfway, peering into a living room. A deep green couch is framed by two brown leather chairs, all arranged around a coffee table. Everything faces a stone fireplace with twin bookcases mirrored on either side of it, but it’s not only books on the shelves. There are weapons, knickknacks, perfumes, colognes, plants, candles, and throw blankets tucked into the bottom shelves. There’s a dark wood piano pushed up against the wall, and a window bench filled with plush pillows. Cloaks and scarves hang by the door, and several swords and pairs of boots are neatly lined up under them. It’s a home, not a castle, but a perfect home with character, memory, and personality.
My eyes dance toward the door, and there Cayden stands as if death had donned a human form. His signature scowl mars his face while he focuses on arming himself. I watch as his long fingers fasten the straps and tuck the steel into their holsters. I saw him before I passed out, but this is different because there’s no substance inside of me controlling or distorting how I feel. Now I know for sure that even if many things were altered by the sedative, the comfort I felt at the sight of him wasn’t altered in any way—because it’s just as powerful now.
My gaze catches the way his frown deepens when he raises his left arm—he’s hurt. Anger bubbles inside of me at the thought of someone hurting him, and suddenly murder seems like a great way to start my day. The next step creaks under the weight of my boot, and Cayden’s gaze instantly finds mine. It paralyzes me. I don’t think I could look away from him if an army charged down the street.
“Elowen,” he greets me while cutting across the room.
My legs carry me the rest of the way down the steps. Our gazes never waver from each other. I drink in the sight of him after stepping off the last step: his chocolate brown hair is tousled like he’s dragged his hands through it one too many times, and dark circles shadow his bloodshot eyes. He looks exhausted.
“Hello,” I whisper. I have no idea how else to greet him. It feels wrong to hug him or to say I’m happy to see him, even though I am.
“Hello,” he echoes, without making any move to step away from the stairs. He just continues to stare at me as if I’m not real. His hands twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t take it further than that or move to touch me.
“What happened to your arm?” We’re talking in low voices; it feels like one of those moments when we don’t have to pay attention to the world because it’s just him and me; nobody’s watching us. We don’t have to be a queen and a commander; we can just be Elowen and Cayden.
His mouth quirks up at the corner, but his smirk doesn’t carry its usual easiness. It’s weighed down by fatigue. “Spying on me?”
“It’s not spying if you know I’m here.” He’s avoiding my question about what happened. He probably knows the full details of my attack; it’s only fair he tells me how he got hurt.
“Someone that’s dead now. Don’t worry about it,” he answers easily without giving me any kind of information.
Whenever someone tells me not to worry about something, it’s like a switch is flipped and I worry about it more. He presses his hand into my back and urges me around a corner before I can say anything else. Ryder stands at the kitchen island, pouring himself a cup of coffee, and Saskia is sitting at a long table with reports littered all over it. She wasn’t lying when she said there’s a lot. I can hardly see the wood of the table in between all of them.
“I take it we couldn’t keep this one quiet?” I ask, even though the answer is obvious.
“There were too many witnesses,” Ryder answers.
A piece of my memory clears, and I recall Ryder bringing me here. “Thank you for helping me last night.” Saskia cringes in her seat. “What is it?” I ask.
“It’s been almost two days,” Saskia says.
“Two days!” I shriek while surging forward to grab the reports and catch up on everything I missed, which is obviously a lot. The papers on the table become an ink-filled blur as I try to take in all the details. I feel two hands grip my hips and spin me away from the reports, forcing me down onto one of the benches that line the table. My back is now to Saskia and Ryder, and Cayden kneels in front of me. He continues to grip my hips while he looks up at me from the floor. My breathing feels shallow at the sight of him on his knees. I lick my lips, and his eyes fall to them before looking back into my eyes with much more heat than he ever has.
“Don’t read the reports,” he huskily commands, “look at me and tell me what happened.”
