Page 74 of Malicent
I GROAN AS THE MENTAL alarm rips through my skull, tearing me from sleep. I’m still exhausted, spent from being up all night and half the day. Most of it, if I’m honest, stems from whatever happened in Millicent’s mind.
Now this?
I curse aloud, shoving the blanket off my legs and sitting up. The wards on Millicent’s room are flaring like mad. Lovely. She’s up to something again. Does the wretched thing not sleep?
I don’t bother changing; rather, I stomp into the hall wearing the same loose trousers I wore to bed. I sleep too hot for shirts anyway. Grumbling, I make my way toward her door.
When I arrive, I don’t bother knocking before I push it open and walk in unannounced.
“Fuck,” I groan.
Her magic is in full swing as chaos unfolds before me. Shadow imps bounce wildly across the room, tearing into anything they can get their claws on. Millicent is in bed, either dead asleep or pretending to be.
“Hey, witch.” I stride toward her, swatting an imp out of the air as it tries to nip at my ear.
I shake her shoulders. Her brows pinch, and her breathing finally gives it away, shallow and erratic. Sweat glistens on her brow.
So, a nightmare, then.
With a sigh, I drop carelessly onto the edge of her bed. The mattress dips, causing her body to shift slightly.
“Witch. Up,” I bark, louder than necessary. “Your magic’s causing a shit show.”
The nearby imps scatter like startled butterflies, tumbling through the air in frantic swarms.
She doesn’t move.
I lean over her, my irritation simmering hotter. Gods alive, I just want to be asleep right now—not coming to tuck this devil in. With a growl, I slip my hand behind her neck, fingers threading into the thick curls at her nape. I try to pull her upright. Her body slumps, limp and unresponsive like a discarded puppet.
Still nothing.
My hand drifts upward, cupping her cheek. Her skin is incredibly soft—too soft. It’s the kind of softness that whispers danger. Maybe she does bathe in blood. I honestly wouldn’t put it past her.
She’s not scowling at me, spitting venom, or snapping some smart-ass remarks. For once, her face is quiet, almost…innocent. It’s strange how pretty something looks when it’s not baring its teeth.
My thumb brushes the curve of her jaw, trailing across her petal-soft lips.
A hunger—dark and sharp—rises from the part of myself I rarely unleash, which used to rule over me in the past. That other half sees her now, this threat made vulnerable.
And it wants it.
My hand tightens reflexively in her hair.
My voice drops, rough with something I don’t name. “Millicent,” I whisper, tapping her cheek. “I’ll come in there and pull you out. Not even dreams can keep you from me.”
Her nose twitches.
Then her eyes snap open—wide, wild, and filled with pure terror.
She screams. The sound is so loud and raw, it pierces my skull, sharp enough to make me flinch.
“Shit,” I mutter, clapping my hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. “Hey, it’s me. It’s Cage.”
My thumb at the back of her neck shifts, offering small, steady strokes, meant to comfort her—anything to stifle the banshee wail echoing through my skull.
Her eyes stay locked on mine, and I can’t look away from those deep, endless oceans.
She wears that damn mask, hiding behind sarcasm and scorn. Now I see it all: panic and fear. For once, nothing is hidden. Raw emotion flickers across her features, each one more revealing than the last. It only stirs the urge in me to see every emotion I could extract from her—experience how her tears taste, how her laugh sounds.
