Page 37 of Sweetling
And she’d never seen his feet before. She didn’t know what she’d expected—hooves? Claws? That they were fairly ordinary in shape—perhaps a little large, with prominent bones like the rest of him—was more shocking than if he’d had taloned bird feet.
Her gaze skated up his body to his chest and—
He wasn’t breathing.
Molly lurched forward, just catching herself on the edge of the bed. Her fingers sank into a plush silk coverlet, the softest she’d ever touched. It was dark, but she thought it was perhaps an amethyst purple.
Like his eyes.
This close, she could tell for certain he didn’t breathe. His chest didn’t rise and fall. His eyes didn’t twitch behind their closed lids. He just…lay there.
Her guts knotted tighter.
Had he died in his sleep?
Did fae die?
Did they die in their sleep?
She didn’t know, and not knowing had frustrated tears pricking her eyes.
Hand trembling, she reached out to just barely touch his neck. When she felt nothing, she pressed a little harder to his skin.
Molly felt no pulse.
Yet, he was as warm as he usually was.
If he’d died, he’d only just done so.
Muttering a curse, Molly held her breath as she prodded his cheek and then his temple. His head rocked to the side and then straightened.
He didn’t move. Not even a twitch.
What in all the hells is this?
All this scheming and effort to get her here and he just goes anddies—
I’m watching you, vermin. You think you are safe up there, but I watch.
The bottom fell out of Molly’s stomach, and she gasped, rearing away from the dead fae.
That voice—it was in her head! And it wasn’t hers!
You can run run run, but I will chase.
It wasn’t Allarion’s voice, either.
A whimper fell from her lips.
The house creaked at her noise of distress.
With a yelp, Molly ran from the dark bedchamber, feet pounding on the floorboards.
That’s right, run run run—
The door of her room opened for her, and Molly careened inside.
I like it when you run, when you beg—
