Page 216 of The Call of Crimson
Blood pulses steadily from the wound, the smell coppery and sour. I know enough of battle wounds to know he’ll bleed out before anyone reaches us. Rivulets of crimson pool and drip out of his mouth, his chest rising shallowly as he fights to pull in air.
“No, no, no,” I murmur, my head shaking in denial.
“I love you, B,” he chokes on his words, blood splattering across my face.
“I love you, E,” I cry, but he’s gone before the words pass my lips.
I scream again, my cheeks already wet with the tears shed in my sleep. Chest heaving, I sit up in bed, fighting to pull in oxygen between sobs.
Strong arms pull me against a solid chest, cradling my trembling form. Ayden’s fingers comb through my hair, rubbing soothing circles as he rocks me gently. He pulls my legs over his lap, resting his free hand loosely on my hip.
These aren’t the arms I want. His scent is similar, but somehow all wrong.
The nausea that usually accompanies being touched by anyone other than Aurelius is blessedly absent. I continue crying, the tremors becoming less severe as his fingers maintain their soothing motion along my skin.
Even though it’s not the embrace I want, I savor its comfort regardless.
“I’m sorry I didn’t catch the nightmare,” Ayden says softly.
“Don’t be,” I mumble. “I need to feel the pain.”
It’s the only thing I’ve felt since he died.
“I disagree. You’ve endured enough pain for a lifetime.”
I don’t reply.
“Sleep,” he urges, laying me back down. “You won’t dream anymore tonight.”
It’s not the reassurance he believes it to be. I want to hurt. Removing the pain feels like removing Elijah. The pain reminds me that he lived and that I love him.
Eventually, I drift back into a dreamless sleep.
Snow flurries coat the windowpane with a fresh layer of white misery. The arm that never healed properly aches, and I rub it absentmindedly. That twinge of pain is all I feel, all I’ve felt in over a week. At least, I think it’s been a week.
Breakfast sits untouched beside my chair, the oatmeal a cold, congealed paste that holds no appeal. I recognize that I need to eat, but I can’t bring myself to care.
My toes curl in the cushion where they’re tucked underneath me, my arms wrapped around both knees as I stare out the window.
Inside my mind, a symphony plays. It’s a mixture of thunder crashing in violent crescendos and the gentle melodies of the violin and piano. The tempest harmonizes, complementing the deep beats of the thunder.
Closing my eyes, I lose myself in the musical masterpiece of my mind.
Elijah dancing with me in the rain.
Crash.
Ophelia twirling in his arms at the palace ball.
Crash.
Elijah’s laugh.
Asoft violin trill.
Five-year-old Elijah clutching my hand in front of his parents’ funeral pyre.
Piano chords in a gentle melody.
