Page 52 of The Call of Crimson
Something cracks in my mind, reality breaking through as it comes back to me.
Memories of my mother’s funeral pyre.
Ten-year-old me, clinging to Layne as her lifeless body burned.
My father refusing to sing her death hymn.
My father throwing a poisoned dagger at me, but hitting Layne instead.
Layne dying in my arms.
My father dying as I drained the life from his body.
The rush of satisfaction I felt as the light faded from his eyes.
Alone.
“She’s dead,” I croak, tears filling my eyes. “I felt her, Elijah. I felt her hold my hand and kiss my forehead.” The words unravel into a sob, the betrayal of my own mind slicing deep.
“Shhh,” he soothes, pulling me into his arms. “You’re going to be okay. I promise you will.”
I bury my face in his chest as sobs wrack my body. “I’m alone,” I cry, my legs trembling beneath me.
Elijah holds my body tight to him, keeping me from collapsing, then slowly lowers us to the ground.
“You’re not alone, you have me.” He kisses the top of my head, one hand running soothing circles along my back. “You’ll always have me.”
I tilt my head back to look him in the eyes. “But how do I know you’re real? How can I trust that this is real?”
“Listen to me, Ophelia, I’m here. I’m real.” He grabs my hand and presses it to his chest. “Do you feel that? That’s my heart, and it beats for you.”
I nod, feeling the steady rhythm beneath my palm. I lift my hand to his cheek, letting my fingers trace the stubble along his jaw. It’s rough, and I relish the prickle of it against my skin.Real.
“From now on, if you need someone to remind you what’s real,” he says, his voice fierce with devotion, “ask me. I’ll always tell you what’s real, Ophelia. I’ll always lead you back home when you feel lost.”
“Tell me something real, Eli.”
“You’re really beautiful,” he murmurs, “How’s that for truth?”
I laugh lightly, my tears slowing.
“Layne died?” I ask.
His face falls. “That’s real.”
“My father is dead?”
“Yes, baby. That’s real, too.”
Baby.I blush at the pet name, liking the way it sounds on his tongue.
His mouth lifts on one side, a cocky smirk playing at his lips. “You like that name?”
“Maybe a bit,” I admit.
“Good.”
“I killed my father?” I ask.
