Page 7 of The Call of Crimson
I hesitate just a moment before answering honestly, “On occasion. Tonight, he was helping me sleep. His presence calms me. Something I’ve needed lately.” I try to explain without leaving myself exposed. Trust is not something I will give out easily again, and Ayden has not earned it.
His eyes roam over me—not sexually, but like he’s taking stock. Assessing damage. “Tell me why you need help sleeping,” he says. “What troubles you?”
“I…” the words catch in my throat. I contemplate how much I really want him to know.
“I can’t sleep because every time I close my eyes, I see her die. Over and over again. It’s all I see—and it torments me.”
“Let me help you.”
In my grief, I had forgotten about his Vizie Gift as a dream weaver.
My hackles rise, and I narrow my eyes at him. “Why should I trust you?”
“Did you know I was there when my father took his last breath?” Ayden asks in lieu of answering my question.
“I didn’t.”
I had been young when Ayden’s father was bested by my own on the battlefield. The details were never disclosed to me, but I hadn’t known Ayden was at that battle. “I didn’t realize you were present that day.”
“I wasn’t,” Ayden explains, a sad smile curling his lips. “He didn’t die on the battlefield.”
“Oh, I had assumed his death was…” My voice trails off, tongue stumbling over the right word for this situation.
“Quick?” Ayden offers, a dark brow arching.
I nod.
“His death took days as he slowly succumbed to not just blood loss, but infection.”
I want to give him an empathetic apology, but something tells me it will fall short coming from the daughter of the male responsible for his father’s death. As much as it pains me that he lost his father, I don’t regret it—I can’t. It meant that my own came home that day.
“Could a physician or healer not have saved him?” I wonder.
His shoulders drop. “There were none available to reach him in time.”
“Oh.”
His eyes go distant in quiet contemplation. “The point is,” he says, shaking himself out of the memory. “He arrived home the day before he died, delirious with pain. I never left his side, holding him until he took his last breath.”
“Ayden,” I breathe, unsure what to say.
He saves me from having to figure it out when he continues, “I watched him die—for nearly twenty-four hours straight—knowing there was nothing I could do to stop it. And for six months straight, I relived it every night in my dreams.”
“Six months?” I ask, utter disbelief and horror tinging my words.
He nods solemnly. “The only difference between you and me, love?” He laughs, the sound a dry, humorless thing that sends goosebumps down my spine. “I didn’t have anyone to save me from my nightmares. Dream weavers can’t alter their own dreams.”
“What a cruel trick the gods have played on you.”
“I blame Marynx,” he chuckles.
“The god of chaos?”
He shrugs, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just seems like something chaos would delight in. Give someone theGift of meddling or easing dreams, only to balance it by not allowing them to meddle in their own.
“Are you sure you don’t mean Saelem? It seems way more in line with something the god of mischief would enjoy.”
“Nah, I doubt it. Saelem may be a trickster, but he’s not intentionally cruel.”
