Page 63 of Night of the Witch
“Did you even manage to fall asleep on the floor?” I ask, teeth chattering.
The kapitän shrugs. The motion drags the rough linen of his shirt against my cheek. “I’ve slept in worse places.”
“Ever the soldier.” I turn my face, press it to his chest, and breathe, willing my heart to slow, willing my limbs to stop shaking. Maybe it isn’t just cold; maybe it’s grief, too, my body unable to hold onto this pain anymore.
His hand starts to rub my back, building heat with his rough strokes. “You called out for her,” he says, his voice low, careful. “Your mother.”
Slowly, my shaking calms. Slowly, I go from needing his support and warmth to thinking only how good it feels to have someone here, holding me.
“Did you see your mother burn?” I ask against him.
His hand on my back stops. “Yes.”
I don’t want him to pull away. I don’t want to be alone.
I twist my fingers into his sleeves, holding my forehead to his chest, keeping him here with me, however selfish. I don’t have room for anything but self-preservation right now.
“How did you breathe again?” I choke out.
He adjusts his grip on me, tighter, and something in me releases, more tears slipping free.
The smell that was in the cloak is stronger now. The musk, a richness, deep and heady.
His chest rises, and I realize he’s taking a fortifying breath, holding my body against himself as he fills his lungs and exhales just as gently.
“One breath at a time,” he whispers. “Until you can trick yourself into thinking you’ve gone a few moments without thinking about her.”
I give a brittle laugh. It isn’t in the least funny, but I feel the deep rumble of his bitter laugh, too.
Is his hand in my hair, stroking it? What parts of me had calmed wind tense again, and he notices in the way he goes absolutely still.
“It’s not yet dawn,” he says, his words stunted. “We should steal a few more hours of sleep.”
I hum my agreement. I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want time to pass at all.
In a few hours, I’ll be a prisoner of the hexenjägers again. I’ll save Liesel and countless others, but my mother will still be dead, and I’ll still be buried under the crushing weight of all the things I’ve done wrong.
So when the kapitän stands, I tighten my grip on his sleeves and move my fingers to lock around his wrists. The tendons there strain against my fingers.
“Stay,” I beg. “Please.”
He holds, half on his feet, crouched over the cot. The look on his face is one of utter shock, and I can see the war that pulses in his eyes.
“You don’t get under my skirts that easily, jäger,” I say with a forced smirk. The tears on my face cut through any humor I might try. “It’s just…cold. And I don’t want—”
I shudder and press the back of my other hand to my lips.
The Three save me, how broken am I if I can so easily ask thisstrangerto keep my nightmares away?
But Otto sits again. “Of course,” he says, a gruffness in his voice that he counters with a soft smile.
I lie back down before I can think better of this. Otto turns out the lantern, casting us into pitch blackness, and the narrow cot groans as he arranges his cloak over the both of us. He stretches out beside me, and I feel the puff of his breath—he’s facing me where I’m curled toward him.
I asked him to stay, didn’t I? So what more shame do I have left, really?
There’s hardly any space between us, but I close it, nestling my head under his chin, draping my arm around his hips. Warmth floods me, and I think I moan—which wouldn’t that just beperfect, after everything—but if I do, if Otto hears, he stays firm in his silence.
A beat passes, then his arm folds over me, pulling me to him, encasing me in that smell, musk and heat, the steady rush and lull of his breath funneling in and out.
