Page 31 of At the Mercy of Midnight
His eyes found hers, and he sent her a small smile. “You are the storm, Winslow.”
She watched him, wondering where those words came from. He had said them to her before, and while it had confused her then, now it intrigued her.
The space between them felt vast, though it was no more than a handful of feet. The flickering light caught the sharp edges of his face, expression unreadable, but his hands were clenched at his sides. Silas was bracing himself.
So was she.
Her stomach twisted as she looked down at her watch. It was coming.
Heart pounding and mouth dry, she waited for the agony to tear through her.
Silas dragged a hand through his hair. “We could sit? See if that makes a difference?” His words were quiet, hushed, as though unwilling to disturb the air between them. Yet she had a feeling he was trying to fill the silence, whether to ease her nerves or his own, she couldn’t be sure.
Amelia shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest as if she could hold her fear inside. “I have a feeling that sitting will make it worse, don’t ask me why.” She shifted uneasily.
Silas let out an exhale, looking agitated. “Staring at each other like we’re facing execution isn’t helping either.”
Her arms dropped heavily back to her sides, fingers curling into the sleeves of her jacket. He was joking, but the strain in his voice was clear.
She checked her watch, unable to help it. Less than a minute left.
The air felt heavier, thick with unseen energy. Her skin prickled, the scar on her hand starting to burn.
Silas rolled his shoulders like he was preparing for battle. “This is ridiculous. The waiting. Should we be documenting this, gathering data?”
The nervous energy and anticipation made her feel unreasonably alert and angry. “Right, let’s analyse how much it hurts on a scale of ‘mild discomfort’ to ‘absolute agony,’” she snapped with an eye roll.
Silas’ lips twitched. “You always did love your scales.”
“Shut up.”
“I thought we were going to argue less?” he said, lips tilting into a sly smile.
Thirty seconds left.
Her pulse drummed against her ribs, fingers shaking. Waiting for it was almost worse than the thing itself, knowing it was coming and being helpless to stop it.
Silas’ gaze was intent on her, eyes flicking to where her hands shook at her sides. Amelia curled them into fists. “It’s okay to be afraid, you know.”
Amelia swallowed, staring at her watch instead of him. “I’m not afraid,” she lied, the slight wobble in her voice betraying her.
Ten seconds.
The room felt smaller. The air crackled. Her scar throbbed in warning, and she sucked in a sharp breath. She looked up, sure that her fear was written plainly across her face.
Silas saw something in her expression and began to take a step closer. “Winslow—”
Midnight struck.
Pain, sharp and blinding, lanced through her.
The world lurched.
The breath tore from her throat as the pull yanked her forwards, the space between them collapsing in an instant. It wasn’t just movement. It was force, gravity, inevitability. The slicing pain wrenched her apart from the inside out, and she wished to scream but had no mouth that she knew of. The magic pieced her agonisingly back together.
She barely had time to brace herself before she collided into Silas, her body slamming into his with enough force to knock them both off balance.
His arms caught her, steadying Amelia even as his breath hitched with his own pain.
