Page 88 of At the Mercy of Midnight
Silas wasn’t foolish enough to miss that it was one-sided. He knew Amelia’s sharp disdain for nearly everyone around her had included him. Especially him. And now, with painful clarity, he understood why their rivalry had cut so deep for her. Her desperate need to best everyone, to prove her worth, was ingrained in her even while being entirely unnecessary. Hadn’t she known she was already better than him in every way? Silas had known it the moment he first saw her in the library.
“Alright, Winslow,” he said, pulling back the covers from the side of the bed, “like you said, small bed, so budge up. I’m no waif like you.”
“Lamps, if you please,” Amelia responded, shifting slightly to the edge of the bed, facing away, and clutching the blankets to her chest.
Silas rolled his eyes but complied, dimming the lamps until they cast only a faint glow, just enough to guide his way back to the bed.
He slid in beside her.
A small bed indeed.
Wrapped in the blankets, he faced the centre of her bed, his nose barely an inch from the soft curls spilling freely across the pillow. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, trying to keep a respectful distance.
“Finley,” she said, voice thick with sleep’s promise, “you’ll need to be closer, touching me…for midnight.”
“If you say so,” Silas whispered, inching closer until his forearm brushed her back. Feeling bolder than he should, he wrapped his arm gently around her waist, tugging her into him.
Amelia offered no resistance. Instead, she relaxed deeper into his hold, a soft breath escaping her lips.
His eyes drifted closed as his fatigue tugged him closer towards sleep. The warmth of her against him, the safety of holding her close, brought a comfort he wasn’t sure he’d ever known.
His last waking though before sleep claimed him was of her.
So tired, he barely realised the words slipped from his lips into the dark.
“I wish you were mine, my storm.”
TWENTY-ONE
Midnight came and went with a whisper.
Their bodies, already curled into one another, Silas’ arm cradling Amelia close, seemed to dull the pull entirely. He barely registered the shift, except for the familiar thrum in his chest and the slight sting on his palm when the hour passed.
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. His arm tightened instinctively around her, sleep reclaiming him.
He didn’t know how much time had passed when he stirred again, Amelia shifting restlessly beside him. The moon had climbed higher, casting pale silver light across the bed, outlining her as she slept.
She murmured incoherently, rolling towards him. Her shoulder nudged his chest, and he blinked the sleep from his eyes. Her brows were furrowed, lips parting on a shaky exhale. He watched as tension rippled through her, a small, pained sound escaping her throat.
The last of his sleep fell away.
“Winslow?” he whispered, cautious, wondering if it were another nightmare.
She breathed unevenly, chest lifting before whimpering out a fragile sound.
“Fuck,” Silas breathed. He placed a hand on her shoulder and shook her gently. “Hey, Winslow…you’re dreaming. Wake up.”
“Lyana…” Amelia murmured, turning her face away, neck strained, tendons stark in the moonlight.
Silas frowned. He sat up straighter, gripping her shoulder more firmly.
“Wake up, Winslow,” he said, louder this time.
Her breath hitched, then steadied. Her eyes opened.
For a few beats, she didn’t speak. She lay still, chest rising and falling, blinking slowly into the shadows of her apartment.
Silas swallowed. “You’re safe,” he said softly. “You were dreaming.”
