Page 89 of At the Mercy of Midnight
She exhaled a shaky breath, eyes fluttering closed for a moment at the sound of his voice. She turned her head and looked up at him. Something in her gaze hollowed his chest, an echo of fear he didn’t understand.
“I don’t think I was,” she whispered.
His hand was still on her shoulder. Slowly, he let it slide away. “What do you mean?”
Amelia sat up with effort, pulling her knees in and resting her head in her hands.
“I was back in the Midnight Realm,” she said, voice thin and shaken. “Lyana was there. She stood before me…I think she wanted to tell me something.”
“Something like what?”
She gave a faint shake of her head. “I don’t know, but it felt like she was trying to help, like she wanted to speak, but couldn’t. Her mouth kept opening, but no sound came out. And then…” Her voice cracked, a shudder rolling through her.
Silas leaned forwards, hesitant, and placed a hand along her spine in an attempt to soothe. But when his fingers drifted between her shoulder blades, she flinched. Hard. He jerked his hand back quickly, heart sinking.
“Sorry,” he murmured guiltily. “I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s alright,” Amelia said, lifting her head and meeting his eyes. “It didn’t hurt. Just instinct.” She gave a small, tired smile that never reached her eyes. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I’m still sorry,” he offered. “I never want to be the reason you—"
“It’s alright, truly,” Amelia said, shaking her head.
They sat in silence for a long moment, breathing into the stillness. Then she shifted, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She reached for a glass of water and took a sip, the quiet pressing in around them.
“She…” Amelia’s voice was barely audible. “It was like she disintegrated in front of me.” A tremor passed through her. She turned to glance over her shoulder. “I’m afraid, Finley.”
A sound caught in his throat, helpless, aching. He wanted to offer words but couldn’t find any.
Amelia held his gaze, and for once, all her sharpness was gone.
“I’m afraid to become her.”
Silas woke slowly, the haze of sleep lifting like mist as awareness seeped in. The first thing he registered was warmth, soft, steady, and far too close. The second was the unmistakable weight of someone pressed against him.
Amelia.
He stayed perfectly still, unwilling to disturb the fragile hush of morning. The room was dim, touched only by the faintest gold of early light filtering through the arched windows of Amelia’s apartment.
But the bed, the ridiculously small bed, was stifling with heat. Hers.
Amelia’s breath came in slow, even waves, ghosting against the hollow of his throat. Her head was tucked against his shoulder, her arm draped across his waist, fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt. One of her legs was tangled with his, pinning him flat on his back.
Silas swallowed hard, staring at the ceiling. He tried and failed to steady the rhythm of his heart.
Because this wasn’t some passing attraction, it never had been.
He’d always known what he felt for her, even if he’d hidden it beneath sharp words and endless intellectual debates. But now, lying beside her, with the weight of her pressed into him like she belonged there, all pretences felt stripped away.
He forced himself to breathe, careful not to disturb her. It would be so easy to stay like this, let himself sink into the warmth of her, to breathe in the faint floral scent of her hair, and memorise the curve of her body against his. To etch this moment into memory and keep it locked away where no one, not even Amelia, could touch it.
Because soon, she would wake, and this would end.
As if summoned by his thoughts, Amelia stirred, her body shifting against his. The motion sent a jolt through him, and he clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to move.
She murmured softly, hand flexing against his stomach.
His breath caught just as her eyes fluttered open.
