Page 90 of At the Mercy of Midnight
For a single, unguarded moment, Amelia looked soft and open, sleep-dazed, and warm. Then she blinked, awareness settling in. Silas saw the exact moment she realised how close they’d become.
Her body tensed, hand curling into a tight fist against his abdomen.
Silas smirked, feigning nonchalance even as his pulse thundered. “Morning, darling.”
Amelia groaned, shoving at his chest as she untangled herself from him and sat up, glaring down at him. “Call me that again and I’ll push you from this bed.”
He chuckled, watching her sift a hand through her tangle of dark curls. Her warmth left him, replaced by a chill he tried not to let reach his expression. He stretched lazily, folding his arms behind his head. “You were the one clinging to me all night, Winslow.”
Amelia shot him a withering look, a faint flush creeping into her cheeks. “I was not clinging. You were in my space.”
“You asked me to be in your space,” he reminded her, arching a brow, “and tragically, it’s a very small space, so I suppose you couldn’t help yourself.”
She shook the covers off and stood. “As lovely as it was not to have been disturbed by midnight, you can sleep on the floor tonight.”
Silas grinned, rolling onto his side to watch her retreat. “Sure, sure. Whatever you say.”
She paused, throwing him one last look over her shoulder. Her eyes lingered for a moment, the flush deepeningon her cheeks. Then she gave a small huff, slapped a scowl back on her face, and disappeared into the bathroom.
Silas let out a quiet laugh, sinking back into the pillows, though it lacked humour.
She was confused. He could see it, feel it in every look, every retreat, and every moment she let herself soften before eventually recoiling.
He didn’t know how he was supposed to endure it. Being this close to her, emotionally, physically. All while watching her fight whatever was passing between them, while he fought not to lose himself in her completely.
As midday approached, Amelia’s lab was silent save for the distant hum of the city beyond the windows. They sat on the floor, the glyph-locked journal between them, encircled by flickering candles. The flames danced lightly, their warmth the only steady thing against the pulsing pressure of whatever magic emanated from the journal.
Silas rested his elbows on his knees, shoulders tight with wary tension. The planes of his face were cut with concentration, his gaze fixed on the strange symbols that were scrawled across the leather cover. Glyphs they suspected denoted binding and connection.
They therefore theorised the journal’s seal could be tied to bonds, and hoped their unique magical pairing could create a resonance that may allow them to access it.
"You ready?" Silas asked, voice low and steady.
Amelia gave a small, terse nod. "On three."
They each extended a hand above the journal, close but not touching.
“One,” Silas murmured, “two.”
Amelia took a deep breath. “Three.”
Their fingers brushed, though nothing happened. She shifted, interlacing her cut hand with his, then looked up and focused on him. His eyes had already been on her, and the connection between them clicked into place like a lock engaging.
The glyphs ignited.
Light burst across the surface of the journal, veins of pulsing violet and gold flared outwards in a tangled web of symbols. Magic slammed into his chest like a physical force, knocking the air from his lungs. Amelia gasped, hand gripping his tighter.
Anchor to her. Anchor to the bond.
A voice, not his own, whispered in his mind. Feminine, soft, filled with a warning.
She is the siphon. She is the key.
Silas’ breath caught. Magic thrumming through his chest, pressing into his ribs until he felt his heart might explode.
The glyphs writhed beneath their joined hands like living things, twisting, and fighting against them. Cold magic snapped around their wrists, searing like manacles. Pain sparked through his arm, but he refused to release her.
Across from him, Amelia trembled, face clenched with pain. Silas gritted his teeth and pushed, trying to thread his magic into the glyphs, to match their output, to control them.
