Chapter 7 Voice in the Dark #2
“Next time,” he said, leaning close enough that I could smell smoke and iron and wet earth, could feel breath against my ear even though he shouldn't have breath. “You'll do better. Next time you'll finish what you started.”
New symbols appeared. They hung in the air, pulsing with intent that felt like commands being loaded into a weapon.
The symbols moved. Pressed against my chest.
Then sank in.
I felt them settle deep. Felt them hook into the threads already embedded, felt them connect to the marks burned into my skin.
And with them came certainty. Not mine. His. Planted so deep I couldn't tell where it came from.
Next time I'll do better. Next time I'll finish it.
NO. Those aren't my thoughts. Get out of my head.
But the certainty stayed. Wrapped around my will like another cage.
“That's my boy.” His hands moved from my wrists to my face. Cupped my jaw. Tilted my head up to meet eyes I still couldn't see clearly. “Now rest. You've earned it.”
More magic pulsed through his palms directly into my skull. I felt it flood my brain, felt it wrap around memory and consciousness.
“When I call again,” he whispered, thumbs tracing my cheekbones while threads sank deeper, “you'll answer faster. Easier. Until one day you won't remember fighting at all.”
The darkness surged.
I tried to hold on. Tried to remember his face, the threads, the symbols burning into my skin.
Everything slipped away.
Pulled into darkness that swallowed memory and left only sensation—phantom hands on my skin, phantom certainty in my thoughts, phantom marks I couldn't see but could feel burning.
Then nothing.
I was on my knees in the center of the room.
The screwdriver lay on the floor three feet away where I'd dropped it. The drawer was still half-fixed. Forgotten.
When did I move here? I was fixing the drawer. I was—
Blank. Nothing except the growing certainty that time had passed and I hadn't been present for it.
Sweat soaked through my shirt. Dripped down my temples. Made my hands slick when I pressed them against the floor to keep from collapsing.
My heart was trying to punch through my ribs. Too fast. Too hard. Panic flooding through a system that didn't know what it was panicking about.
What happened? What the fuck just happened?
I tried to remember. Tried to pull up even one image, one sensation, one clue about where the last hour had gone.
Nothing came. Just blank space where memory should have been, and underneath that blankness a feeling that hands had been touching me. That I'd been somewhere I shouldn't have gone.
My skin crawled.
I looked down at my arms. At my wrists where phantom sensation suggested things had been wrapped around them. At my chest where pressure still lingered.
No marks. No bruises. Just clean skin and the growing horror that something had happened and I couldn't remember any of it.
I need to shower. Need to wash this off. Need to—
Someone knocked on my door.
I froze. Stared at the door like it might open on its own and prove that whatever had me in that blank space had followed me home.
“Ronan?” Gideon's voice. Muffled through wood but recognizable. “You in there? Daniel said your bathroom sink's leaking. Asked me to check it out.”
Bathroom sink. Right. I mentioned it leaking last week. I can't let him see me like this. Can't let him know anything's wrong when I don't even know what's wrong.
But my legs were already moving. Standing up. Walking toward the door before my brain had decided that was a good idea.
Stop. Don't. I need to get myself together first.
My hand reached for the knob anyway. Turned it. Pulled the door open.
Gideon stood in the hallway with a toolbox in one hand and that analytical expression he got when he was trying to solve a problem.
Then he saw me.
His eyes tracked across my face. Took in the sweat, the shaking, the way I was gripping the doorframe to stay upright.
“What's wrong?” Not accusatory. Just direct. Wanting information.
Everything. Nothing. I don't know.
“Nothing,” I said. Voice rough. “Just tired.”
Gideon looked at me like he could see straight through that bullshit, but he didn't push. Didn't demand answers. Just watched me with those careful eyes that missed nothing.
“Can I come in?” Asking permission even though every line of his body said he was worried.
No. Yes. I don't know what I need right now.
I stepped back anyway. Let him in. Because maybe having someone else here would make the phantom sensation of hands on my skin feel less real.
Gideon walked past me into the apartment. Set his toolbox down carefully. Turned to face me with that careful expression that said he was already cataloging symptoms.
My shirt was soaked through.
I grabbed the hem and pulled it over my head. Let it drop to the floor in a wet heap.
Gideon's eyes tracked the movement. Took in the sweat covering my chest, my shoulders, running down my spine. His gaze lingered—not invasive, just observant, cataloging details.
I felt exposed. Vulnerable in ways that had nothing to do with being shirtless and everything to do with the way he was looking at me like he could see past skin to the terror underneath.
“Before we deal with whatever's going on,” he said quietly, voice gentler now, “I need to say something.”
I waited. Braced for questions I couldn't answer.
“Thank you.” His voice was sincere. “For what you did at the garage. For protecting Mason and Cal when I wasn't there. You saved their lives. Both of them.”
“I didn't do anything special,” I said roughly. “Just fought.”
“You were already bleeding when we got there. You'd taken damage defending them.” Gideon's eyes held mine. “That's pack. That's what we do for each other.”
I didn't know what to say to that.
Gideon was quiet for a moment. Watching me. Not pushing. Then he moved toward the kitchen. “I'm gonna check that sink. You should sit down before you fall over.”
I stood there shirtless and sweating, watching Gideon move through my apartment, and tried to find words for what it felt like to lose yourself one blank space at a time.