Chapter 17 Reyes
Reyes
Nyx naps for a few more hours, curled up in my blankets with those long, thin fingers gripping the material and hugging it around his neck.
His face is different, even in sleep. During the days he spent unconscious, he felt empty.
Relaxed and perfectly still on the outside, but there was a strange hollowness under his skin that made him eerily blank.
Not like now, where his cheeks are tinged pink and his eyes shift under their lids.
I wonder what he dreams about.
I’m shaken by what he shared. There’s the obvious—the blinding anger that burns hot for the things he went through, and the desperate need for revenge. That voice that calls to me and tells me to hunt down anyone who ever hurt him, and make them suffer tenfold.
But above everything else?
Relief.
Not only that he made it through his hell, but that he trusts me enough to share these parts of his life.
I devour every little scrap he offers me as though it’s the only thing sustaining me.
Like I could live forever if he’d just continue to grant me these pieces of himself.
He claims he has nothing to offer, but he is blind to everything he’s given me since we met.
I resist the impulse to brush his hair from his face, and instead, I soak in his serenity. There are things I need to do around the camp. Duties I’ve neglected in my constant guard over his bedside, but this is more important.
And so I stay curled up beside his bed with a book, and I wait.
It’s early evening when he wakes again. A sharp inhale precedes a sweet, sleepy grunt, and as I set my book aside and turn to him, I can’t help my grin.
His hair is wild, sticking up in places and hanging over his face in others.
He stretches his arms over his head and arches his spine before melting back into the bed.
Sleep makes his eyelids heavy as he bats his lashes at me a few times, but his sage green eyes are alert underneath them.
“Hi,” he whispers, and my grin widens so far my cheeks ache.
“How do you feel?”
The blanket falls away as he sits up and stretches again, his arms lifting high over his head as his eyes scrunch closed. “Better,” he finally says, then huffs when his stomach growls. “Hungry.”
“That’s a good thing. Would you rather have your muffin or a hot meal?”
“Both?” he asks, and he’s so hopeful when he looks up at me. Another lash strikes across my heart as I realize he’s asking permission. If I told him no, he’d listen. He’d obey. Whatever orders I gave him, whatever I allowed him to have, would be the definitive answer for him.
And gods, if that doesn’t incite my rage all over again.
I force a smile and keep my tone level. “Of course. You can have anything you want.” He seems pleased, those lanky arms falling into his lap. “Do you want to eat with the others, or would you rather stay here? I can go get your food if you aren’t ready to leave.”
A fraction of uncertainty crosses his expression as he chews on his lip and glances out the vine-covered window. “I should try to spend more time with them,” he says. “They try so hard. They care, and I worried them.”
An argument builds on my tongue, ready to tell him they know he cares, too, and that he shouldn't do anything he isn't ready to do, but I catch myself. Nyx is used to taking orders and being told what to do, not making his own decisions. He’s influenceable, and well-intentioned or not, I don’t want to influence him.
I want him to find his own path.
“If that’s what you want to do,” I say instead, and his brows pinch as his head tilts, confused and expecting an order. Despite the way he looks to me for guidance, though, I’ve never been a leader. Waiting for him to decide is easy.
And if it gives me an excuse to track the tiny, golden freckles on his skin, that’s no one’s business but my own.
“Could we get dinner together, but eat here?” he asks. “Or eat outside?”
“If that’s what you want.”
He stares at me for a moment before his lips twitch and he scoffs. “I know what you are doing. This is not sneaky.”
“Me?!” I hold my hand to my chest dramatically. “You think I am trying to be sneaky?” Another of those coveted half-smiles pulls at his mouth, and the barely there curve of his lips is all that matters.
“I think you are the drama queen now,” he says, and a loud, unrestrained laugh leaves me as he stands. He folds the blanket reverently and places it on the bed, and I watch him as he moves. He seems steady on his feet as he walks into the kitchen, but he pauses when he spots the clean counters.
His hands wring in front of him, and I worry I overstepped a boundary by cleaning. “I hope you don’t mind that I took the dishes back. You aren’t mad, are you?”
“Not mad. Ashamed.”
“Ashamed?” I ask, and he glances over his shoulder at me. His hair is tangled, messy from his days spent outside and in bed.
“It was such a simple task, but I could not do it.”
“It’s only simple if you have the energy to get it done. There’s no scale. If it was too much for you to handle, it wasn’t simple. You don’t have to be embarrassed that you needed help.”
Nyx nods, but it isn’t convincing. I swallow and take a step closer until only a foot separates us. It seems too heavy to continue the conversation, and maybe it’s selfish, but I want more of that lightness we just shared. “After we eat, I have a surprise for you.”
He whips around with wide eyes, and I bite back my grin. That certainly did the trick. “A surprise? What is this surprise?”
“Well, I can’t tell you that, can I?”
“You could,” he argues, and this time I can’t stop my grin.
“Come on. Eat the rest of your muffin, and then we’ll grab some dinner. Once you’ve eaten, you’ll get your surprise.” He narrows his eyes, and the response is so feisty that I laugh again. It lifts a notch of stress off my chest to see him this playful.
He grabs his food off the counter and eats much more quickly than he did earlier. When he’s finished, he gestures at the bathroom with an awkward grimace, but I only chuckle. “Take your time. I’ll wait for you in the living room.”
When he emerges, he smells strongly of mint toothpaste. Drips of water plunk from his hair, and I realize he was trying to tame the knots with his fingers. Another rush of affection hits me as he flushes and shifts his weight uncomfortably, but I don’t comment on his efforts.
“Are you ready?” I ask, and he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. He seems like he might change his mind and say no, but his gaze snags on my bare feet, then moves to my shoes sitting by the door. I smile as his eyes move up to mine, and he nods.
His posture loosens as we step out into the sun, but when he hears the voices of the others, he tenses again. I’m stuck wondering whether it’s best to acknowledge it or leave it alone when timid fingers reach for mine.
When I glance down in surprise, he pulls back and jerks his head away so fast his hair flies in front of his face.
For the hundredth time over the past few days, my heart breaks at his uncertainty.
The bravery it must’ve taken for him to initiate is humbling.
It also means he needs comfort, and that he’s seeking it from me.
I reach over and tease the side of his hand with my pinkie.
“You can touch me any time you want, Nyx. You don’t need permission.
” When a long, shaky sigh pushes from his nose and his gaze darts to my hand, I understand his hesitation.
How could I not, when he’s never been granted authority over his own body?
“I won’t touch you unless you ask me to, okay? The choice will always be yours.”
He stops walking and looks up at me, the relief in his eyes cut by uncertainty. “That does not seem fair.”
“We aren’t keeping score,” I say gently. “Things don’t have to be the same to be equal.”
“I have never had equal.” The blunt truth hurts, but he says it in a matter-of-fact way. It isn’t something he’s upset about; it just is.
“Well, now you do. You might as well get used to it.” My teasing earns me another half-smile, and he reaches over to take my hand.
His fingers fill the empty spaces between mine like they were designed to fit right there.
His grip is a touch awkward, like he worries he’s doing it wrong, but eventually, he relaxes.
Our joined hands fall between us, where they’re meant to be.
We approach the others, and I’m no better than a guard dog, putting myself a half-step in front of Nyx.
I push my chest out and dare any of them to say the wrong thing to him.
Hells, if I’m not careful, I might bare my teeth and start barking.
Nyx’s fingers flex against mine as Ronan glances up from where he sits with Cameron, and his eyes narrow.
Mine narrow right back.
He never retaliated after I punched him, but something tells me I’ll regret it the next time we train.
Cameron, on the other hand, looks positively gleeful as he spots our hands woven together. There’s no telling what might come out of his mouth, so when he meets my eyes, I give him a very abrupt shake of my head in warning. He deflates and rolls his eyes, but stays quiet.
August comes over with a giant smile and Elas by his side. “How are you feeling?” August asks Nyx before I can stop him, and Nyx tightens his grip on my hand, staring at the ground as he gives a jerky nod.
“We’re just grabbing dinner,” I say, pulling the attention off him.
Elas’s glance is understanding, and he dips his head.
There’s a distinct lightness to his tone as he says, “There is a huge vat of vegetable and rice soup over the fire. Does that sound okay?” Nyx nods, and Elas grins at the way he licks his lips as he stares at the steaming pot.
“I’ll grab you both a bowl… August, can you help me carry them? ”