Chapter 38 Between Waking and the World
BETWEEN WAKING AND THE WORLD
She slept harder than she had in months.
No restless tossing, no half-waking to count his breaths, no jerking upright at every whisper of wind—only the steady warmth of his arms banded around her, one palm curved over her spine.
His scent wrapped around her, cedar and amber and smoke, grounding her in a way she’d needed.
At some point in the night, his hand moved to cradle the back of her head, fingers buried in her hair.
His breathing stayed deep and even against her ear, and she felt his mouth brush her temple once before he leaned his forehead to hers, leaving their heads resting together.
She stayed like that until just before dawn, drifting in and out, until she wasn’t sure if she was asleep or not.
It began with light, not the pale blue-gray that bleeds into Orchid mornings, but a pulse that seemed to gather beneath her ribs, a soft tug that was not wind or breath, a pull she recognized from the night she had first Threadwalked into a realm that was not her own.
She felt it before she saw anything at all, the draw tightening nearer, and when she opened her eyes, the camp was gone, the fire gone, the bedroll gone, and Jakobav gone with them.
She stood barefoot on wet stone, rain-slick and glimmering beneath a sky so drowned in stars it seemed enchanted.
A terrace stretched outward into that sky, its ledge framed in winding silver vines with unfamiliar flowers whose pale petals released a scent of frost, night-blooming jasmine, and rain.
Rain tapped softly against the stone, a quiet rhythm under the starlit silence.
She blinked hard, and he was there, the man from the painting, closer than she expected, close enough for the light to catch on the fine silver threads woven through the dark of his coat.
The pendant at his throat pulsed once in a muted violet, like the echo of a second heart.
His face was all cool elegance and impossible symmetry, the kind of beauty that appears sculpted rather than born.
His black hair, cut short on the sides and slightly longer on top, lay damp and lifted in the faintest curl at his temples.
He stood with practiced confidence, as if every angle of his body had been rehearsed for centuries.
“You have lost someone,” he said, his voice smooth and resonant, the undertone of it making the air feel charged.
“My mother,” she said, unsure what had compelled her to answer. Her throat closed around the words.
“I am deeply sorry.” He stepped toward her, his gaze an icy emerald, a shade of green that would haunt her. With a touch that was entirely sure of itself, he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
Ella flinched before she could stop herself.
His smile sharpened, delighted by the reaction.
“You will see her again, Ellandria.”
The words should have sounded hollow; instead they sank into her like hope, and the tightness in her chest loosened enough for breath to move again. She should’ve felt fear from the way he used her name, like they were old friends, but the sincerity in his words had thrown her.
She let herself look at him fully then, as if only now daring to take measure. He was built with fervent grace, enough to both entice and intimidate. Ink wrapped his throat in intricate lines, black threaded with a faint silver shimmer, runes she didn’t recognize yet felt familiar nonetheless.
He smiled, almost to himself, as though he were glad she’d come.
Like he’d been waiting. Then something shifted.
He inhaled once, sharply. The smallest flare of his nostrils erased all warmth from his face, sincerity gone as if it had never lived there, and in its place, an intensity that was unnerving.
“Another man’s scent clings to you,” he said, velvet-dark, disdain threading through his tone like conviction. It left no room for protest or denial.
Her pulse stumbled in answer.
His mouth curved, not with kindness, but with accusation. “The last time I scented you marked with betrayal like this, you nearly cost lives, Ellandria. And in the Sacred Fae Garden, no less. Reckless little princess. Save that for someone who deserves you.”
Heat knifed up her throat, shame rising unbidden, yet a traitorous stir simmered low at the sound of his voice, like seduction wrapping around judgment; fury surged to drown it, but the betrayal of her own body made her want to bare her teeth.
He clicked his tongue once, the softest tsk, and stepped back as though the scent itself offended him.
“You were reckless then. Defiant now. Defy me again, and you will learn what it means to bleed for your choices.”
Ella swallowed, thoughts churning.
Fuck.
The ripple of wrath in the garden had been his. The creature that burst through the breach near the castle gate had been sent by him.
And now he dragged truth into the light from under her skin as if she were made of glass. Fury and humiliation warred behind her ribs, yet she forced herself not to react.
“Tell me your name,” she said, the demand out before she could pull it back. “If you know so much of me, I should at least know yours.”
His smile deepened and became a knife. “One day you will. One day my name will be all you think about. And you will earn the right to speak it.”
Her heart kicked hard. Heat crawled under her skin; sweat pricked her palms. She took a step back. “I do not know who you—”
“You know enough,” he said, his jaw tightening, something like hurt flashing so quickly across his face she couldn’t be certain she’d seen it. “And yet you came to me. Again.”
She was about to say she hadn’t meant to, that she needed to leave. The thought had barely taken shape when his hand closed around her wrist. The speed stole her breath. No human moved like that, not even close, but she’d known from the first time she laid eyes on him that he wasn’t human.
His grip on her wrist was unyielding—not crushing at first, then tightening until pain lanced up her arm, a cry splitting from her throat before she could stop it. She tried to wrench her arm away, but he was impossibly strong.
“Please do not go,” he said, silk-smooth, his fingers biting deep enough to leave their claim behind.
She gasped, not only at the pressure but at the sudden flare of heat under her skin as her Orchid sigil roared to life; black lines changing to crimson and gold as she looked down in horror.
Bright lines spilled down her shoulder, her mark growing and climbing along her arm to the place where his hold bound her, the tattoo writhing like living fire and glowing against his pale hand.
She stared, and two truths landed at once. The last time she’d seen the full mark blaze like this was the night she Threadwalked for the first time, and second, she hadn’t spoken her intent to leave aloud, not even in a whisper.
Echobinder. The Fae was a fucking Echobinder.
His gaze fell to the crimson and gold mark shifting along her arm and her hand. For the first time, his composure cracked. His eyes widened by the smallest measure, and what lived there was a grim, quiet triumph.
“Threadwalker,” he breathed, reverent and dangerous, like a word he’d waited centuries to name.
His grip didn’t loosen immediately; instead he leaned close enough that the cold of his breath stirred the air against her cheek, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“There is more in you than even you understand, little Threadwalker, and one day you will beg me to be the one who shows you how deep it runs.”
Her pulse thundered. This man was volatile, and she had a feeling he wasn’t some low-bred Fae with a diluted bloodline, but older and darker, a thing wrought from a court that did not bend, elite and ancient and quite possibly the most powerful being she’d ever encountered.
Then, as suddenly as he’d taken her, he released her, the pain vanishing.
Her sigil dimmed and retreated along her arm until only her Orchid tattoo remained—black ink settling once more beneath her collarbone. She staggered and clutched her wrist, now marked by his hand; she was left with the echo of his strength and the memory of her magic answering his touch.
“You will understand in time,” he said, the smile returning, softer yet no less perilous. “The only question is if you will welcome it…or even survive it.”
His gaze lingered as if he meant to memorize the fear and fury etched there. His expression was cold, utterly unforgiving.
Then, the terrace and the stars fell away, an illusion shattering like glass. The smell of jasmine disappeared along with it, like smoke in the wind.
She woke with her cheek pressed to Jakobav’s chest and the steady drum of his heart beneath her ear.
That didn’t happen. It was just a dream. The Fae man isn’t real.
The words looped like an old charm that she didn’t believe.
Despite repeating them in her mind, the smell of frost and jasmine still clung to her skin where no Orchid night would have left it.
Her hair felt cool and slightly damp, as if the drizzle had followed her back.
The red grip mark around her wrist was still warm under her fingers.
A cold, animalistic fear rippled through her. No dream leaves marks, no dream presses bruises into living flesh. That wrongness clung to her even as she turned toward the man who held her now. She shut her eyes and forced a breath in, then another, and another.
He’s not here. He can’t reach me here.
The terror ebbed by inches, trembling as her heartbeat steadied.
Her pulse spiked again when she remembered he’d known she was about to leave; he’d told her not to go before she even voiced it.
Echobinder.
A name she’d only ever heard whispered about with fear and disgust. She’d never seen one, and had never thought she would.
Jakobav had said himself there were none in Dravaryn.
That man was the first she’d ever encountered—both the first Echobinder and the first Fae, for that matter—terrifying and unpredictable, and yet he had made a crucial mistake.
He showed her what he was. The knowledge of his true nature meant she carried a weapon of her own if their paths ever crossed again.
Ella tried to push all thoughts of him aside.
Still, wrongness clung to her skin like frost that refused to melt, a reminder that the mark of him lingered, no matter how deeply she tried to bury it.
But when she turned toward Jakobav, the comfort of their connection, and of his steady faith in her, anchored her in a way nothing else could.
Jakobav was here, solid and warm at her side, and after all she’d been through in the past weeks, the night she’d spent with him was one of the best of her life.
She lifted her head and looked at his sleep-mussed hair and shadowed jaw. Her twisting insides had nothing to do with politics or fear. She bent and pressed her mouth to his, as if kissing him would banish all thoughts of that Fae.
His eyes opened, slow and alert at once, and before she could pull away, his hands slid to her hips as he rolled her over him with effortless ease, kissing her deep enough to pull an unguarded sound from her throat. She kissed him back harder.
“Careful,” he murmured against her lips. “Keep that up, and I’ll forget we have a road to ride.”
She smiled, already half tempted to find out how serious he was, but he broke the kiss and glanced at the light spilling across their bedroll. “As much as I’d love a repeat of last night, the sun is already hunting us. We have ground to cover, and we’re one day from your castle.”
“We really have to go?” Her voice dropped, soft but daring. “Because I can think of at least one very persuasive reason to stay.” She was only half joking.
“Your kingdom waits. And I doubt they’ll welcome their lost princess showing up with the future King of Dravaryn as her sole protector. But, the sooner we ride, the sooner we face it. Together.”