34. Henry
HENRY
I wake from a nightmare, panting. The linen sheets are plastered to my skin with sweat. My bad dreams are frequent, but they’re always of the night of the attack. They’re always Holly’s determined face as she turns away from my broken body to face the Drained.
But not tonight. The Divine must want to torture me because I dreamed of Harlow, blood-soaked and facing off with that Breeder.
If she wasn’t such a Divine-damned pain in my ass, I could look at her beside me in bed and know she’s safe—that the future of the fort is safe. Instead, she’s locked in her bedroom, probably sleeping soundly.
Fierce, driving rain pounds against the windows, the wind howling through the old panes.
Faint scratching sounds from the washroom that connects my room to Harlow’s have me up and out of bed in seconds.
I pause, straining to hear over the storm. Kyrin whines on the other side of her bedroom door, and the scratching returns.
I try the handle, but it’s locked. Pressing my ear to the door, I try to calm my breathing. The storm sounds louder in her room. Like the windows are open or—the balcony doors.
I draw back and jam my heel into the spot right above the doorknob. It rattles and groans but doesn’t open. It takes three more tries before the door finally flies open and splinters fly in all directions .
The balcony doors are thrown open and the wind batters them against the wall. The rain-soaked curtains snap in the wind.
Harlow isn’t in her bed.
All the panic I felt upon waking returns in a stifling wave.
I race out onto the balcony.
Harlow stands precariously poised on the railing, staring down at the stone patio below. Her nightdress is plastered to her skin, her hair hanging in soaking clumps down her back.
Calling her name might startle her, so I approach her carefully from behind. She remains frozen in place despite the battering rain and wind.
Finally, I’m close enough to reach her. I wrap an arm around her waist and yank her back, and she instantly goes rigid. She struggles until she tips her head up and looks at me.
“Henry?” She blinks rapidly, looking from me to the sky, and then around the balcony. “How?—”
I swipe an arm under her legs, lift her, and carry her inside.
I place her on her feet inside the room and close the doors. My hands are shaking so badly that I fumble to latch them closed. Then I stay there with my hands on the glass for an extra moment, trying to compose myself.
Finally, I turn to face her. “What were you doing?”
“I was asleep,” she says flatly.
“You were standing on the railing like you were going to jump.”
The confusion on her face transforms into irritation. “Bleeding woods! I’m not suicidal, Henry. Being married to you isn’t that bad. I just had a bad dream.”
“About tonight?”
A crease forms in her brow. “I don’t remember. I just know I felt stuck there.”
She wraps her arms around herself and shivers. She needs to get warm and get in my bed.
It’s a testament to how rattled she is that she lets me guide her into the washroom. I peel the soaking silk from her skin and wrap her in a towel. By the grace of the Divine, she lets me. I grab another towel and pat her hair.
Her skin is covered in goosebumps. I leave to rifle through my closet until I find a sweater. She doesn’t even say anything snarky about it being mine. She just lifts her arms and lets me slide it on her.
I tilt her chin up so she has to meet my eyes. “Now get in my bed.”
She grumbles something under her breath, but she trudges into my room and climbs into the bed, pulling the cover up to her chin.
Kyrin makes to follow her until I whistle. He whines but retreats to his place by the fire.
I stoke the fire with an iron poker and try to calm my thundering heart.
Finally, I climb into bed beside my wife. She’s curled on her side, facing me.
“No more fighting me about sleeping in here,” I say.
She purses her full lips. “If I can’t fight, how else will I turn you on, my wolf?”
I take her hand in mine. Her pale skin is so soft, her fingers delicate and thin, like a musician’s. She tries to pull her hand away, but I grip it tighter.
“Don’t fucking fight me. It’s this or I will tie you to the headboard. Just go to sleep.”
She looks at my hand in hers like my touch is causing her physical pain. Then she huffs and closes her eyes.
We lie there for a few long minutes, listening to the roar of the storm and the crackling fire.
“Harlow?”
She blinks her eyes open.
“You would say it if you needed a break, right?”
She frowns. “Say what?”
“It’s not just for sex. If you need to quit—if you were breaking—you would say Stars , right?”
Her eyes narrow. “I never quit and I won’t break.”
She’s certain in the way only someone divorced from any real tragedy can be. I spent my youth certain I was unbreakable. No one thinks they will break until they meet the thing that shatters them.
I don’t fall asleep again for hours—until she’s sleeping fitfully, her breathing soft and even, her hand still in mine. As I drift off, I think about how comforting it is to feel her hand in mine .
But when I wake up at first light, her side of the bed is cold. She’s gone, and so is the sense of any ground gained. Whatever vulnerability could exist in the dark can’t endure in the light of day.