Chapter Twenty-Two Anton
Chapter Twenty-Two
Anton
He fiddles with his bracelets.
Bounces his leg.
Toys with the fringe of a nearby pillow. Picks at it, unraveling loose threads until he shoves it aside. He’s restless, fidgeting far more than usual. Nothing here is keeping his interest, not even the souls.
It isn’t until his gaze roams the crowd that he realizes he’s searching for her.
Waiting for her.
Fates-damnit. The whole reason he’d fled the mortal world was to sever all attachments, forget the past. Hide it somewhere he’d never have to face it again. Only, ever since she had arrived, he’d tried his damndest to appear unaffected by her presence.
It’s a temporary infatuation, he reminds himself. Even she said that. Yet his deranged self argued that point with her. He even tried to convince her to stay.
There was actual, physical pain seeing her in that pool and knowing he couldn’t touch her in all the ways he wanted to. His hands had itched to glide along her skin, to soothe all the places he could tell she was hurting.
Idly, he slips the rings from his fingers and clacks them in his hands. Calls for a drink. Settles in for an evening of having things he doesn’t really want, wanting things he can’t have…
No. Tonight, he will not be so enamored with her. He will not hang on her every movement. Sure, he will toss her a few glances, but he can’t, won’t—
He catches sight of her then. She’s ashen, far paler than usual, her forehead slick with sweat. And she’s limping, just slightly. Favoring her left leg.
His brows push together.
He calls her name, but it’s as if she doesn’t hear him. When she positions herself, he tells her not to dance, but it’s like she’s behind a pane of glass and he’s on the other side.
Her lips are dry, cracked. The pale, thin fabric of her dress clings to her more than it should.
She doesn’t even make it to the chorus, the apex of the song, before she’s falling.
He’s moving before he realizes it—
He catches her before she hits the ground.
She’s burning in his arms, burning like an ember, and only getting hotter.
Fever.
The word comes to him, sticks like plaster. By the look of it, she’s seconds from losing consciousness, seconds from maybe never getting it back if he can’t cool her off.
He runs with her in his arms.
Racing down the walkway, he rushes through the palace, his chest hot and thundering.
Dimly, he wonders what would happen if she died here.
For all his talk of having her stay, he isn’t so sure Moranya would be pleased to know he had allowed a mortal to take up residence in the Lair of the Dead. And Fates, seeing her in pain…
Once in his room, he skids to a halt. Shoves open the bathing chamber doors. The room is all glossy tile, a pool built into the floor.
He holds her to his chest and descends the steps. The water is cool, thankfully, though she clings to him, shivering incessantly. Any colder, and it would lower her temperature far too fast. A dangerous thing.
“Hold on, Vasalie,” he says, cupping the base of her skull along the nape of her neck. “Hold on.”