Page 25 of Veiled Yearning

She’s still pushing herself hours later, and I’m starting to worry about her. As soon as Chiara got out of the shower, she went right to work—shielding the entire house, creating extra talismans, and imbuing small stones with a spell that’ll alert us if any vampire gets close.

All of it is incredibly useful, and it’s why we wanted Chiara’s help in the first place. But I don’t want her making herself sick to do it.

So I’m going to insist she take a break. I’d do the same for any of my allies.

Except.

When I poke my head into the den, where Chiara set up a makeshift workstation, there’s a wrenching feeling in my chest.

She’s sitting on the floor, surrounded by piles of small stones and coins and carved talismans—at least a dozen of each. Her face is just as pale as it was in the car, save for the splatters of blood she’s since washed off. There’s a softly glowing stone in her trembling hand, and after she adds it to the matching pile, her entire body sags.

Dammit.

“Chiara.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended.

Startled, she leaps to her feet, muscles tensed and ready to run. Then she sees me and exhales a shaky breath. “Gavril. You scared me.”

Those dark smudges under her eyes are back, and I don’t like it. “You need to take a break.”

Blinking at me, she says, “But I’m not done. I still have”—she glances over at a fourth pile, stacked high with a mix of stones and coins—“at least two-dozen more to imbue.”

“Is the house completely shielded?”

“Yes, of course. You know I took care of that first.”

“And we have enough of the stones for now?”

“Yes…”

“Then it’s time for a break.” Still too gruff, I try to gentle my tone. “It’s okay to rest, Chiara. Have some blood. Just relax for a bit. You can make more later.”

“But…” Tiny lines etch across her forehead. “I just want to be sure.”

“I know.” Without thinking—again—I reach my hand out to her. “Come on. You’ve done enough for now. There’ll be plenty of time to make more later. Let’s just go sit down, I’ll get a fire going, and I’ll get you some blood. I’m sure you need some, after everything.”

After a brief hesitation, Chiara moves toward me and takes my hand. “Okay.”

Once we get to the living room, she stops and looks up at me anxiously. “Are you sure it’s safe to stop? Maybe I should go around and check the shields again. I think I got the back porch, but what if I missed it? And the whole house is hidden except for that spot?”

Her voice keeps rising, her words coming faster. “If they come here, and they see the porch, everything I did was for nothing. They’ll find us again, and it’ll be my fault. Just like with the car.”

“You didn’t forget the porch.” I lead her over to the couch and gently sit her down. As she stares up at me with a worried gaze, I reassure her, “I watched you. The entire time. And then I went outside and walked the perimeter, just to check. It’s all hidden.”

Her chin wobbles. In a small voice, she asks, “Are you sure?”

I’ve never been the one to comfort women, even when we’ve rescued them from the most dangerous situations. That’s always fallen to another Sentinel—David or Lucas, usually—while I’m the one dealing with the more gruesome parts of the mission. So this is foreign to me; trying to comfort Chiara.

But it’s not bad. I want to do it. “I’m sure. If I thought something wasn’t secure, I would tell you. I promise. But it is, and it’s okay to take a break.” Wryly, I add, “Frederick, Larkin, and Knight should be getting here soon, and then we won’t have a minute of peace. So we might as well enjoy it while we can.”

I didn’t get to enjoy the relative peace for very long.

Not half an hour after I got Chiara settled in the living room, I had a vision. We were finishing our glasses of wine by the fire when the terrible images came to me.

I’ve had so many of them, at this point I can keep my hand steady and not dump my drink all over the floor. Not like in the beginning, when I’d be so disoriented by a vision, I’d look like a drunk—running into things, tripping, or falling over. But it’s a little disconcerting for an observer if they haven’t seen it happen before.

But Chiara handled it perfectly. She didn’t say something like your eyes looked so weird or you looked like you were dead—both of which are comments I’ve heard before. Instead, she just rubbed my cold hand and said, “That must have been a bad one. I could tell from your face. Are you okay?”

Yes, and no. Physically, I was fine. But what I just saw? That was the furthest thing from okay.

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