Page 56 of Lux

My heart hurts too much to think. I can’t remember. It’s better to sit here in the dark. To wallow and wither. To breathe and dream.

I dream of icy coldness. Of gentle touches and delicate kisses pressed to my temple. I dream of a voice, murmuring into my ear, “Come back to me, my dear one. Come back.”

I hear…

Him, Caspian. I hear him inhaling my scent into those withered, useless vamryre lungs. I hear him sigh. I hear his footsteps pace and pace and then I hear him whisper to me. I can feel him stroking his fingers through my hair as he does so. Carefully. Cautiously.

He is oh so gentle, and it hurts. What did I do to deserve such gentleness? If I am the product of violence and hatred, then why do I deserve such calming, soothing touches?

Why do I deserve a voice that breaks against my ear as it repeats for the millionth time, “Come back to me, Niamh.”

Why?

There isn’t an answer.

One good enough will never come.

And yet, I don’t need a reason. He asks me to stay, so I will stay. He begs me to return, so I will. Bit by bit, I will life into these withered limbs. I try to speak. Speak. Say anything.

My lips twitch, I know that much.

Caspian sighs and sighs. “Come back, Niamh,” he demands more forcefully. “Come back! Come back or… I will burn your book.”

No. My eyes open instantly. They burn as hot sunlight trickles in and warms my skin. It is so blindly hot. He’s kept the heat running. He’s bundled me in blankets that smell like dank mildew, but are somehow still warm. He has made food for me. It is a mass of various things crammed onto a plate, shoved onto my lap.

I am hungry. I swipe a finger through a mass of white and gray substances. Eat. I gag. It tastes awful. I swallow it anyway. My Caspian made it for me, so I will eat it anyway.

I eat and eat until the plate is wiped clean.

Then I look up.

He is watching me with those intent scarlet eyes. He is patiently waiting for something—which is odd. Caspian is never patient. He does not wait. Yet for me…

He hesitates.

Then he crouches low onto one knee and gingerly swipes at the corner of my mouth with the pad of his thumb.

“You were gone for three days,” he says.

Gone. Not physically. Most of the time I was here, with him, I know that much. Yet, my mind was gone. Somewhere strange. Somewhere that I can’t remember. I learned something. Something vital and awful and spine-tingling.

Something about myself.

What is it?

I can’t remember. The harder I try, the more my skull aches, as if it was once fractured into pieces and crudely made whole again. I wince and cradle it against my palm with my messy hands.

Caspian tsks, sucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Let me,” he insists, commands. Let him clean me. Let him gently wipe my hands clean with a rag. Let him smooth the hair back from my face. Let him look at me.

His beautiful features are beyond description. Captivating. Even when he kills and is covered in blood, oh my, is he mesmerizing.

I am not.

He looks at me like I am a sad, lost thing. Lost because he left me. Found because he wants me again. Lost and found. Found and lost.

How long before he loses me and never comes back?

“I took my eyes off you for one minute,” he says, his voice a deep, unsettling rasp. “One minute.”

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