Page 71 of The Mourning Throne
“Which one of us do you think about more, Morgan?”
Morgan didn’t know what that meant. His brain was like two stones hitting together—sparks flying, but never catching. No flame to light the way to the truth.
4:01a.m.
Sleep wasn’t going to happen.
He swung his legs off the mattress slowly, letting his feet press into the carpet. He didn’t stand right away. He waited, like he always did, to make sure his limbs were functioning. Too fast, and he might hit the floor.
“Wait.” Lex grumbled. The sound of his hand patting the sheets got closer and closer until it found Morgan’s back. “Where are you—” He yawned. “Shit. Where are you going?”
Morgan cleared his throat. “Shower. Go back to sleep.”
“I—I’m—” Another yawn. “I’m up. I’m up, I’m up, I’m up.” The last one trailed into a whisper, like Lex was trying to convince himself. “I’m coming too.”
“It’s still early.”
Lex didn’t answer right away. Morgan could hear the duvet shifting again. Then, the unmistakable sound of Lex’s bare feet hitting the floor.
Padding over.
He pulled Morgan up, arms wrapped tight around his middle again.
“Early as fuck,” Lex mumbled into the side of Morgan’s head. “You owe me coffee. So—” A third yawn. “So muchfucking coffee.”
Morgan stayed still.
Only for a moment.
Long enough to remind his brain thatthiswas real. Not the nightmare. This was the reality that he belonged in.
Even if it was darker than those shapeless ceilings and floors in his dream. Even if, sometimes, it made less sense.
Lex was solid against him. Breathing. Heavy-limbed with sleep.
But ifthisLex—therealone—died before he did, would there be nothing left inside when Morgan peeled him open?
No lungs. No blood. No internal organs to speak of.
Just smoke.
He didn’t want to think about it.
Didn’t want to entertain the idea one moment longer.
Chapter 13
The dreams didn’t linger once Morgan was fully awake.
That was the worst part—no pieces left to carry. No splinters to examine. Nothing to trace back to meaning.
All he was left with was the hollow certainty that something inside him had broken again—deep and wordless—and the sound of wet footsteps slapping down the hall.
Wet.
Bare.
Footsteps.
