Page 8 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
“When it’s cold,” he murmurs roughly, his chin bumping on the top of my head, “worker bees cluster tightly around the queen . . . to generate heat through . . . muscle contractions.”
My chuckle knocks loose unshed tears. I hug him tighter, screw up my face, and wish I could hold onto the humor for a little longer. It lies and tells me everything is okay.
He continues to mumble more about the hive’s temperature being essential to the queen’s survival. His factual drone is as soothing as his idle hand, and I relax.
“Tell me more,” I sigh.
“The bees outside the cluster expose themselves to colder temperatures, sacrificing their lives to insulate her.”
I pull back to look into his shadowed, sleepy eyes. “What?”
“Shh.” He mimics me from earlier. He smooshes his finger against my parted lips and repeats, his body tense. “Shh.”
My bottom lip trembles. I don’t want to trigger an episode, so I nod and hold my words captive. Mollified, his thumb smears wetness across my cheek. He warned Fox about having sex with me—said that drone bees die after mating with their queen. Fox had laughed it away, joking about his penis falling off, but maybe that was because he’d already decided to take Styx’s place. He was diverting me from the truth.
He’s not technically dead, but he’s not here either.
Another wave of emotion closes my eyes, and I hold my breath in an attempt to stop the sob from breaking free. Varen’s lips press onto each of my eyelids, leaving an impression that stays long after he’s gone. An ache grows in my lower belly, and there is a need for more of this kind of connection.
He laps away my tears. The raspy and wet sensation all down my face is a little weird but so agonizingly tender and wolfish that I almost start crying again.
“Bees communicate with a waggle dance.” He tugs me closer.
“Go to sleep, Varen.”
“Honeybees never sleep,” he mumbles, his breath warm against my ear. “When a bee finds a good source of nectar, it flies back to the hive and tells the others.” A pause. “You are our nectar.”
I smile despite myself. “That’s better than being queen, I suppose.”
“Shh.” His fingers trace hypnotic circles over my hip bone, lulling me back into my comfort zone—a place where nothing exists but a warm embrace and dream that one day, none of us will be alone, none of us will make sacrifices.
We’ll be a working, functional family. A hive.
We’ll be happy.
Chapter 4
Puck
Istride through the vast hallway toward the queen’s quarters, fighting the urge to glance over my shoulder. The Sluagh bested me. But all is not lost. I still have the Hunt. Styx could have killed me, but he didn’t. Perhaps he is as impotent as the others.
The sense of being watched comes from within, that is all. It is the dragon clinging to my soul with his blackened claws.
“You can’t outrun me, fool,”the Baleful Hunt’s mocking laughter in my mind grates like nails on a chalkboard.
“Perhaps not. But I can send you to your nest at the Cabinet,” I retort, suppressing a shiver.
“Oh, but then who will keep you safe? Who will strike fear into the minds of your enemies?”
I focus on the murals hiding behind wild vines on the walls. The longer the queen slumbers, the more feral her magic grows. By spring, thorny botanicals will smother the artwork completely. Tittering wild, tiny faeries hide behind trembling leaves, their laughter mocking my failure.
“Be gone, leeches.” I stomp my boots and snarl. “Leave Her Majesty’s magic alone.”
At their inaudible, sing-song taunts, I dash a hand through the vines.
“My, my, how far you have fallen, Puck,”the Baleful Hunt taunts.
“Don’t call me that.”
