Page 13 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
Sleep has artfully arranged his dark blueish-black hair into a sexy, messy style that begs me to run my fingers through it. Warm, lust-drenched eyes flutter open and lock with mine. Instead of slowing his amorous intentions, the sight of me arouses them. He growls low and deep from his chest in a husky, masculine way that makes me breathless. He pins my waist, flexing his hips, digging his erection into me suggestively, hungrily.
My mind blanks. Scrambles. I am struck by how normal he is. How male, sexy, and . . . sane. I almost don’t want to stop him, but he probably doesn’t know what he’s doing. Bodin is right. I shouldn’t be here in his bed. Not only is there no privacy protection for my dreams, but it’s not fair to Varen. We can’t be intimate in the same way I am with Fox. He’s too vulnerable in this state, too innocent.
I gently pry his fingers from my hips, kiss his knuckles, and hold his hand as his consciousness fully returns . . . along with his heartbreaking madness.
Chapter 6
Willow
Like many fae, we’re part beast—I’m wolf-blooded, while Fox and Styx have tails. Ancient texts hint at the Sluagh’s avian origins, which are evident in their wings. Our bond gifted them the power to shed their otherness, no longer relying on glamour. Yet their nature as chaos-bringers, death-dealers, and soul-devourers always lingers beneath the surface.
Varen’s eyes dart over my shoulder to Bodin, his expression instantly morphing from amorous to fractious. I can almost feel the panic radiating off him.
“The longer an intruder queen stays,” he snarls, glaring at the jar of wisps, “the more her pheromones corrupt the hive.”
Intruder? My eyes burn as I pull away. He seizes my wrist, desperate to keep me close.
“Varen, we can’t.”
His jaw clenches, his grip tightens, and pain shoots up my arm. Darkness drowns the warmth in his eyes, hinting at his Sluagh form—a warning wrapped in madness. My sweet Varen harbors an insatiable beast, and I’m not sure it’s meant for me.
What if he doesn’t release me? What if he loses control?
I’m acutely aware of Bodin’s presence behind me, his tension palpable in the air. Part of me wants to turn to him for help, but another part rebels against appearing weak.
Varen’s teeth bare as he yanks me closer. Hunger hardens his gaze into something terrifying, inconceivable from the man who touched me so tenderly moments ago.
“Let go, Varen,” I gasp. “You’re hurting me.”
“Ren.” Bodin’s hand clamps around Varen’s wrist. He tugs, met with resistance and a snarl. “That’s enough.”
Varen scrambles off the bed and bolts to the fireplace, muttering self-deprecating words. He plunges his hand into the hot embers and retrieves a coal—the stench of burning flesh assaults my nose.
“Varen, no!”
I lunge for him, but he’s too strong. He tosses me aside effortlessly. I stumble against the bed, losing my footing.
Varen lurches to the wall, his eyes wild with panic. He reaches out to start sketching but suddenly freezes, his hand hovering inches from the surface. His expression shifts from frantic to dismayed.
“No, no, no!” he shouts, his voice rising in pitch. “Where are they? Where are my markings?”
He begins tearing at the wallpaper frantically, revealing fresh patches underneath. His distress escalates as he uncovers a clean wall.
“Who did this?” he demands, whirling to face us. His eyes lock onto Bodin, narrowing with sudden suspicion. “You! You’re helping him hide them!”
Bodin’s jaw tightens, his expression a mixture of guilt and resolve as he moves swiftly, positioning himself between Varen and me.
“We’re only trying to keep your room clean, Ren,” he says, his voice carefully neutral.
But Varen isn’t placated. He spits back, “Clean? The yellow jackets are invading, and you’re worried about clean?” He turns back to the wall, ripping off more wallpaper with renewed vigor. “They’re coming. They’ll destroy everything if we can’t see the patterns!”
As Varen uncovers another clean patch of wall, he immediately begins sketching with the coal, muttering about combs and honey. His distraught energy fills the room, making the air feel thick and oppressive.
“If we can’t repair the combs,” he spits between strokes, “we can’t keep the honey.” He jabs at the shapes, eyes wild. “The walls are broken. No royal jelly for the bees. Too cold for flowers. No pollen. The bees are dying.” More angry slashes. “Too cold. Too cold!”
Bodin sighs and sinks into a chair, his expression of weary familiarity. But beneath that, I glimpse the toll this takes on him—the weight of being the protector, of always having to be strong.
Blood and charred flesh taint the air. Varen’s beeisms shift from outward ramblings to inward arguments. He slaps his head, raging about the deafening swarm. He lurches to another wall, shredding more paper for his frenzied sketches.
