Page 59 of The Bloodfeather Promise
Pressing my forehead against the glass of the window, I stare out at the pool and the blackness beyond, the gulf now lightly illuminated by a half-crescent moon creeping across the night sky. Perhaps the sound of the waves will help me sleep. It’s worth a shot. I could pull up an app on my phone which provides an artificial version, but the real thing would be better.
I slide the window open and breathe deep of the salt air, letting the breeze blow my hair off my forehead. It’s still damp, and instead of sleeping with it hanging free, which causes terrible tangles, I’ve braided it into one long rope.
I’m so intent on the sounds of the crashing waves and the fresh air that, at first, I don’t recognize the sound. It floats on the wind, sweet and haunting music which tangles my emotions into a knot of yearning. It’s a guitar, the strings manipulated until a melody pours forth.
It’s not a record. Or a compact disc. It’s not Spotify or the radio. It’s Greyson. And it’s more compelling than a siren’s song, or mystical tune created by the Pied Piper. Choking back a sob, I slowly close the window. My breath fogs the glass a little, even though I suddenly can’t catch my breath. I’m on the verge of hyperventilating before I regain control. Resoluteness swallows my fear.
The promise I made myself, not to fall for him again, not to be sucked into the madness that is Greyson Finch, is utterly destroyed.
I will go to him. Because this was inevitable. This moment? It was always meant to be.
I was always meant to be his.
