Page 34 of Kingdom of Chaos
“Up until his death last year, my great uncle Faust was Shadow Striker’s wielder. I competed against the other members of the Society in an activation trial and won. I’d only been bonded with the dagger less than a year before it was stolen and this whole nightmare began.”
Talon’s looking at me but he’s not actually seeing me, his gaze glassy, like he’s reliving a past memory.
He frowns, and the urge to comfort him hits me hard. I ball my hands in my lap to stop myself from reaching out to smooth the tension from his brow, to trace the rigid line of his jaw, to press my fingers into the knots in his shoulders until the weight he’s carrying melts away.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice small.
Talon gives a slight shake of his head, like he’s pulling himself back to the moment. “For what?”
I lift one shoulder in a half shrug. “My life isn’t the only one that’s been flipped upside down these past few months. It’s easy for me to forget that.” I fidget with the hem of my shirt. “I guess I’m just sorry I’ve been so wrapped up in my own stuff that I haven’t stopped to consider your point of view.”
I glance away, the memory of my parents flashing through my mind. Even with all the changes, I still have my family. I’dtexted my mom that morning to let her know we’d arrived safely. She’d replied with a simpleI love you, and a reminder that she and my dad were proud of me.
When I look up, Talon’s gaze has softened, and it does something to my pulse, making it stutter, then race.
“You don’t need to be sorry for me, Locklyn,” he says, voice quiet as he leans a little closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him. “I was born into this life. Trained for it practically since birth. I’m made of pretty tough stuff.”
The way he says it isn’t boastful, it’s matter of fact. Like he’s accepted that being unbreakable is the only way he’s allowed to exist. That kind of quiet resilience should make him feel untouchable, but instead it makes me want to reach for him. To be the one person who sees the cracks beneath the armor.
I can’t keep looking at him. Not with all these soft, tangled feelings rising inside me. I’m afraid I’ll do something stupid, like lean in closer or let my hand find his in the dark. So I turn away, and without our conversation to distract me, it doesn’t take long before sleep pulls me under.
I come to slowly,realizing I’m resting on something kind of soft, yet also kind of hard, but definitely warm. My body is horizontal, and there’s a bit of a crick in my neck, like my pillow is just a little too high. I’m swaying gently, the motion making me want to burrow deeper into my bed and drift back to sleep, so I don’t bother opening my eyes. Not yet.
I’m on the brink of consciousness when a whisper of a touch ghosts through my hair. Featherlight, but still enough for me tofeel the tiny pinpricks on my scalp, as if someone is running their fingers through it. It doesn’t hurt. In fact, it feels . . . nice.
I nuzzle into my hard-soft pillow, relishing that delicious in-between where I’m not fully asleep but not fully awake either.
Suddenly, my body rocks forward and someone says, “Pit stop,” loudly.
“Finally,” comes Imogen’s voice, startling me fully awake.
My eyes pop open and I find myself sprawled across the bench seat. And my head isn’t on a pillow, it’s on?—
I jolt upright, scrambling away from Talon’s lap just as everyone else piles out of the Valkyrie. At some point in the night, Imogen must have climbed into the cargo area in the back, giving me more room to stretch out. And apparently use Talon’s lap as a lumpy pillow.
Kill me now.
My gaze snags on Talon’s arm resting on the seatback behind me, nowhere near where my head had been cradled in his lap.
Has it always been there, or did he move it when I woke up? Did I only imagine someone running their fingers through my hair?
I can’t decide which would be worse.
“Were you just touching my hair?” I ask, needing to know.
The look he gives me is maddeningly unreadable. Not smug or guilty. Not fake-innocent either. Just . . . blank.
He lifts one brow. “Is that what you were dreaming about?”
Heat prickles at the back of my neck. “Answer the question.”
He leans in just slightly, voice low and teasing. “Would it bother you if I said yes?” he asks, his gaze turning curious and making butterflies flutter low in my gut.
I open my mouth, then close it. Heat crawls up my neck. “I—ah . . .”
How am I supposed to answer that?
By saying, “Yes,” and telling him not to touch me again. But for some reason I can’t force those words out.
