Page 162 of The Courting of Bristol Keats
He groaned. “You too? I’ve already been told several times. Thanks for reminding me.”
“Hindsight’s a boastful shithead, isn’t it?”
The bitterness of their words from the day before still lurked in his eyes. “At the time it seemed like a good idea. I had to make a quick decision. I guess it was the wrong one.”
“I suppose anyone could make a stupid, desperate decision in the heat of the moment.”
Even in his miserable state, her innuendo was not lost on him. He sighed. “Why are you here, Keats?”
“Don’t make me choose, Tyghan.”
Only a sliver of blue showed beneath his heavy lids, but it was icy and sharp, still fighting for control. “Choose what?”
“Don’t make me choose between you and my father. You’ve both made some desperate and bad decisions . . . but I still love you both.”
He grimaced and looked away, like her confession gutted him. In the dim light, she saw the wetness rimming his eyes. She sat on the bed beside him and reached out, wiping his lashes with her thumb. “Yes, I love you. I’m hurt, Tyghan. I’m angry. But I haven’t stopped loving you.”
His hand slid across his chest and grabbed hers, his grip weak. He tugged, and she laid her head on his chest, and felt it tremble beneath her cheek.
“Still want me to leave?” she asked.
“Never.”
They lay there a long while, her head resting on his chest, and he somehow gathered the strength to stroke her cheek.
“You have to promise me, if I fall asleep, you’ll leave. Immediately.”
“I will,” she answered, but she had broken so many promises at that point, what was one more?
It was almost midnight—seven hours since she went in. Cully put his ear to the door again. “She’s still singing,” he whispered.
“Can you hear the words?” Eris asked.
“No, but it seems to be the same short tune over and over again.”
“Maybe it’s some kind of spell she’s casting,” Quin said.
Madame Chastain shook her head, still nestled in the crook of Eris’s arm. “No spell that she learned from me, and there’s no spell in the grimoires that takes seven hours to cast.”
“Maybe it’s another kind of spell,” Eris said. “He has one open door in his mind, and she’s making sure it only leads to her.”
“But—”
“It could be a different kind of magic, Dahlia. A mortal one, perhaps? It’s working. That’s all that matters.”
The attack came out of nowhere. Bristol thought Tyghan was peacefully sleeping, but after a few restless mumbles, he leapt on top of her, pinning her down, the chain on his wrist rattling, his mouth twisted into something brutal and cold. The hatred in his eyes iced her veins. He uttered nonsense in a low, frightening rasp while his fingers tightened around her throat. “You won’t win! Go back to your hellhole. You’ll never—”
“Tyghan! Tyg—” She desperately pulled at his hands, pleading with him, trying to bring him back before he choked the life from her. “It’s me, Bri—let go—” She pried at his fingers, searching for air, and managed a few more desperate words. “I love you, Tyghan. Remember.Please—”
His crazed expression was replaced with one of terror, and then recognition, finally seeing her and not the demon in his mind. He let go, his fingers spreading wide like they were on fire, and collapsed back on the bed.
He gasped for air.
“It’s all right,” she murmured. “You’re with me. Shh.”
“No,” he moaned. “You have to leave.”
“And you need rest. Just listen to my voice. Only my voice. Don’t stop listening. I’m here with you. Only me. No one else.” She began singing a short snip of a John Keats poem over his weak protests, the one her father used to sing to her mother when she woke from nightmares, repeating the same stanzas, over and over again.
