Page 9 of Dangerous Exile

Her look focused on one unusually round cherub, the dimples in his cheeks particularly mischievous. Cherubs?

Why were there cherubs, of all things, on the ceiling? She was in a gaming hell, wasn’t she? Cherubs didn’t belong in a gaming hell. Or had she been moved? Or maybe this wasn’t a gaming hell at all. Maybe she had dreamed that.

Her fingers drifted away from her face and she looked around the room, trying to place herself.

Thoughts. Real thoughts in her head. Not demons and ghosts and torture and the disconcerting kaleidoscope of the world shifting about her.

The room seemed to be the same. There were two plush blue upholstered chairs by the healthy fire in the fireplace. Had she had a bath there? Snippets of her body being submerged in warm water flashed through her head.

Her hand went to her bare upper chest, her pinky landing on the ruffle of a chemise. Pushing herself upright in the bed, she shoved the coverlet toward her waist and looked downward. A silky white lace chemise draped over her body. She’d been naked at one point, she remembered that.

Someone had obviously dressed her. But dressed her in what? The lace of the chemise swooped down far along her breasts, her nipples almost visible through the open weave of the lace. The chemise had either belonged to someone much larger, or far less chaste than her own wardrobe allowed.

But her body was clean. The scabs of blood gone.

She made a note in her mind to thank the person that had ushered her through the ablutions.

Before she could take in more of the room, the door opened without preamble and a man walked into the room.

Instinct sent her right hand to grasp the coverlet and pull it up over her chest.

The man froze just as the door closed, his stare locked onto her. “You’re awake.”

She had to blink. Then blink again.

She squinted at him. Blinked. Squinted again.

No. Impossible.

Dead. He was dead. Been dead for thirteen years. Dead, but standing in front of her.

Her jaw dropped, breathless words drifting from her mouth. “Conner Burton. It’s you.”

The man’s forehead wrinkled. “Who?”

“Conner. Your voice is different, raspy, older, but it’s you. I would recognize your eyes anywhere.” Her hand went over her mouth. “But no…it can’t be you.”

She leaned forward in the bed, scrutinizing his face. The cut of his jaw—strong and square, not as soft as it once was. His cheekbones stone slices—a life lived hard, reflected in his features. Dark blond hair with strands that dipped into brown. But it was his blue eyes that she remembered well—so light, the color of a wispy blue sky in the brightest part of the day.

This wasn’t a ghost. This was a man. Not the boy she once knew, but the boy grown into a man. A man glaring at her. “But it is you.”

The wrinkles creasing his brow unfurled and he shook his head, taking three steps toward the bed. “I’m no one you know, Ness.”

“But you are. You’re Conner Burton.”

He stopped by the side of the bed, looking down at her with a harsh crinkle around his blue eyes that told her he thought she was fully mad. “I’m Talen Blackstone.”

Her head snapped back. “No. No.” She looked away from him to the window and then her gaze shot back to him. Had she gone mad? “You’re Talen Blackstone? You’re the one?”

He sighed, his brow re-wrinkling. “Must we go through this again? How many times are you going to ask me that question?”

Her gaze met his. “How many times have I asked you that?”

“Too many.”

“It is you?”

“Aye.”

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