The Singer - Page 102

“You did. There were dozens of Grigori in that cistern, but I’m alive. You protected me. Even though it cost your life.” She could feel some of the tension leave his shoulders. “I’m just confused.”

“Are you sorry we made love?”

“No,” she whispered. “When I touch you, it’s like being home.”

“I feel the same way.”

She blinked hard to force back the tears. “But you don’t remember me. Or why you fell in love with me.”

“But I do love you,” he said urgently. “I don’t understand either, but when you’re in pain—as you are right now—I ache with it. I felt incomplete until I found you. Half-alive. Now you’re telling me you still feel that way, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

She couldn’t stop the tears that fell. She could hear the panicked sound of his inner voice, but she closed her eyes and whispered the spell to quiet him.

“Ava—”

“I need time, Malachi.”

“Don’t push me away.” His voice was low. Pained. “Please.”

“I won’t.” She admitted it to herself, “I can’t.”

As much confusion as she felt, she knew she needed him. She wanted the comfort of his body desperately, wanted the soothing sound of his voice. She wanted more than memories.

“This is going to take time.” She tugged him closer and leaned against his shoulder. Whatever her mind was telling her, Ava’s body shouted loud and clear that her mate was home. Wounded, but alive.

Her soul recognized him. Her body did, too. Her mind and heart would just have to catch up.

“A wound doesn’t heal,” she whispered, “just because it stops bleeding.”

“But it does heal.” He put a finger under her chin and tilted it up, so she looked into his familiar grey eyes. Pure calm. Pure determination. It settled her in a way she couldn’t put into words. It was as if her soul took a breath after holding it for too long.

“It will heal.”

They saton the bed together, wrapped in blankets, enjoying the silence of the apartment. Ava had no idea where the others had gone. If she had to guess, they’d taken off right about the time things got interesting. And loud.

The clock on the small desk read 01:11. Midnight had crept by and dawn was far off, but Ava was wide awake. Sleeping next to Malachi had settled her energy and she’d rested better than she had in months.

The sex probably helped, too.

Her mind was clear, and her magic ran like a fluid line down her back. She could feel the mating marks he’d given her as if they were a living thing. She’d had so little time to get used to them after he’d marked her, and then he’d been gone and their power had dulled, though not disappeared, in his absence.

In his presence, she could sense them again, like a living coat of magic.

She felt his palm at her neck.

“They’re glowing,” he murmured. “Your marks.”

“Do you remember giving them to me? At all?”

“No.” He hesitated. “It’s very hard to explain. With some things, once people tell me something that has happened, then it pops into my mind, like a puzzle piece fitting, and it’s as if that memory was never gone. Other times…”

“What?”

He shook his head. “There are blanks that refuse to be filled. Maxim tried to explain to me what happened in the cistern, but none of it seemed familiar. The only flashes I have seen so far have been of you. I can… hear you, sometimes. Hear you scream. Smell the water. But other than that—”

“Maybe it’s better you don’t remember.”

“I could find the scribe house in Cappadocia, but I had no memory of Evren, Max, or Leo. Only a little of Rhys. I had a single memory of us there. The rest came in pieces. Many of which I still don’t have.”

She rubbed his arm soothingly, tracing the new spells he’d written there, which were also glowing softly as he touched her. “And these?”

“I had nothing when I first woke. I’ve scribed these only in the last month or so.”

“They’re different.”

“How?”

Ava smiled. “They’re neater, for one thing. You did the first set when you were what? Twelve? Thirteen?”

“I would have started when I was thirteen.”

She nodded. “So they were messy. But… it was kind of endearing.”

He smiled back. “How?”

“You were this big badass, right? You always were. But then you had this kind of childish writing on your left wrist and forearm. Almost like a kid drawing on himself.” Her finger ran up his arm, over the sensitive notch of his elbow and the delicate skin there. His powerful body shivered under the touch.

“Ava—”

“There were certain letters I could tell you’d exaggerated. Made more elaborate, like a young man would show off.” Her finger trailed up the curve of his bicep and over his shoulder. “Then, as you grew up, you could tell you’d matured. The letters became neater. More economical. No boyish flourishes, just… utilitarian, I guess.”

Tags: Elizabeth Hunter Paranormal
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