CYRUS AWOKE WITH A START.

His principal thought was for the emptiness of his mind, for it was the first time in months he’d not risen from a nightmare. This fact alone was strange enough to occupy his fears for days, but then, as he felt the shape of things around him, he perceived that he was lying in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar space. The room was large and dark, its details vague in the rheumy glow of an unborn sun, dawn pushing against the horizon. This burgeoning light pitched through a pair of windows whose curtains had not been closed, a detail that struck him as strange even as pain throbbed steadily throughout his body. His head was heavy, so disjointed he felt almost drugged, and as he blinked slowly against a rising tide of dread, he realized he had no idea where he was. His cheek was pressed against a strange pillow, his body tucked between the sheets of a bed he did not recognize.

Images of the evening came back to him slowly and with a blaze of feeling,

and as he recalled these recent delights of his life he became slowly aware of the fact that, under these linens, he was half-wrapped in his own shroud – beneath which he was entirely naked.

This filled him with no small amount of horror.

Someone had delivered him to this place as if he were a newborn babe, swaddled in a skin of darkness. What had happened to him? He was not supposed to have been so immobilized; he should’ve had strength enough in

the end to have returned to his rooms. He’d planned for it. Even now he felt the thrum of latent magic inside him, stores of which lived in his veins almost constantly.

He’d had a plan.

He’d meant to cast himself back to the privacy of his quarters, where he’d intended to suffer the torment of this first night in the company of his own unraveling mind. When preparing for Alizeh’s arrival – long before he knew who she was – he’d asked his mother to choose a room for this bride of the devil as far away from him as possible. It had seemed a wise enough choice at the time, but just yesterday it struck him as a terrible mistake. The impressive size of the palace made it so that their rooms were dangerously far apart, and Cyrus had worried that, in the aftermath of the blood oath, he’d have to endure a torturous degree of separation from Alizeh – for there was no magicking away the pain of such a vow. He’d expected to pass these hellish hours wide

awake and retching into a basin. Never did he think he’d fall asleep. Neither

did he think the agony would be so manageable. He hurt, yes – everywhere – but it was not so intolerable that he was unable to function.

He wanted to celebrate this fact, except that he was ill at ease in this foreign space. He felt certain he was in the castle, for there were aspects of the room that seemed familiar to him, but he needed to know where, precisely, he was – and whether he was alone.

He had a strange feeling he was not.

With great effort he levered himself upright, shifting onto his elbows to look around. The sheets fell to his waist, exposing his upper body to the cool air, a welcome balm for his overheated skin. Half the room was cast in deep

shadow, the rest touched with just enough light that he could make out general impressions of furniture. All the suites in the palace were well-appointed, but

this one appeared, by all accounts, nonspecific. There were no personal effects to be seen, no discarded items on the bedside table, no shoes, no glasses of water or articles of clothing lying around.

No one, it seemed, lived here.

With a dawning relief, Cyrus realized he’d been delivered to one of the many guest quarters in the palace. Presumably they’d not wanted to invite the curiosity of a snoda, for a servant would’ve had to unlock his bedroom door. He nearly smiled at this discovery as he stretched his neck, closing his eyes as he drew a deep, cleansing breath.

Finally, he might simply exhale.

Horrified as he was to have been carried to this strange room like a child, he was cheered beyond measure to find that the resulting discomfort was reasonable. Hazan’s protests had been so theatrical that Cyrus had almost believed the pressures of the oath would kill him. Yet he’d awoken just now much like an ordinary person from an ordinary sleep – somehow arising without unspeakable pain.

This was reason for gratitude.

Slowly, he untangled his legs from the terrible shroud, then stood with great care, grasping the bed post as he straightened. His body was still trembling slightly, and it was a moment before he blinked away a sudden head rush, but

he soon felt at least well enough to put weight on his legs. Even in private he felt uncomfortable being so exposed in a strange space, and he reached for the cashmere throw draped at the foot of the bed, wrapping the soft length of it around his hips before taking an exploratory step forward.

His first thought was to magic himself back to his own room, but he was struck by an alarming thought: that his earlier theory might’ve been wrong, that perhaps he’d been brought to this guest suite as a mercy, not a convenience. He wasn’t certain where he was positioned just then in the palace, but there was a chance his pain was only tolerable because of his proximity to Alizeh’s rooms; if so, he didn’t wish to upset this balance.

He thought instead to search the space a bit more, hoping to find a pile of

his discarded clothes, or at least a dressing gown. He’d made it to the hall when something snapped inside him, the lash so electric it spasmed violently in his chest. He gasped, biting back a cry as the pain blinded him, radiating in his eyes, his tongue, his spine. He staggered forward, catching himself too late against an opposite wall as the whip of what felt like lightning cracked once

more inside him, this time so severe he made an anguished sound as he fell to his knees.

He was gasping for air, his body shaking so violently he could hardly gather the strength to return to bed; the pain was strange and breathtaking, a torture unique from the other experiences he’d known, for once started, it did

not cease, not even for a second. Over and over he was struck by the explosive force of an unseen strap, as if someone were attempting to leash his soul, to drag him back to his possessor.

Cyrus realized he must be locked in the wrong place – too far from the safety of where he’d started. He managed, in his agony, to heave himself a few inches closer to the bed before he was clipped by a gut-wrenching shot that caused him to cry out desperately. He collapsed, catching himself on his hands and knees, panting and nearly blind.

He had a sudden vision of his nightmares: the dark bands of smoke around his body, the fall from a great height, the endless torture, crawling in the dark like an animal in search of escape. At least in these terrors there was the

promise of relief, the vision of an angel that arrived, always –

Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed movement, straining to lift his head only to witness the first burn of dawn, golden rays of light lifting against

the windows, glazing the room in an ethereal glow. He knew he’d gone mad when he saw her then, when she moved toward him in a vision of radiance, just as she always did in his dreams.

It had finally happened.

He’d finally lost his fucking mind.

“Cyrus,” she whispered, drawing closer. “Where are you?”

Disbelief paralyzed him utterly. His mind was ravaged by the impossibility of this vision, the disorienting déjà vu.

Cyrus. Where are you?

The words she spoke, the way she moved, the blaze of light. Was he, in fact, dreaming? From his vantage point on the floor he noticed then, for the first time, a side table upon which sat a potted orchid, a bowl, and a gold- rimmed dish – within which sat a heap of blood-stained towels.

Had she washed the blood from his body?

Were he capable of movement, he might’ve inspected himself – might’ve drawn a hand down his limbs to confirm the theory. Instead he grit his teeth so as not to scream as pain continued to thrash him. His instincts insisted something was amiss, even as the violence of his torture abated at her approach. This was literal delusion, he knew it was – knew it had to be, even as he felt very much awake, his heart beating in his chest with concrete force. She spotted him on the ground and moved toward him like an angel, the silhouette of her graceful body backlit by the rise of a brilliant sun.

This was impossible. “No – no –”

“Cyrus,” she said again, crouching now to look him in the eye, worry creasing her brow. “I only want to help you.”

I only want to help you.

He heard her voice as if from a great distance, her words echoing in his head over and over, raising a clamor within him that made his head feel as if it might explode.

“No – no – NO,” he shouted, falling back, scrambling out of reach.

More of the same words she’d spoken in his dreams – except he’d never had a nightmare like this one; always they were in the same location, always beginning in precisely the same way. It was perhaps the slight inconsistencies that unbalanced him now, for he’d been confident he was awake before she’d entered the room – but now he couldn’t be certain. He felt frantic, for he knew not whether this was some new game the devil was trying to play.

“This isn’t real,” he said desperately. “This isn’t real –”

She drew close and touched him – a single stroke of her hand along his arm – and the feel of her bare skin against his tortured body was so exquisite he fought back a groan, his chest heaving as he ached.

“Please,” he said, begging himself now. “Please wake up –”

“Look how you suffer,” she said, her voice heavy with grief. She shook her head. “I didn’t realize it would be this awful.”

Look how you suffer. Look how you suffer.

She dropped to her knees before him, took his face in her hands, and he cried out as he caught fire. Always she healed him when she touched him, but this time the press of her skin felt so real it was terrifying, his heart battering his ribs as her delicate fingers spread along the lines of his jaw, her thumb

grazing the slope of his cheek. He made a tortured sound deep in his throat, his eyes closing as relief flooded his veins. He felt as if he might die from this

simple pleasure, which awakened within him a bliss that drowned out any last vestiges of pain.

He wanted to live here. Dig his grave and die here. “Angel,” he breathed. “My angel.”

“Come with me,” she said softly, withdrawing only to take him by the hand. This small gesture frightened him, for it was unbanked in his memory. Never in his dreams had she done something so ordinary as hold his hand, and the press of her small, soft fingers was so gentle – so intimate – he was almost convinced she was truly here.

With excruciating tenderness she helped him rise to his feet, letting go of his hand only to catch the loosened wrap around his waist, tucking its ends neatly so as not to expose him. He felt as if he was apart from his own body, half-alive, reduced to nothing but heat and sensation. He watched, transfixed, as she tended to him with a benevolence he did not deserve, and then he went with her blindly, their hands clasped once again, as she guided him back to the

bed. It occurred to him then, with a vague panic, that he’d follow her off a cliff if she were the one to lead him there.

She helped settle him back onto the mattress, searing him where she touched him, then tucked him in, pulling the sheets up to his waist. It was by far the strangest dream he’d ever had, a path with her he’d never before traveled.

He was afraid she was going to leave, but then she sat, lightly, at the edge of the bed, and looked at him with an easy smile. He felt like he was falling backward inside his own body as he stared up at her, gazing into her eyes with the freedom of a man happily detached from his mind. He was surprised to feel

the slight tremble of her fingers when she pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes, for she’d never been nervous with him.

“What is it?” he said.

She only shook her head and said, softly, “You’re so beautiful.”

These words detonated inside him, the resulting pang so severe he flinched. “What’s wrong?” she said, brightening with alarm. “Are you hurting

again?”

“No,” he said. “Yes. I don’t know.”

She studied him a moment more, deliberating as she searched his face.

“I’ve been sitting just there,” she said, nodding to a chair in a corner, its heavy shadows lifting as a starburst of color shattered across the room. “I must’ve fallen asleep earlier, but I promise I’m not going anywhere. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said.

“You need to rest.”

He swallowed, still staring at her. He wondered if she had any idea what he’d do for her, the worlds he’d destroy for her. “Okay.”

“Good,” she said, almost smiling as she drew her hand over his brow, stealing his breath in the process. “If you need anything at all, I’ll be right over there.”

She stood up to leave and he panicked. “No,” he said quickly. “Please stay.”

“I am staying,” she said, fully smiling now. She pointed to the chair. “I’ll be right there –”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I want you next to me.”

She froze, her smile slipping as she frowned – as if she were unearthing a memory.

Carefully, she sat beside him.

“Cyrus,” she said, drawing the back of her hand down his cheek, this contact calming him at once. “Do you think you’re dreaming?”

He felt out of his mind. “I don’t know.”

“Sleepy boy,” she said. “This is not a dream. I’m really here. And I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

Cyrus sat with this, trying to absorb her words, but he was unconvinced – for a person in a dream always thought they were real. Besides, he felt intoxicated by her closeness, and by some heaviness he could not explain. She was still touching him, though only slightly, her hand having retreated from his face to rest against his chest, under which his heart beat at a dangerous pace.

Every shaking breath he took lifted his upper body, pressing her fingers against

him anew, provoking in him a pleasure so acute it seemed to be burning him alive.

God, he wanted her.

He noticed then that she wore a soft dressing gown cinched over what appeared to be a nightdress, her hair pinned partly away from her face. Loose, silky curls grazed his skin as she leaned close to him, and he wanted to pull her on top of him, wanted to feel more of her, everywhere. If this was not a dream, and she’d really been here all night beside him, how had she changed out of her opulent gown?

He gasped when she withdrew her hand, catching her fingers without thinking, then closed his eyes as he pressed them to his lips, kissing them, softly.

She made a sound and he opened his eyes to find her staring at him, looking faint and unsteady.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, then hesitated. “Everything.”

With some difficulty he pushed up on his elbows, then pulled himself into a seated position. His head was swimming, a dull pain branching through his body, but he needed to look at her properly. He took her face in his hands and

she gasped, her body trembling even as she leaned into him, her eyes closing on a breathless sound.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he said. “Tell me what you need.”

“I n-need you to know,” she said, her voice catching, “that this is not a dream.”

His pulse was racing.

He felt frozen by fear and indecision, his head disordered by figments of memory and sensation. He didn’t know what was real anymore. Her skin was so soft under his hands, so soft it amazed him. He’d touched her like this a thousand times but those memories paled in comparison to this, to this – Had it ever felt like this, the sensation of her so bright it burned him? He held her face and marveled at her, at the elegant lines, the lush curves of her lips. He leaned in, grazing her cheek with his nose and when she gasped he watched her throat move, watched her hands shake as she reached for him, her small fingers pressing against his ribs, then slowly drawing up his back. He was drugged by this tender touch, by this searing heat that soothed him, each caress lulling him toward something that felt like home.

He was safe here. With her.

He blinked slowly, the dense weight of exhaustion returning to his body, pushing him down. His head fell heavily against his pillow. He wanted to sleep,

but he was afraid to close his eyes, and he hadn’t realized he’d said as much out loud until she said, softly –

“Why are you afraid?”

He shook his head, his eyes closing against his will. “Because,” he said, and sighed. “You’re never here when I wake up.”

He felt the whisper of her breath against his forehead, then the press of her lips, so gentle against his skin, and he felt certain now, unequivocally, that he was dreaming.

“I’ll be here,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.” Then, softer, her lips grazing the curve of his ear: “You can’t lie to me forever, Cyrus. I’m going to find out the truth about you, and when I do, I promise you this: I’ll ruin him. I’ll make the devil regret the day he was born.”