21

I wake to a horrible throbbing sensation that’s coming from within my skull, and it’s entirely as though my brain is trying to punch its escape through the bone.

The bulk of blankets pins me down on the couch and, with it, the solid weight of an arm. A hand is soft on my back, fingertips lightly glued to my skin.

The core of the dizziness comes from the pulsing behind my eyes. I blink them open and squint at the barrier pressed up against me: smooth skin, pulled taut over muscles and lightly touched by the sun. A chest, shirtless.

Dray.

Cold dread pools in my gut.

I drag my gaze up the bare chest to the face of my nightmare chiselled from muscle and stone, given a beating heart, and a face so beautiful that the breath is tugged out of me at the sight of him.

Dray’s lips are parted slightly, the pink hue of them warmer under the glow of the simmering fire in the hearth. His usually tense jaw is relaxed, soft, and his long lashes are shut over the shards of glass he has for eyes.

If I was the foolish sort, I might think him not so dangerous right now. I might melt into the firmness of his hold on me, lean into his chest and find my sleep again, as though I’m safe in his arms.

But even beasts sleep. Nightmares disappear for a while when the devil returns to hell.

I plan on being gone when those lashes flutter and he wakes to a deadblood snuggled on the couch with him.

Whatever shit he got into last night, whatever powders and potions he indulged in before he found me in the maze, that’ll be long out of his system now. So when he does wake, it will be to disgusted outrage—and that will aim right at me.

‘I loved you.’

Those words echo through me, and I still. They are a sword striking through my gut, ice and frost.

I wish he never spoke those awful words at all.

I wish I could melt into the couch and disappear.

I hate that he said it.

I hate that he spoke this truth that once existed between us, even if he only did so because he was high or drunk.

This puts me in some serious shit.

Dray’s wrath.

My breath releases with a shudder.

Now, he’s really going to seek retribution.

I loosen a steadying breath and, gradually, pluck his wrist then lift the weight of his arm from my side. As much as I itch to scramble over him and bolt out of here, I just can’t risk waking him. I doubt I’ll make it to the safety of the girls’ dorms before the attack comes.

Best to just hide out for the rest of the weekend, then pretend like this never happened.

I rest his wrist on the pillow I push up from.

I’m twisted at the oddest angle, my spine moans in complaint, and I’m pushed up against the cushions. One wrong move, and I’ll crash back down, right onto his wrist.

Need to move slow, need to be careful.

Reaching out for the back of the couch, I steel my grip and dig my foot into the cushions. I find the leverage to lift myself up to crouch on the couch. But I move slow, gradually, and watch Dray’s relaxed face for any hints of movement.

At the slightest frown, I’ll topple over the edge and scramble out of here.

Dray has never struck me. Out of all the attacks, the torments, the pranks, he’s never raised his hand and smacked me.

But that’s not a comfort.

Right now, it feels like more of a threat.

Every fibre of my niggling body, the writhing in my gut like it’s nothing more than a pit of worms, tells me that this will be the day.

Because unlike the other days, Dray didn’t spend the night holding a deadblood in his arms. He didn’t tell her he loved her once, didn’t hold her hair while she was sick a bucket…

The shame of it will ignite the sort of anger in him that silences me, the kind I don’t bite back at, but rather flee from and plead with.

The mere thought of what his outrage will be, it’s enough to shudder my breath with my shoulders.

I point my toes— where the fuck are my socks ?

Oh.

That’s right. Dray took them off. Warmed my cold, red feet in his hands under a blanket.

Fuck, he’s going to kill me.

He’d going to drown me in the rockpool. Throw me down the stairs. Makut me straight to the fires of hell.

My toes touch the course fabric of the Moroccan rug.

A breath of relief deflates me. I lean my weight onto that foot, then gradually bring the other to join it.

Then I am standing, firm on the rug, hands outstretched as if to reach for balance, between Dray’s back—and a bucket of sick that’s slightly tucked under the coffee table.

My mouth twists at the sight of it.

I turn my back on it, my foot lifts from the rug to take a step, to leave—but I freeze all over.

Muscles bolt to bone.

Then I frown at the sleeping witch on the armchair.

Tousled brown hair, some leaves and dust disturbing it. Smears of what I think might be blood and bruises on his cheekbone.

Oliver.

Sound asleep.

Boots crossed and perched on the edge of the coffee table, he is melted into the plush armchair. His arms are folded, and they shift with his steady, sleeping breaths.

The frown is pinned to my face.

I consider him, then flick my stare back to Dray, then back to Oliver, over and over as I take soft, slow steps towards the door.

Oliver doesn’t stir.

Chin tucked to his collarbone, sleep keeps him under.

The skin of Dray’s back is water over bouldered muscles, his breaths are so gentle. And that eases me as I creep towards the door, because I know he’s still deep in slumber

I step over a crumpled black t-shirt. It’s stained with sick, and so I guess I puked all over him sometime after I blacked out.

I scowl at it before I sneak out the door. Gently, I close it over. And the relief is instant.

Still, the hangover has me fisted, seized, and I stagger down the corridor to the narrow staircase. My head hums like the string of a pulled guitar string. Each step I hike up the stairs threatens me, threatens that I’ll quickly be heaving up a whole lot of last night. Booze and water, really, that’s all I had.

The realisation that I downed all those potions and drank all the vodka and guzzled all that tequila, all on an empty stomach, it worsens the sickly sensation stirring through me.

I’m almost sick on the stairs.

I should head back to the dorms, down a bunch of tonics and water, then get my rotten ass into a shower. But fuck that, the walls are moving and bending and I am barely keeping myself upright as I stagger into my dorm room and move for my bed.

I fall onto it, face-first.

I croak a wispy sound as I force myself back up onto my knees. The pulses aren’t confined to just my head anymore, but thumping through my whole body, and even just keeping my eyes open now is a trigger.

I fumble with the curtains.

I tug them over, firm, then flop down with an acidic burp.

I hope to sleep through it. Not just the sick, but Dray’s outrage when he wakes up, too.