Dark Debt

“I’m fine,” he said, throwing away the covers and standing up. “What’s happened?”

My hands began to shake, and I crossed my arms, tucked them against my sides. “Balthasar. He was here. I was with him.”

Ethan’s gaze darted around the room. “No one was here. He wouldn’t have been able to get past the ward.”

I shook my head. “He took me somewhere. Together. In a room, an old room, a French room. It was old-fashioned. And then he looked like you.” My voice shook, sounded far away. “He looked like himself, and then he looked like you.”

Ethan looked as though he wanted to touch me, wanted to move forward, but I shook my head.

“Stop. Stay where you are.”

I could feel the panic building again, filling my chest with iron, squeezing my lungs as if I’d never get a lungful of air again.

“Breathe, Sentinel.”

But I shook my head. Not to disobey, but to protest. My head began to swim, my vision fading at the corners as panic swamped me.

“Sentinel.” Ethan’s voice, his tone, was like a slap to my mind. “I gave you a direct order, and I expect you to follow it. Take a breath!”

I sucked in air through painfully tight lungs.

He took a step closer, visibly flinched when I pulled back farther.

“Stop.”

“I won’t come any closer,” he promised. “But I’m going to hold out my hand. You can take it when you’re ready. Each time you inhale, you squeeze. Each time you exhale, you squeeze. All right?”

I nodded. Ethan reached out his hand. It took effort, but I slowly lifted my shaking fingers to meet his.

“Inhale slowly,” he said, and I squeezed his hand as I sucked in air.

Ethan watched me, nodding. “And exhale, slowly.”

I nodded, blew out air through pursed lips.

“Again,” he said softly.

It took time. I don’t know how long. Seconds. Minutes. He stood there the entire time, his arm outstretched, but otherwise making no move to invade the boundaries I was trying to rebuild. For a man as commanding as Ethan Sullivan, that must have killed him.

When my breathing was finally steady, I drew my hand away, wiped dampness on my pajama bottoms.

Ethan’s scratches had already disappeared, but the fear from his eyes hadn’t.

“You’re all right?” I asked.

“I am scared to my bones.”

I nodded, tried to swallow past the lump in my throat. “I’m going to just . . . take a minute.” With a hand against the wall for support, I rose slowly, making sure my quaking knees would support my weight, then walked toward the bathroom and turned on the light.

I was always pale, but in the mirror I seemed preternaturally so, with blue shadows beneath my eyes. And across the left side of my face was the faint red flush from Balthasar’s hand, from where he’d slapped me.

No, not just that—from where he’d marked me.

Wherever we’d been, whatever we’d done, he’d been able to touch me. To hurt me. And if I hadn’t found my way out of that place when I had . . .

I shook my head. I was here now. I was here now, and he wasn’t. I’d made it out of wherever I’d been, and now I had to deal with it.

I had to find a way to deal with it.

First things first: I’d be damned if he’d mark me. I turned on the faucet, confirmed the temperature with my fingers, and splashed cold water onto my face over and over again until the memory and color had faded again.

I turned off the water, pressed a towel to my face, and when I put it down again, found Ethan standing in the doorway.

The expression on his face was ferociously possessive, and intensely uneasy. “Tell me what happened.”

I nodded but walked past him into the bedroom, felt a pulse of guilt that I’d avoided touching him. But he didn’t mention it.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, gathered my hands in my lap. Ethan stayed in the doorway but pivoted to face me, an uneasy distance between us.

My head was a jumble of words and thoughts, but I tried to order the pieces chronologically. “I was in a bed in an old-fashioned room. I think it was supposed to be like a room you’d been in before. With him. An inn, maybe? He was dressed in old-fashioned clothes, and I was, too. He wanted to talk about me, about you, about himself. He tried to be clever, to romance me.” I paused. “And when that didn’t work, he was suddenly you.”

Ethan grew very, very still, and even the buzz of magic around him seemed to freeze solid.

“He looked like you. Smelled like you.” Tears blossomed again. “I tried to get away, but there weren’t any doors, and the window was barred, and I couldn’t get the brace off.” Panic rose quickly, a shot of cold from stomach to head, and I squeezed my eyes closed, trying to erase the memory of violence at Ethan’s hands. Get it out, I told myself. Get it out, and it’s done, and you won’t have to say it again.

“And he tried to kiss me.” The words flew out and away like startled doves. “He touched me. He tried to . . .” I shook my head, tears dawning again. “Well, he tried.”

Cold magic flashed again. “Did he hurt you, Merit?” Every word was like the snap of a twig in the dark—a sharp, surprising bite of sound. And his eyes left no doubt about his intentions: Had Balthasar been in the room with us right now, he wouldn’t have made it out alive.

“No. No,” I repeated, when Ethan looked as though he might lunge for the door. “He touched me, but he didn’t . . .” Instinctively, I crossed my arms over my breasts, swallowed past the lump in my throat. “He didn’t hurt me that way. I don’t even know if he could have, really.”