Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
With the glow all but gone, sounds swell to fill the void: I hear the rain still falling with ferocity on the roof above, and the whistle of the wind in the shutters, and the distant notes of a piano. Voices crest and fall in volume and number, but they are far off.
“When are you leaving?” I ask into the darkness as I lie back on top of the covers.
There’s no reply, to the point where I assume he has fallen asleep. And then Merc clears his throat.
“Soon,” he says. “I’m taking another job.”
Curling onto my side, I give him my back, and tell myself it’s because I always face the door when I sleep. That’s not it.
I need to leave him first, and not just for my pride’s sake.
The sooner I get used to being on my own again, the better—
“I don’t want any payment.” His voice winds its way to my ears. “For getting you here.”
I close my lids and shrink in my own skin. What happened to the man who kissed me by the stream, I wonder. “Not even money?”
“I’ve never been motivated by coin.”
“Isn’t that the point of being a mercenary?” When he doesn’t reply, I feel churlish. “Well, I got a deal then, didn’t I.”
The silence between us presses down on me like a weight, and my lungs burn. I want to prod him into telling me the things he’s hiding. I know they’re there—if I have secrets, he does as well. But something changed again when he went down for our food earlier, though I doubt I’ll ever know what it is.
And then came the baby.
Perhaps it’s for the best.
Too bad it hurts.
Forty-Seven
A Sparkling Dream.
Sorrel! Wake up—
I am in a maelstrom, my body lashed by a furious, swirling current that stings. But the male voice is urgent and close by, and I use it to orient myself because I can’t seem to see anything. Sand. I taste sand in my mouth and feel the grit of it go down my throat as I gasp. The coughing fit that comes next—
I jerk upright on a bed, and the next thing I know, the mattress beneath me is tilting and a heavy arm is around my shoulders. As I pant in fear … I smell cedar. And that’s when everything comes back into proper focus.
Merc. The lodging room. The Outpost.
“It’s just a dream—shhh, woman.” He pulls me into his lap. “That’s all it is. Only a dream…”
My heart is pounding, and I am more aware, yet nothing much changes. I’m still surrounded by sand and I can’t understand where it’s coming from. The gritty abrasive is on my skin, and it’s in my hair, too, the fine particles—
The Fulcrum. Somehow, the Fulcrum has come to find me.
As I tremble, a big hand circles my back. “Sorrel, easy there, it was only a dream.”
Merc’s voice is soothing, but I have no idea what he’s saying. So I repeat the syllables over and over until they have meaning: “A … dream. It was a dream. A dream—”
“That’s right. You’ve been thrashing about like a fish on a line.”
Hazy images I can’t decipher taunt me, even though my eyes are wide open and there’s a flicker of orange lightning that chases away most of the shadows for a moment. The nightmare is just out of my conscious reach, the horror nothing I can grasp, yet it lingers inside my body, in shocks of anxiety and a pounding heart.
Recognizing that Merc is my way out of the realm I was in, I twist toward him and grab for his surcoat. The folds of leather are warm and soft, and I curl my hands into them.
“It’s okay.” He cups the back of my head and urges me into his chest. “I’ve got you.”
The darkness is so dense, and the sound of the rain so loud, if I didn’t have this physical contact, I’m quite sure I would be floating off into the night, into the storm, never to return again. Instead, Merc’s scent, and the feel of his hair on my cheeks, and the way I’m held, anchor me.
He’s murmuring something, the rumble in his chest transmitting into me, the brush of his chin against my temple as intimate as a kiss. The next thing I know, I’m releasing the hold on his surcoat and passing my hands inside. I feel his ribs and the ropes of muscle that run up his torso, and remember being on the horse and having to duck under to avoid being seen.
He pulls back a little, but I follow him—and when he tries again, I stay with him still.
“Sorrel…” His tone is firm, a fence line.
I have no choice but to let go—and it’s as I retract my arms that my hand passes over something that is not muscle, is not bone, is not his leg or his arm …