her. Steadying his mind as he pushed his euphoria into her with rhythmic pulses, letting her get used to the feeling, waiting until he felt her open up to him. Waiting for her to recognize his presence.
To accept the safety and relief he was offering her.
When he felt her body thaw, her wails turning to soft, pleading moans, he guided her to the meadow in their shared dreamscape. And then, just as she had once comforted him, he held her in his lap beneath the sprawling tree, whispering poems from his youth or favorite stories, anything he could think of to bring her back to him.
Until finally, the demented magick lost its hold on her mind, and whatever horrors she experienced bled away. Then she rested limp and quiet against his chest, breathing softly.
And he counted every breath the way some might stars, whispering his gratitude to the Goddess or the heavens or whoever the Netherworld was listening for her safe return.
10
Destroyed—the Hall of Light was destroyed. Giant craters of stone remained where crystals once glinted. They’d been torn from the walls. The floor. Ripped from alcoves. Shattered. As if that creature Stolas released couldn’t stand the light.
Shards of the multi-faceted crystals that once hung from the millennium-old chandelier above scattered across the floor, among other wreckage. Furniture, paintings, tapestries—nothing had been spared Stolas’s wrath.
Except them, of course. Just barely.
Xandrian bent on one knee beside Bell, picked up a sliver of crystal, and shook his head. “So much waste.”
“Did you know he could do that?”
“There were rumors, but the Seraphian royals have always been very secretive about their gifts.”
Bell scoffed. “Gift?”
Whatever that thing was, gift was too pleasant a word.
Hours had passed since Haven reappeared in the Hall of Light. But just as the hall she returned to was not the same, the Haven who returned was not the one who left. Her body had been curled violently into itself, her skin white as the moon peeking from the windows, limbs jerking so hard he thought the marble floor might crack.
And the god-awful screams that clawed from her throat as she lay helpless and writhing in the shattered rubble . . .
He had thought she was dying.
Bell realized that his hands were shaking, and he slammed them into his pockets. But it wasn’t fear that moved him almost violently; it was anger.
The entire thing still felt like a nightmare. Watching Haven slip from their grasp. In front of her Chosen. In front of him. While he’d been busy daydreaming about training, he should have noticed the wrongness of the box. Should have reacted sooner.
He should have done something.
Xandrian squeezed his shoulder lightly, dragging Bell from his ruminations. “Is she still sleeping?”
Bell nodded, aware of how quick Xandrian was to remove his hand. Xandrian never touched him outside of training, so if he was making an effort now, it meant Bell probably looked just as horrible as he felt.
The moment Haven was returned to them, Stolas swept her into his arms and exploded into the night. Surai shifted to follow them, while Xandrian threaded to the nearest portals, taking them as high into the palace as they could go. The uppermost point of the palace was warded to outsiders. Only Seraphians of royal blood could pass through.
Surai had found them waiting what felt like an eternity later. Her lavender eyes were faded and hollow, but she promised Haven would be okay. Stolas was tending to her—whatever the Shadeling that meant.
That didn’t satisfy Bell. Only after Surai relayed Bell’s threat—to destroy the exquisite paintings and sculptures lining the halls—did Stolas lower the wards to his chamber so they could enter.
The topmost floor of the castle loomed well above the clouds. Instead of rooms there was one giant chamber open to the night sky. Impressive columns with wolves carved into their sides propped up a domed ceiling painted like the heavens.
Inside that otherworldly room, surrounded by that breathtaking view of the heavens, Haven had looked so small. Especially tucked into the massive four poster bed at the center—massive to fit his wings, Bell assumed, and not the orgies the dark prince was once rumored to prefer—her hair swept across an ivory pillow like paint. The charcoal strips of silk that hung above the bed swirled in the breeze.
Stolas was perched on a ledge near a skylight. His eyes never left Haven as Bell entered, but he knew the Shade Lord was aware of his presence. Knew that if anyone but Bell or one