Once Betrayed, Twice Shy

I prefer you when you’re sleeping

FARAH

I stare at Caspian in disbelief.

The threat hangs in the air between us, low and sharp, but something in the way he says it makes me believe every word. He is not the kind of man who makes empty promises. The dark image he cultivates is important to him—necessary, even—and I know he will do whatever it takes to keep that carefully built reputation from cracking.

“I know,” I say.

Thunder rolls again, closer this time, and he shuts his eyes. His jaw tightens as he draws in a deep breath that does nothing to steady him. A rough groan slips from his throat as he lets himself fall back onto the bed, feet still planted on the floorboards, body tense as if bracing for impact.

“It’s only a storm,” I tell him, placing my hands on my hips.

“Thanks for that. Very helpful.”

“Why are you afraid?”

“None of your business.”

I hover by his desk, unsure what to do next. The jars of herbs and the half-empty decanter sit in a messy cluster, evidence of whatever desperate attempt he made to force sleep. The scent of wolfsbane still lingers, sharp and dangerous.

As I debate whether I should leave him to his misery or stay, he half-crawls further up the bed and collapses onto the pillows with another low groan.

I sigh and move closer, careful not to startle him.

“I think you’ve taken too much,” I say.

He turns his face away from me, voice thick with irritation. “Oh, do you? Well, thank goodness that my prisoner, who only learned of wolfsbane a couple of weeks ago, is here to offer me her sage advice. Go away.”

Even like this—drugged and vulnerable—he still carries the scent of sweat and soap and the forest. His black shirt clings to the broad lines of his back, damp in places, and the muscles beneath shift every time another distant rumble of thunder reaches us.

“Seriously, Caspian, you don’t look good.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re irritating me.”

“Or maybe it’s because you’ve just taken poison, you fool. Where’s the antidote?”

“I’m the Lycan. Not you.”

“You’re a mess. And your potion hasn’t worked. You’re not asleep, are you?”

Lightning floods the room in a sudden white flare. He curls in on himself, his entire body tightening as he braces for the crack of thunder that follows a heartbeat later. The sound rattles the windows, and his fingers curl into the sheets.

I sigh and perch carefully on the edge of the bed.

“You know, I used to be afraid of storms. When I was a child.”

“Piss off.”

A small smirk tugs at my mouth, but something softer settles in my chest at the same time. Part of me is glad to have seen him like this. I’m sure I’ll find a way to use it later, but right now, he looks so pitiful that the usual satisfaction I feel at having leverage over him refuses to rise.

Instead, I find myself feeling sorry for him.

The sympathy is unwanted and unexpected, and I have no idea what to do with it.

When I was small and the storms used to keep me awake, there was a song I used to hum. I search for the melody in my memory, the soft rise and fall of notes that always managed to settle the fear.

Softly, I begin to hum.

The tune is simple, almost fragile, but it still carries the same quiet comfort it did years ago. I have no idea whether it will help him, but I keep going anyway.

For a while, nothing changes. Caspian remains curled against the pillows, his breathing uneven whenever thunder rolls overhead. I wonder if he’s even listening or if he’s simply too exhausted to tell me to shut up again.

Then, gradually, his breathing begins to change.

His shoulders loosen a little, and the fingers gripping the sheets relax. After a long moment, he speaks, his voice rough and quiet.

“Where did you learn that song?”

I pause, searching my memory for an answer.

“I can’t remember,” I admit. “It’s just something that’s stuck with me since I was a child.”

His brow furrows briefly, and for a moment, I think he’s going to ask me something else. Instead, he turns his face slightly toward me, his expression unreadable even with his eyes closed.

Then he falls silent.

I resume humming, watching as the tension gradually leaves his shoulders. A gentle sigh escapes him, and for the first time since I stepped into the room, his body seems to loosen against the pillows.

“I’m serious,” he murmurs. “If you speak of this, you’re dead.”

I roll my eyes.

“Of course. Wouldn’t want anyone discovering that the great Caspian Thorne is terrified of a little thunder.”

“Serapha.”

The warning in his voice makes me bite back a smile.

“All right. I’ll take your terrible secret to my grave.”

He mutters something under his breath, but I can’t make it out. I shush him softly and continue the melody.

I haven’t thought of this song in a long time, and as the notes leave me, I find myself sinking into them. The thunder continues to rattle the palace walls, and every so often, lightning turns the window bright enough to show the dark water of the loch beyond. Yet the storm feels more distant now, as if the simple tune has built a thin barrier between us and the noise outside.

I lose track of how long I sit there, humming the same familiar notes while Caspian’s breathing grows slower and more even.

Eventually, I stop and wait.

Nothing.

I lean forward slightly, watching his chest rise and fall. His face has turned toward the window, his features relaxed, and when another rumble of thunder rolls through the room, he doesn’t so much as flinch.

Then a soft snore escapes him.

I blink, startled.

Despite the storm still raging, Caspian is asleep.

For a moment, I simply stare at him, almost offended by how easily he has surrendered to sleep after all that fuss.

Then my attention catches on the angry white scar that marks his forearm near the elbow. It’s a deep, curved mark, the kind left by the bite of something large and powerful. A wolf, perhaps.

I study it for another moment before my gaze drifts to his face.

His expression is peaceful in a way I have never seen before. The usual hard lines have softened, and without the smirk or the sharp glint of cunning ambition in his eyes, he looks almost pleasant.

Handsome, even.

The thought comes so unexpectedly that I immediately frown.

Of all the things I could be thinking about, why am I thinking about how handsome my captor looks while he’s unconscious?

I look away, annoyed with myself, then glance back at him despite having absolutely no reason to.

His chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm, and the tension that usually clings to him like a second skin has finally loosened its hold.

I blink, suddenly aware that I’ve been staring far too long.

Enough of that.

I stand abruptly and cross the room, careful not to make any sound that might wake him. At the door, I glance back once to make sure he’s still asleep.

He is.

“I prefer you when you’re sleeping,” I mutter as I close the door behind me and head back toward my own room.