Twenty-Four
Chase’s eyelids open and his warm brown eyes settle on me. For a long, silent moment, we simply watch each other. Then he raises his hand and rests it against my cheek. His thumb brushes beneath my lashes where dark makeup stains my skin. He moves his hand down my neck to my shoulder, where he rubs a strand of my charcoal-colored hair between his fingers. “My dark angel,” he says. “That’s what you looked like spinning around the tower room, fighting off a queen.” His hand slides down my arm and closes around my fingers. “After they began the …” He swallows, choosing not to say it, to skip past the word torture. “I was afraid I’d never see you again. I was afraid I wouldn’t … last until the ball.”
Perhaps it’s my curse-induced exhaustion. Perhaps it’s the thought of what he su
