The Message
1232 Words
For a long moment, I can only stare at the mirror.
THE CROWN WAKES.
The words gleam wetly against the fogged glass.
My lungs forget how to work.
I stumble backward until the backs of my knees hit the bed. The room tilts. Moonlight pours through the windows, turning the floor silver, and every shadow suddenly looks too deep.
This is a dream.
It has to be.
I squeeze my eyes shut and count to five.
When I open them, the words are still there.
A cold shiver crawls over my skin.
“Who’s there?” My voice comes out thin.
Nothing answers. The house is quiet. Too quiet.
I stare at the bathroom doorway, waiting for something to step through it. A woman with silver eyes. A ghost. A monster. Anything.
Nothing moves.
My phone sits on the nightstand beside me. I grab it with shaking hands and stare at Rowan’s name.
I should call him.
He would come. I know he would. He would knock first, because this is my room and he promised me it would stay mine. Then he would ask what was wrong in that soft voice he uses when he knows I’m close to falling apart.
And I would have to tell him.
Not about Jace.
Not yet.
But about the dream. The voice. The mirror.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
What would he think?
That I was losing my mind?
That coming here had finally broken me?
I look back toward the mirror.
The words are gone.
I blink.
The glass is still fogged, but smooth now. Empty.
My breath catches.
I cross the room slowly, every muscle tight. My bare feet make no sound against the hardwood floor. When I reach the bathroom doorway, I stop.
The mirror reflects a pale girl in oversized pajamas.
No silver writing. No crown.
No proof.
I lift one trembling hand and wipe away the fog with the heel of my palm. The glass clears beneath it, revealing only my own frightened face.
A soft knock sounds at my door.
I jump so hard I nearly scream.
“Starlight?”
Rowan.
I press one hand to my chest, trying to force my heartbeat into something normal.
“Come in,” I call.
The door opens slowly.
Rowan steps inside wearing gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, his long hair loose around his shoulders. He looks half asleep until his eyes land on me.
Then all of it disappears.
“What happened?” he asks.
I should tell him.
The words press against my teeth.
Instead, I shake my head. “Nothing. I just—had a nightmare.”
His expression softens, but he doesn’t look convinced.
“About your mom?”
I nod because it isn’t exactly a lie.
He crosses the room, then stops at the edge of the bed. Even now, even when I’m shaking hard enough to feel it in my bones, he waits.
“Can I?”
The question nearly breaks me.
I nod again.
Rowan sits beside me, then opens his arms. I fold into him without thinking. His warmth surrounds me. Cedar. Soap. Rowan.
The familiar scent untangles something inside my chest.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs into my hair. “You’re safe.”
I close my eyes.
I want to believe him.
“I saw it again,” I whisper.
His arms tighten. “The attack?”
“Yeah.”
It is easier than telling him the rest.
“I keep thinking she was afraid of me.” My voice cracks. “Not just because I hurt her. Like she looked at me and didn’t know who I was anymore.”
Rowan pulls back enough to cup my face between his hands.
“Your mother loves you,” he says. “She was scared because she was hurt, Libbie. That doesn’t mean she stopped loving you.”
“What if she should?”
His golden-brown eyes sharpen.
“Don’t say that.”
“I almost killed her.”
“And you didn’t.” His voice stays low, but there is steel beneath it. “You stopped. You fought your own wolf long enough to stop. That matters.”
I look away.
He waits a moment, then brushes his thumb beneath my eye.
“Try to sleep,” he says. “I’ll stay until you do.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
There is no teasing in it. No expectation.
Just Rowan.
The man who stays.
He lies down on top of the comforter beside me, leaving space between us. Not touching. Not asking for anything. His hand rests palm-up between us on the bed.
After a second, I slip my fingers into his.
He doesn’t say a word.
By the time the first pale line of dawn reaches the windows, I have fallen asleep again.
This time, there are no dreams.
When I wake again, Rowan is gone.
For one brief, stupid second, panic flares.
Then I see the note on my nightstand.
Went to check the perimeter. Elias is bringing you breakfast. Lock the door behind him if you need to. I’ll be back soon. —R
My throat tightens.
Lock the door behind him if you need to.
Not you’ll be fine.
Not don’t be ridiculous.
Just permission to need whatever made me feel safe.
A knock sounds ten minutes later.
“Libbie?” Elias calls softly from the hallway. “It’s me.”
I pull on a robe and open the door.
Elias stands there holding a tray with tea, toast, and scrambled eggs. His auburn hair sticks up at the back like he has been running his hands through it, and he looks almost as nervous as he did yesterday.
“Rowan said you didn’t sleep much,” he says. “I thought maybe you should eat.”
“You made this?”
His cheeks pink. “Mostly. Martha helped with the eggs.”
I smile despite myself. “Thank you.”
He steps into the room long enough to set the tray on the small table by the windows. When he straightens, his fingers brush mine.
Warmth shoots through my hand.
I gasp.
Elias jerks back so quickly the tray rattles.
His green eyes widen.
“Did you feel that?” he asks.
My heart skips. “No,” I lie.
He stares at me. Then, slowly, he looks toward the bathroom.
The mirror.
For one strange second, his expression turns distant. Almost frightened.
“What is it?” I ask.
Elias blinks hard.
“Nothing.” He forces a smile that does not reach his eyes. “Probably static.”
Static. Right.
He backs toward the door.
“Eat, okay? And if you need anything, I’m downstairs.”
Before I can answer, he slips out into the hall and shuts the door behind him. I stand there staring at the place where he disappeared.
Then I look toward the bathroom. The mirror is clear. But when I move closer, I see something faint on the glass.
Not words.
A silver curve. Like the edge of a crown. Then it vanishes.
At that exact moment, a low growl rolls through the house.
Not Rowan’s.
Jace’s.
And somewhere downstairs, Rowan says, in a voice cold enough to turn my blood to ice,
“Jason Calloway. My office. Now.”
- Writer
