“Okay,” I murmur. I might never make it through a battle with Red in the first place, so the day with Morpheus might not ever happen. Who knows if I’m the final queen left standing in the mosaics? Maybe I’m the one whose torso is covered in web, or the one who’s swallowed by some unnamable monstrosity.
It’s something I have to consider. If I don’t survive, I don’t want Jeb to be tormented by the thought that he hurt me, that he inherited his father’s violence in any way. That’s one gift I can give him.
“Vow it,” Morpheus says. “And make the words count.”
Cheeks hot, I hold my palm over my heart. “I vow on my life-magic to give you one day and one night, the moment we defeat Red.”
“Done.” Expression unchanging, Morpheus removes his remaining glove.
When he starts to peel off his jacket, I get up on my knees and shove at his lapels, hurrying him. Together we drag the sleeves down his shoulders. Despite my efforts to be businesslike, I find myself overcome by the intimacy of undressing him with Jeb lying unconscious on the floor. If he were to wake and see this …
Two slits open in the back of the blazer to release Morpheus’s wings. One of them grazes my hand, causing my own wing buds to tingle behind my shoulder blades. I fidget. He watches my reaction intently. My stomach knots as I take his wrist and unbutton his shirt cuff, pushing the sleeve to his elbow to reveal the birthmark on his forearm. His skin is soft and warm.
I release his arm and untie my boot to expose the netherling mark on my ankle.
Morpheus rocks back on his heels and studies me. “Of all the times you’ve undressed me in my fantasies, I never remember feeling this … unfulfilled.”
“Please, Morpheus,” I beg upon hearing Jeb stir in the background.
“Ah, but those delectable words,” Morpheus says with a provocative smirk, “those are always in the fantasy.”
I glare at him. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And that sentiment is reserved for the end.”
“Shut. Up.” I drag his forearm over to match it to my birthmark.
He pulls free before we make contact. “A moment, please. Allow me to bask in your devotion.” He’s referring to my ankle tattoo.
I blush. “I’ve told you a hundred times. It’s only a set of wings.”
“Nonsense.” Morpheus grins. “I know a moth when I see one.”
I groan in frustration, and he surrenders, letting me press our markings together. A spark rushes between them, expanding to a firestorm through my veins. His gaze locks on mine, and the bottomless depths flicker—like black clouds alive with lightning. For that instant, I’m bared to the bone. He looks inside my heart; I look inside his. And the similarities there terrify me.
I avert my eyes, breaking our mental connection. My neck stops throbbing, my throat soothes, and my limbs feel languid. I relax against the wall.
Morpheus’s pale skin flushes, and he lifts his arm off my ankle. There’s something new behind his eyes—resolution—and I know I’ve just signed my soul away.
Crouched beside me, he weaves his fingers through my hair on either side of my face, his expression changing to reverence. “You were magnificent today, little blossom. My one regret is the same as yours. That we didn’t share a dance in the flames.”
I gasp. He was at school this morning, luring me into the fire, daring me to give over to the darkness. Before I can react, Chessie flies between us in the same instant Morpheus is jerked away.
“Get off of her!” Jeb flings him across the room, surprisingly strong for someone who was unconscious seconds ago. Morpheus hits the floor and rolls, wings acting as a cushion. His hat slaps the wall, dispersing into the moths once more. Some fly up to the skylights, others toward the closet, and the remainder flutter to the loft.
Jeb staggers, struggling with his balance. In wide-eyed wonder, he watches Chessie buzz along the ceiling with the moths. “That’s no costume.”
“Bloody genius observation.” Morpheus stands and shakes out his wings.
“What … is … that thing?” Jeb asks, staring at Morpheus now.
“You don’t remember?” I respond. I motion to the paintings around us. Jeb turns on his heel to take them in, then pales. “Agh!” He grabs his temples, crumpling to a fetal position on the floor.
Horrified, I kneel down, dragging his head into my lap. He wails.
“Jeb, open your eyes, please.”
He grips his temples with white-knuckled hands—face scrunched up in pain.
“What’s wrong with him?” I shout to Morpheus.
Morpheus brushes himself off leisurely, as if Jeb’s screaming were a trivial inconvenience. “Those weren’t his memories he painted. They were yours, held within your blood. Some residual blood on the paintbrushes must have gotten mixed in with the regular paint.”
Jeb moans and curls into a ball. He convulses—his chest and arm muscles contracting.