Page 128 of A House of Gold
"Mine," he says simply. "They're going to see that you're mine. And that I will destroy anyone who tries to take you. They saw a glimpse last time, and I know it irked them."
I should argue with the "mine" part.
I don't.
Because right now, after almost dying, after feeling the void try to erase me from existence, right now, belonging to someone feels like the only solid thing in a reality that keeps trying to tear itself apart.
"Two hours," Croesus says. "That's how long you have to recover before we meet with the most dangerous beings in existence."
"Great," I mutter. "Just great."
Nat steps up and almost smiles. "Welcome to supernatural politics, little sin eater. Try not to die."
"Again," I add.
"Again," he agrees.
And despite everything, the attack, the fear, the cold still lingering in my bones, I find myself laughing.
Because what else can you do when the universe is trying to kill you and your only protection is a fallen angel who's too greedy to let you go?
You laugh.
And you prepare to meet with six more of them, one of whom you have never met and one whom you helped their rival to breach his house and steal a soul.
Two hours.
I'm going to need more coffee.
28
Iwake up slowly, like swimming up from deep water.
Everything hurts. Not the sharp, immediate pain of injury, but the deep, bone-aching exhaustion of having been put back together wrong. My body feels like it's been taken apart and reassembled by someone who had most of the pieces but wasn't quite sure how they fit.
The void. The collector. Croesus flooding me with his essence to burn away the emptiness trying to erase me. I remember dying.
Or almost dying.
The line between the two feels very thin at the moment.
I open my eyes slowly, expecting the familiar sight of my room, the golden walls, the shifting ceiling, the too-soft bed I've gotten used to over the past weeks.
Instead, I'm somewhere else entirely.
Croesus's private chambers.The dessert sunset through the windows finally giving me a hint in a house full of golden rooms.
And sitting in a chair beside the bed, slumped forward with his head in his hands, is Croesus.
He looks wrecked.
There's no other word for it. His usually immaculate hair is disheveled, falling forward into his face. His clothes, just a white shirt and dark pants, no jacket, are rumpled and creased. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his skin has a grayish tint I've never seen before, like he hasn't slept in days.
Through the binding, I feel him, exhaustion so profound, it tugs me down, fear that hasn't quite faded, and underneath it all, a desperate relief that's trying to overtake everything else.
He's been here the entire time. However long I've been unconscious, he's been sitting in that chair, watching me, waiting for me to wake up.
"Croesus," I whisper.
