Sydney had been in the re-education centre for a month. She was not broken yet.
"It's because you're strong," Adrian whispered into her ear, his arms warm and solid. She stayed as still as a statue in them. He added, in a way that usually made her blush, "Burning bright, like a flame in the dark."
Sydney shook her head.
"You are," he insisted.
Sydney pulled back until his entire face, not just the dancing gleam in his eyes, filled her field of vision. They were in Adrian's apartment. The floor smelled like pine cleaner; the bed was soft and familiar, infused with the scent of cigarettes and cloves and Adrian's closest approximation to how she'd described the bliss of his Spirit magic. Sunset spilled in from the apartment's western windows, pure gold, warm as honey. It was not a comfort.
"I might be strong," she allowed, "but the other Alchemists here... they're not weak. And they"—her words caught in her throat; she cut off her sob with a hitched breath because it wasn't allowed—"oh god. I can't... at least Zoe isn't here."
She'd saved her baby sister—her younger sister, never a baby again—from this program. For Zoe, she could follow her guards like a blank-eyed automaton for months more. She could fight against the images seared into her retinas...
Gleaming teeth, crimson lips, a drop of blood rolling down ivory fangs, the scent of lust and despair pervading in every single corner of the room, deep-pitched laughter from a voice who knows her every secret and will use it for its pleasure, her torment-
For a moment, Sydney could not breathe. Adrian's arms were steel bars, the shape of his body unnatural, his teeth too close to her neck. His breathing predatory. Fear rolled through her in a wave; her belly lurched like a drunken sailor, every single hair in her body standing on end, and the instinct to run away drowned out every other thought with its screeching. All he had to do was lean forward and bite down, to draw her life and soul into corruption—
Her vision went white with panic, and she struggled to force it down. Dreams. Friends.
Zoe's safety.
Yes. It was one of her tethers to sanity, indescribably vital when harsh fluorescent light stung her eyes, the underground equivalent of sunrise, and she was led from the safety of her cell. She clung to it; her breathing began to slow.
Zoe was one life line. Adrian was another.
"Don't worry about her." He smiled wryly, and added, no doubt aware that she could do no such thing, "Zoe's fine. I am the king of guardians. Not the Russian warlord kind, but you can trust me."
"I do," Sydney said, folding that assurance into a safe corner of her mind.
He threaded his fingers through hers.
They stayed quiet. He held her as her muscles slowly loosened and she bent to fill the contours of his tall frame. Sydney was on the verge of relaxing - and the painting on the wall flickered.
"Don't overdo it," warned Sydney, frowning. "Look, if you're feeling tired, I can use magic to sleep—"
"It's fine," Adrian said sharply. His hug tightened, as though it could keep her here with him. With a moment of his attention, the outline of the painting filled. "Besides, I have a special treat tonight."
Despite herself, Sydney's pulse raced. Looking quickly away didn't help; she was too aware that their bodies pressed together everywhere. Heat pooled at the pit of her stomach, pulsing with each heart beat—ridiculous. Her cheeks burned, even more ridiculous given everything they'd done to, and for, each other inside and outside of dreams. "Oh, really?"
Adrian tipped back his head, exposing his long neck as he laughed. "Get your mind out of the gutter, Sage. Though, later..."
Thin paper rasped rustled in his hand; pages of a book. He could not possibly remember it word for word, but, in the glimpse she caught before he whipped it from sight, he'd done better than before.
"Which book is it this time?"
"Your favourite vampire," Adrian said. She could hear the grin in his voice. "Well, except for me."
"Of course."
This wasn't the first time, and Sydney doubted it would be the last. When she closed eyes at night, she could count on seeing him and, more often than not, he'd have a book. The very first time, it had been a coffee table volume, heavy with reprints of oil paintings, and his eyes, too, had widened in surprise. They had spent an hour pouring over the paintings; he'd recounted what he remembered of each from his classes, sketching pictures with his words - and with his powers, into the very air of the dream, when words failed him.
It was like she'd really been in the wide lecture theatres, future bright with choices. It had been just enough for her to stop shaking at the word Moroi, to smile at his touch.
Adrian flicked past a couple of pages, clearing his throat. His lips brushed the shell of her ear. "Jonathan Harker's journal. Left Munich at eight thirty-five P.M.-"
Sydney could not help it. She gasped until her belly ached, peals of laughter bouncing around the room. "Dracula?"
"I'm glad you got it from the first line," said Adrian, mouth too close, sending a wave of needle-sharp awareness prickling up her spine, "because I'm not one hundred percent sure I remember everything else."
"Yes," said Sydney, "but Dracula? Les Miserables, The Great Gatsby, sure, even the Periodic Table—even if I had to correct you a couple of times-"
"'Sure', huh?"
Sydney smiled. "I know you picked them for me. Thank you. I just..."
Adrian waved his hand, bringing the book back into her line of sight. Dracula's cover was clear and vivid, lines sharp. "It's a vampire you laughed at, once. You were terrified tonight, and I thought you'd like to be reminded... we're just Moroi. You can laugh at us. Though preferably not me."
Sydney covered his fingers with hers. "The book isn't very funny, really. It's the movie versions—"
"All that dramatic music?"
"Mhm. Dramatic golf course music."
"Knew I was forgetting something," Adrian muttered, kissing her forehead, lips lingering just a fraction longer than necessary—definitely teasing her. Not fair. She pulled her hand away from his, trailing it up his arm, rubbing in small circles—his skin was so warm. The moment he began to relax, she dug her nails in just so, drawing out a sharp hiss.
"Thank you," she murmured. Let him stare intently a moment longer before she offered: "Adrian. Why don't we pick this book up another time?"
"You're overestimating my interest in literature," warned Adrian, eyes flicking from her finger to her face. His pupils were huge, like black holes, surrounded by a thin rim of green. He smelled like cloves and minty aftershave.
"Maybe," she shrugged. Nipped lightly at the angle of his jaw. Pressed her lips to his.
His response was immediate. The book stabbed briefly into her arm, then vanished. He pressed her back against the soft blankets, his weight between her legs, kissing her so intently it might as well be his job. (As far they were concerned, it was.) Sydney threaded her fingers at the nape of his neck, and let herself enjoy it. She couldn't stop her whimper of protest when he pulled away, but quieted once she realised where he was heading.
His hot mouth traced a path from her lips to her neck in light kisses. Then lower. Swirled his tongue around her navel. Then lower, until she was gasping, a sheen of sweat beginning to coat her back and thighs, arching with the thrusts of his tongue.
He didn't quote poetry. Nothing so trite. But bursts of colours and symbols flickered behind her eyelids, like the world shifting, as stunning as freedom.
She could banish from her thoughts, for a while, what waited with morning's arrival.
And months later, safe in his arms in truth, she would tease: "All these books you read to me."
It would be a hot summer night, made all the warmer for his fingertips grazing deliberately up and down the small of her back. The full moon would make his skin look like porcelain, and her fingers and lips would map every pathway and know that he wasn't untouchable at all. Quite the opposite.
"More," he would say petulantly, "in two months than twenty years before put together."
"My hero," she'd laugh, and add, fondly, "Only because you were too busy staring at paintings instead."
"It was a great sacrifice!"
"Which was your favourite?" she would ask, because she was Sydney Sage, and could not resist.
His answer would be simple. It would take her breath away.
"All of them," he would say, caressing the golden lily on her cheek, "because they brought you back to me."