Consuming Shadows

Chapter 39

Hadrian woke gradually.

The warm haze he had sunk into clung to him even as his awareness returned in waves.

He grimaced slightly, head burrowing into the soft pillow for a second to avoid the streaks of sunlight. He shifted his body, stretching as far as he could and groaning aloud when his spine cracked pleasantly.

Hadrian rolled onto his back and peeled his eyes open, blinking languidly at the ceiling as he waited for his thoughts to organise themselves. He slowly pushed himself up onto an elbow and swallowed to get rid of the cotton-like feeling in his mouth.

The cool morning air hit his bare skin and Hadrian looked down to see that he was shirtless. He frowned in confusion, because he rarely slept without a shirt, especially not in the dead of winter.

He shook his head and looked around, trying to place where he was.

The room was unfamiliar to him and was far grander than even his room on the school carriage. A floor-to-ceiling window dominated the right wall, the heavy curtains thrown back to let the rising sun lighten the entire space.

Hadrian smoothed one of his hands over the thick duvet, noting the rich texture of the material, as well as the high-quality heating charms embedded in it.

He moved so that he was sitting up fully, rubbing at his face in an attempt to chase away the lingering grasp of sleep. He felt oddly exhausted – drained and unsteady. Hollow.

The duvet bunched around his waist and he took a moment to enjoy the way his skin prickled in the cold. His hand came to rest on his lap, and he caught sight of the bandages wrapped around his pale flesh.

He made a face, puzzled, mind tripping over itself as he tried to remember what had happened. The memories were like smoke, slipping through his fingers. He could have sworn he had gone to confront –

Oh.

Hadrian's stomach dropped.

He reached over and clasped his forearm with his opposite hand, curling over the white bandages as he waited for the panic sitting at the back of his throat to die.

He was marked.

Hadrian's eyes closed tightly as disgust rose within him. His nails dug into the thick coverings.

He was such a damned fool to think he could outmanoeuvre Riddle. To think that he could possibly get his mother released with such a weak plan.

He had been desperate – so very desperate – to have her back. To set her free, to save her, to finally escape the guilt that was so thick it felt like he was drowning in it. And he had let that desperation rule his actions.

But that was hardly an excuse.

He should have known that Riddle would never go for it. He should have been prepared, and though his failure stung bitterly, like acid in his chest, it was nothing compared to the crushing sense of loss seeping through him.

His independence. His future. His whole life.

Gone.

Bartered away like a cheap trinket. Handed to a man that would never give it back – and some cracked, brittle part of him wondered if this was even worth it. If his mother's freedom was worth sacrificing his own.

Bile rose in his throat, his hand instinctively rising to cover his mouth. He stared blankly down at his covered legs, grappling for a sense of control he knew he would not find.

A gentle knock echoed through the room.

Hadrian's head shot up at the sound, terrified for one paralysing second at the thought of facing Riddle again after their last encounter.