THE SANDMAN ☞ TRAVIS STOLL

THIRTEEN

"VAL. TAKE THE BED."

They've had this argument every night for a week. And every night, it ends the same: Travis begrudgingly making himself comfortable in the plush, luxurious bed, and Valerie happily taking the couch, curling her tall body up like a cat.

Except tonight, the night before Eloise's party, something is different, almost like there is a third presence, lurking in the room just over Valerie's shoulder.

Something is off with her. Her shoulders curve inward, and even as they lounge in the hotel room, her arms wrap around her torso, as if trying to protect herself from some invisible threat that could shatter their peace and quiet to pieces. Her ambery eyes carry dark bags beneath them, a sure sign that she has barely been sleeping.

She's nearly falling asleep, even as she sits on the couch with a book in her lap.

"Seriously, Val. Take the bed. You look exhausted."

Her head snaps up, her gaze sharp on his face. "Shut up."

Travis raises his dark eyebrows, and he stands from the opposite side of the couch. "You're taking the bed tonight." He says, and his voice is stern with determination. He crosses the two feet of distance between them, and her eyes widen.

"Don't touch me, Travis. I swear to gods, if you touch me, I'll gut you." She drops her book and holds both of her hands in front of her, wispy shadows curling around her fingers. The shadows are simply for show, an illusion, for she would never willingly hurt him.

He grins, his hand wrapping around her wrist. He yanks, one strong pull that has her thrown over his shoulder.

"Put me down!" She shrieks, more emotion present in her voice than he's ever heard before. Emotion—and laughter. There are peals of laughter between her shouts, the noise hoarse and rough but somehow the sweetest sound.

She's laughing.

Valerie Greenwood never laughs, but here she is, laughing either with him or at him.

When he drops her unceremoniously onto the bed and takes a step back, she looks up at him, her cheeks flushed and chest heaving. Her shirt has risen to just below her belly-button, and the warped skin of the scar from being bitten by the cynocephalus is on full display.

As if possessed, Travis reaches out a hand, index finger barely grazing the marring of her skin. "That still hurt?"

"No," she whispers, something shifting in her eyes. "Sometimes I get this weird, phantom pain, but most of the time it doesn't hurt."

He nods once before withdrawing his hand. "Get some sleep. I'll take the couch tonight."

She doesn't argue for once. Instead, she mimics his nod and pulls the white duvet over herself, her bronze-brown hair spilling over the pillow. Even when her eyes close, she does not look like she's at peace. There is stress in her expression.

|

"How cute."

There are shadows snaking down her throat, choking her from the inside. They wrap around her wrists, prod at her skin, cover her eyes. She squirms against them to no avail—they only grow tighter around her, pressing into her scars, tattoos, and the brand on her shoulder.

Her father's ire is so strong that she can taste it. "Why do you keep doing this?" She's ashamed that her voice shakes. "What did I do to deserve this? Why do you keep hurting your only child?" She's begging, begging, the flames of hope withering within her chest.