matter was by far the least disturbing.
Will had utilized the corner of the wall to draw himself trapped into it. The imagined room surrounding him was stark and bare like the others, and empty of all save his huddled and broken body quivering against the cold stone. His arms raised to cover his face, it was impossible to see his expression, but the posture, the abject misery and despair etched into each line, told everything.
Before I could change my mind, before I could doubt my actions, I stepped closer and rested a hand on Will’s shoulder. One of the men behind me sucked in a harsh, worried breath, but Will did not even flinch. He simply continued to sketch in the lines of his feet. I pressed into his thin flesh more deeply and then kneeled to pick up a discarded nub of charcoal, settling onto the floor beside him. Silently I reached up to continue shading the wall of his all-too-real prison.
Several moments passed when all that could be heard was the scratching of our charcoal across the plaster. No one else moved, or breathed, the chamber was so still.
And then Will’s movements began to slow and then falter. I could feel his awareness shifting, like a tangible presence. He blinked his eyes at the wall in front of him. Not wanting to alarm him, I lowered my hand and waited to see if he would acknowledge me. Slowly his head turned, and his stormy gray eyes, the pupils almost swallowing their depths, stared back at me.
I willed my breath to remain calm, my gaze unchallenging and unclouded by emotion. A minute ticked by, and then two, and then a glimmer of something sparked in his vacant eyes. His brow crinkled and his mouth worked. And on a sliver of sound, he spoke.
“Kiera?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
N ever in my life had I felt so much sadness and so much joy in the same breath. The two opposing waves crashed inside me, enveloping me and threatening to pull me under. Emotion clogged my throat until I thought I might choke on it. Swallowing desperately to dislodge it, I nodded my head, worried I would lose him again if I did not answer. “Yes,” I murmured. “Yes, Will. It’s me.”
Will’s eyes traveled over my face, as if hungry for the sight of me, of anything outside the nightmarish memories in his mind. I forced a smile to my lips, even as I felt the first hot tear slip free from my eye and slide down my cheek. Will focused on it for a moment before returning his gaze to my eyes.
I reached out carefully to take his hand, removing the charcoal from between his fingertips. He stared down at it in confusion and then allowed his eyes to slide up the wall beside him at the drawing there as I held fast to his chilled fingers, grimy with charcoal residue. His gaze trailed over me to the men standing behind me. I did not turn to see their faces, absorbed as I was in watching the play of light and thought across Will’s. He seemed all too willing to accept the fact that so many virtual strangers had observed his odd behavior. I wondered if he was simply resigned to it or if embarrassment was now beyond his ability to feel.
“Will,” Michael said, his voice husky, “you didn’t eat your dinner. Shall I have Mac bring you another plate?”
Will’s shoulders suddenly seemed to slump under the pressure of holding his head up. He shook it listlessly. “No. Too tired.” The tone was gravelly and broken, either from fatigue or disuse.
I heard feet moving across the floor and then Michael stood over us, leaning down to help Will up. “You have to eat something, Will. Please.”
Will looked at his brother and then me. He nodded.
We guided him toward a wingback chair positioned near the hearth, and while Michael settled him comfortably, I turned to call out to Mac.
“He’s gone for his dinner,” Philip told me from the doorway. At some point, he and Gage had retreated to the parlor.
I nodded and turned back to help Michael. We righted the overturned chairs and began gathering up the papers scattered across
Will had utilized the corner of the wall to draw himself trapped into it. The imagined room surrounding him was stark and bare like the others, and empty of all save his huddled and broken body quivering against the cold stone. His arms raised to cover his face, it was impossible to see his expression, but the posture, the abject misery and despair etched into each line, told everything.
Before I could change my mind, before I could doubt my actions, I stepped closer and rested a hand on Will’s shoulder. One of the men behind me sucked in a harsh, worried breath, but Will did not even flinch. He simply continued to sketch in the lines of his feet. I pressed into his thin flesh more deeply and then kneeled to pick up a discarded nub of charcoal, settling onto the floor beside him. Silently I reached up to continue shading the wall of his all-too-real prison.
Several moments passed when all that could be heard was the scratching of our charcoal across the plaster. No one else moved, or breathed, the chamber was so still.
And then Will’s movements began to slow and then falter. I could feel his awareness shifting, like a tangible presence. He blinked his eyes at the wall in front of him. Not wanting to alarm him, I lowered my hand and waited to see if he would acknowledge me. Slowly his head turned, and his stormy gray eyes, the pupils almost swallowing their depths, stared back at me.
I willed my breath to remain calm, my gaze unchallenging and unclouded by emotion. A minute ticked by, and then two, and then a glimmer of something sparked in his vacant eyes. His brow crinkled and his mouth worked. And on a sliver of sound, he spoke.
“Kiera?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
N ever in my life had I felt so much sadness and so much joy in the same breath. The two opposing waves crashed inside me, enveloping me and threatening to pull me under. Emotion clogged my throat until I thought I might choke on it. Swallowing desperately to dislodge it, I nodded my head, worried I would lose him again if I did not answer. “Yes,” I murmured. “Yes, Will. It’s me.”
Will’s eyes traveled over my face, as if hungry for the sight of me, of anything outside the nightmarish memories in his mind. I forced a smile to my lips, even as I felt the first hot tear slip free from my eye and slide down my cheek. Will focused on it for a moment before returning his gaze to my eyes.
I reached out carefully to take his hand, removing the charcoal from between his fingertips. He stared down at it in confusion and then allowed his eyes to slide up the wall beside him at the drawing there as I held fast to his chilled fingers, grimy with charcoal residue. His gaze trailed over me to the men standing behind me. I did not turn to see their faces, absorbed as I was in watching the play of light and thought across Will’s. He seemed all too willing to accept the fact that so many virtual strangers had observed his odd behavior. I wondered if he was simply resigned to it or if embarrassment was now beyond his ability to feel.
“Will,” Michael said, his voice husky, “you didn’t eat your dinner. Shall I have Mac bring you another plate?”
Will’s shoulders suddenly seemed to slump under the pressure of holding his head up. He shook it listlessly. “No. Too tired.” The tone was gravelly and broken, either from fatigue or disuse.
I heard feet moving across the floor and then Michael stood over us, leaning down to help Will up. “You have to eat something, Will. Please.”
Will looked at his brother and then me. He nodded.
We guided him toward a wingback chair positioned near the hearth, and while Michael settled him comfortably, I turned to call out to Mac.
“He’s gone for his dinner,” Philip told me from the doorway. At some point, he and Gage had retreated to the parlor.
I nodded and turned back to help Michael. We righted the overturned chairs and began gathering up the papers scattered across
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