chapter 45; Anna

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He had those kind of eyes, like the world was always to be scrutinized. Not even the trees could be trusted.

Sometimes, in his snow-white paradise, Jaylin forgot he was dreaming. This time though, he knew. He knew because Quentin was art standing before him, rich skin ten shades darker against the ashy snow. He was stagnant in the same place he'd been before—not wolf now, but man. And in his presence, Jaylin wasn't afraid. That was why he knew. Because he didn't fear Quentin at all.

Quentin's body didn't move. Not even his eyes flittered from their fixed position. But Jaylin watched his hair billow in the icy wind, raven black locks fraying in the gale. It was the only part of him animated, the rest of him a wax figure in the frigid cold. All Jaylin could do was stare. Everything was frozen here but himself, and it was strange, this place he dreamt of. Because there wasn't a sound in this vast wilderness but his footsteps, crunching against compacted snow as he moved closer on bare feet. One step and then another.

"Quentin." He only had to whisper; there was no wind, no chittering animals. Only him and the sound of falling snow. "Quentin," he called again. But Quentin was a statue, skin bare and brilliant as flakes stacked on his round shoulders and stuck to his face, tiny and scintillant like diamonds.

"What do you want me to do?" He felt like falling to his knees. Begging. Quentin always had answers, he always knew the way. He'd tell Jaylin what he needed to hear; he only had to speak it out, dammit. Just speak.

"What should I do?" Jaylin shivered unpleasantly. "Tell me what to do!"

Then Jaylin felt the icy hands again, soft and slender as they wrapped around his wrists from behind. "Speak with your heart," she spoke in his ear, and her voice sounded like a thousand echoes in the emptiness. "He can hear your heart." It was not the snow that chilled his flesh, but the sound of her, the feel of her. And she was lifting his wrists, guiding his hands up to Quentin's face. His fingers uncurled, ghosted against the pleasant heat of his flesh until he held his cheeks in his palms.

And then Quentin's eyes, dark and distant as they were, fell shut.

Jaylin watched him with uncertainty squeezing in his chest. "No... no..." he quavered. "Wake up, please wake up. I need you." He brushed the flakes from Quentin's lashes with the tips of his shivering thumbs. And when Quentin didn't open his eyes, Jaylin turned to look over his shoulder for the hands that had guided him. And he found no one.

"No, no, no." He felt like sobbing. It was a dream, but it had to mean something. It had to serve a purpose. Quentin was here for a reason. "I don't understand. I don't know how to speak with my heart. I can't do it." He didn't know if it was possible to cry within a dream, but he could feel the tears burning at his eyes. Frustration and fear collapsing in on him. "Wake up. Wake up, Quentin. Wake up!'

Then Quentin's eyes shot open, and in the deep feathered umber of his gaze, fear gaped back at Jaylin. The fear of a man who'd stared into death's hollow sockets and watched the world and everything good in it burn to ashes in his hands.

Jaylin woke with a start, his heartbeat thunder in his ears. That petrified expression still burned like a visual echo in his head. He'd never seen Quentin like that. And how was it that he could dream something he'd never seen?

He squinted, the white of his little glass room cut at his eyes like bits of splintered glass.

Morning. He thought it was morning, at least.

There were no windows to show him the sun, no clocks or watches to tell him what hour it was, or how many he'd wasted staring at the panels on the ceiling.

But there was a woman—a woman seated at the desk outside of his glass walls, her brown hair tied back in a tight bun, little wisps sweeping back over her delicate mousy ears. He squinted to make out her name tag, and though she was too far away, Jaylin was sure he caught a P and an N. Peterson. Morning. It was morning.

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