Victor stayed still, his muscles trembling under her fingers until her hand reached his mouth. He took her hand in his and pressed his cheek to her palm then turned to face her. Little butterfly kisses landed on her wrist, her palm and each of her fingers then before he pulled her in closer. “Gods did I miss you, an’ hell jus’ bein’ near you is heaven enough for me,” he whispered then kissed her forehead.
Summer didn’t expect to be able to sleep. She expected to be staring into the dark, throat tight and eyes hot, for hours; to jerk out of a fitful doze every hour or so. So she was surprised to open her eyes to chill winter dawnlight, still curled up against Victor.
For a few heartbeats she wasn’t actually sure she /was/ awake. There had been dreams almost exactly like this. She turned her head to look up at the ceiling, trying to find some way to know she was really awake, before deciding it didn’t matter. If she was going to dream this lucidly, she would enjoy it while it lasted.
So she edged herself closer to Victor, curling her fingers into his skin, and waited for him to wake up.
The musty rot of mildew soaked the air as he came to. He was hanging by his wrists, the cuffs attached to the chain digging into his flesh. The door opened with a whine as his tormentor waltzed into the prison cell. Xander carried his favorite tool, his metal cane. Again with the same question, “Will you do as you were meant to and rebuild the Academy?” Again, the same answer, “Never.” The look of strange disappointment on Xander’s face before he swung the cane into Victor’s ribs.
Victor started awake, his eyes wide as it took him a moment to remember where he was. He looked over at Summer and pulled her close to him, willing himself to calm down. His eyes closed as he tried to fill his senses only with her scent. He let out a shaky exhale and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Tentatively, he ran his fingers down her jaw and over her cheekbone, recommitting her to memory in an effort to push out the remnants of his nightmare.
She was not going to — she was /not/ going to — the spark was still there. The one they’d blown into a raging blaze practically the day they’d met. It jumped from his fingers to her skin and chased down her spine. “Why?” she asked, pulling a knee up to drape over his leg under the covers, the length of her body pressed to the length of his.