Croe was unused to blind panic – the deafening roar of adrenaline through her veins, the white-hot intensity of fight or flight, the painful staccato of her pulse. Even after she had spoken, it took a moment to come down from that unwelcome high, a moment longer for her to take in any details. Mallos was on his knees before her, wearing an expression she had never seen on his face. That was preeminent. Only after that did her training reassert itself, gears turning rapidly to feed more tactically useful information to her subconscious: the pristine decor that verged toward luxury (not the castle, then. More likely his estate in Madrid); the hour (very early morning, possibly pre-dawn); the state of her own body (a little bruised and scraped from her attack on the windows, but otherwise unharmed). Then he threw his arms around her. She could feel his heartbeat through their clothes.
“I’m here. I’m here.” Croe’s voice was hoarse, as if her throat had truly been filled with sand. Her lips brushed his shoulder as she spoke. “I’m sorry if I kept you waiting.”
To her memory, Mallos had never held her like this…like he needed her. Croe’s hands drifted around his back, bloodied fingernails digging into his shirt, pulling him closer. There were tears slipping down her cheeks, but she did not feel them. All she could feel was relief, and dread.
Mordred had sent her into that sleep like death. He’d pushed her through a portal, leading Gods-knew-where. He’d known it would piss her off, would infuriate Mallos, and yet he had done it anyway. Croe did not think the King’s half-brother would burn bridges arbitrarily, which left a range of much worse possibilities. Whatever had happened while she dreamed…
Her arms tightened around her lover. Whatever had happened was terrible; she would have known it by the weariness in Mallos’ body, the rare vulnerability in this embrace. But as an agent of the alliance, she also knew it by training and instinct – a handful of probably scenarios were hovering near the forefront of her mind. She tried not to study them, as if admitting them into her thoughts would make them real.
“Ángela?” She asked first, her voice cracking a little on the word. When he answered she exhaled a little – one weight lifted, but so many that remained. “What did he do,” she asked next, barely a question, her voice as gentle as it had ever been.
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