Page 51 of Eternal Devotion

“Is it still racing?”

“Not like before.”

After a lingering kiss, he moved away, slipping silently from the bed. “I’ll find a washcloth. Be back in a moment.”

He wasn’t gone long, but in that short time, I drifted. When he returned, I was nearly asleep. With a tenderness that didn’t surprise me, Mordecai cleaned the mess.

He was about to lie down again, so I muttered, “Window. Cold.”

While he closed it, I shuffled under the covers, holding them open so he could join me. It was early for bed—we hadn’t broached the topic of dinner—but I needed to rest my eyes and soak up what we’d shared. A nap would be perfect.

Mordecai lay beside me, and I drew him into my arms. We shared a pillow and weaved our legs, facing one another.

“You’re always so cold.” I tugged the covers higher.

“I don’t feel it.”

“Are you sure you’re not from Siberia or something?”

He chuckled. “No. Not so far north.”

Mordecai softly touched me as I closed my eyes, a delicate exploration that lulled me into sleep.

Without any concept of how much time had passed, I startled awake a while later with a complete loss of spatial awareness in a void so impenetrable that silhouettes and shapes no longer existed. A fog surrounded my brain, and I couldn’t for the life of me remember where I was or when I’d fallen asleep.

I wasn’t at home in bed. Then, I remembered. I was at Mordecai’s.

When the afternoon and all we’d shared came back to me, I fumbled around on the bed and reached out, seeking my lover.

But my hand met empty air and a cold mattress.

Mordecai was gone.

12

Ensley

Time had been sucked into a void. The sun had fallen. That much I discerned from the lack of glow around the drapes. It wasn’t warm. The instant I shed the covers, my skin pebbled with goose bumps. Although I had a vague sense of the room’s size, being unable to see walls elicited a primal discomfort of being lost in the woods. The ridiculous notion was only amplified by the heavy scent of ozone that hung in the air. Damp wood, mustiness, and a century’s worth of embedded grime were part of the mansion’s DNA.

Underneath those layers, I caught the barest hint of Mordecai’s essence.

I searched for a bedside table and lamp but found neither.

The house was eerily silent and still.

Where did he go?

What time was it?

Where were my clothes and phone?

With a vague sense of direction, I got up and shuffled blindly to where I assumed was the door. I’d undressed thereabouts and left my jeans in a heap in the general vicinity. I managed to find my way. My outstretched fingers brushed peeling wallpaper, then a wooden surface, announcing I’d arrived.

Instead of fumbling for my clothes, I felt along the wall for a light switch. When I didn’t encounter one, I remembered the tour and having to use my flashlight in most of the upstairs rooms since there were no ceiling fixtures. A common characteristic in century homes.

Was there a standing lamp in a corner? I had no clue and wasn’t about to explore. I felt around with my foot until I discovered the pile of clothes I’d discarded earlier. In no time, I located my phone—Christ, it was ten after nine—and activated the flashlight app.

A juvenile sense of relief washed over me as the four walls of the room and all its classy furniture came into view. I panned, seeking a lamp but not finding one. Leaning the phone against a baseboard, I dressed in a hurry, intent on finding a bathroom, then my absent lover.