Because you know it would be the end of you, whispered a small voice in the back of her mind. Because if you fell even a little more in love with him, the fall would break you.
It was true. She knew that if she gave even one more bit of herself to James, she would go up like a bonfire lit by a thousand torches. There would be nothing left of her but ash. In desire they could be on equal footing, but in the matter of love, they were not.
Something had been brightening at the edge of her vision for some time now: she glanced out the window and saw the faint seashell glow of dawn. Relief flooded through her. They were safe, for the moment. It was morning. The sun was rising and nothing had happened.
James’s head turned fretfully on the pillow. Setting down Cortana, Cordelia moved closer, wondering if the light was waking him. She could draw the curtain—
He gasped, his body arching suddenly backward, shoulders and heels digging into the mattress. “Not the garden,” he gasped. “No—get back inside—no—no!”
“James!” She unlocked the door, threw it wide, and called down the corridor for help. When she turned back, James was thrashing, his wrist bloody where the rope tore against his skin.
She flew to his side as he cried out, “Let her go! Let her go!”
She scrabbled at the rope around his wrist, bloodying her fingertips as she worked to untie him. He sprang up suddenly, tearing free of the headboard. He scrambled to his feet and, barefoot, staggered to the window, catching hold of the frame. Cordelia realized he was trying to force it open.
Footsteps were pounding up the stairs. Matthew burst into the room, rumpled-looking, green eyes dark with sleep and worry. Seeing James at the window, he caught hold of him by the shoulders, spinning him around. James’s eyes were wide, staring, blind.
“Let—her—go,” James gasped, struggling.
“Wake up!” Matthew demanded, forcing James’s body back against the wall.
James was still pushing against him, stiff-armed, but his movements were slower now, his chest no longer heaving. “Matthew,” he whispered. “Matthew, is that you?”
“Jamie bach.” Matthew dug his fingers into James’s shoulders. “It’s me. Look at me. Wake up.”
James’s eyes focused slowly. “Perhaps there is no forgiveness,” he whispered, his voice oddly hollow.
“Probably not,” said Matthew, “and we’ll all go to Hell, but what matters now is that you are all right.”
“James,” Cordelia said. He stared at her; his black hair was wet with sweat, and there was blood on his lower lip where he’d bitten it. “Please.”
James shuddered and went limp against the wall. Looking exhausted, he nodded. “I’m all right.” He sounded breathless, but the hollow edge was gone from his voice. “It’s over.”
Matthew relaxed, lowering his hands. He was in his vest and trousers, Cordelia realized, and blushed slightly. She could see an enkeli rune on Matthew’s bicep, part of it disappearing under his sleeve. Matthew had very nice arms, she realized. She’d never noticed before.
Oh, dear. If her mother knew Cordelia was in a bedroom with two such scantily clad men, she would faint.
“So you dreamed,” said Matthew. He was looking at James, and there was such affection in his voice that it broke Cordelia’s heart cleanly in half. Dear God, if only she and Lucie could become parabatai, she hoped they would love each other nearly as much. “A nightmare, we assume?”
“You assume correctly,” James said, his fingers going to the knot of rope still around his wrist. “And if my dream was accurate, someone else is dead.” His tone was bleak.
“Even if that’s true, you didn’t do it,” Cordelia said fiercely. “You’ve been here all night long, James. Lashed to the bed.”
“That’s true,” said Matthew. “Cordelia has been with you, she never left your side, and we’ve all been downstairs—well, except Thomas, he buggered off on patrol again, but the rest of us. No one came in or out the door.”
James untied the rope still trailing from his wrist. It fell away, revealing a circle of bloody skin. He flexed his hand and looked from Matthew to Cordelia. “And I tried to get the window open,” he mused. “But it was after my dream, not before. I don’t know—” He looked frustrated. “It’s like I can’t think,” he said. “Like there’s a fog in my brain. But if it isn’t me doing this—who is it?”