Free Unbound (The Griever's Mark series Book 3) by Katherine Hurley

and neck straining and slick with sudden sweat. He makes a choking sound, and I shout his name, shaking him harder.
    He lurches up. His hand shoots out, fingers spread as though clenched around someone’s throat. He is snarling, furious.
    I lay my fingers on his rigid arm. I say his name a few times before he gasps. His arm drops. His stomach jerks with his harsh breathing.
    When he starts to throw the sheet aside, I spread my hand low on his belly, pinning the sheet. “No.”
    He is frozen, undecided. He won’t look at me.
    “Come here. Logan .”
    He pulls away and swings his legs out of the bed. He props his elbows on his knees. My Drift-light paints cool blue over his sweat-slick, scarred back.
    I slide out of bed and grab the waiting cup from the washstand. I hurry around the foot of the bed before he can get up. I crouch before him, but he still doesn’t look at me. His fingers are laced together, twisting.
    “Please don’t leave,” I beg him.
    He takes a shuddering breath. He hasn’t said a word. I lay my hand on his thigh. He’s shaking like he’s cold, but his skin is too warm. I tighten my fingers, asking him to look at me, but he doesn’t.
    I press the cup at his hands. His fingers twitch away from it. “Please,” I implore. “Don’t leave.”
    Slowly, his hands unclench, and he takes the cup. I hold my breath when he hesitates with it halfway to his mouth. He puts it to his lips and drinks.
    I let him sit there for a few minutes, but the fast-working sedative soon makes him sway. I nudge him until he lies down. Right before the drug takes him, his eyes meet mine. His eyes beg me for something, but I don’t know what. His pain dissolves into oblivion.
     
    *     *     *
     
    I wake with a start, then ease back to my pillow when I feel Logan beside me. Morning light paints his face gold and gleams in the waves of his hair. I brush my knuckles along his stubble-roughened cheek, but he doesn’t stir.
    He never shifted positions during the night, and he lies so still that I sit up, worried. I press my fingers to his throat, right under his jaw. His pulse beats a regular, steady rhythm.
    I slip from the bed and tug on my clothes, watching Logan all the while. If I hurry, maybe I can make it back before he wakes.
    As I cross through the sitting room, I hear someone moving about in the adjoining suite. Though that suite was meant to be mine, I haven’t done more than gather clothes from it since Logan and I returned to Tornelaine. I go to the door between the suites. I’m sure it’s nothing, but suspicion is a deeply ingrained habit.
    When I catch a few notes of Clara’s humming, I quietly back away from the door. A floorboard creaks, and I freeze. Clara’s humming cuts off. Her light footsteps approach the door. She knocks. I curse silently and debate whether or not to answer.
    “Astarti?” she calls quietly through the door.
    I sigh and open it.
    Clara sucks in a disapproving breath when she sees me. Her soft brown hair is pulled into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck, and her gown of green and white silk sweeps along the feminine curves of her body. Her fingers twitch as she eyes my hair, and I resist the urge to scrape the loose pieces away from my face.
    “Not today,” I say quietly. “I have things to do.”
    Disappointment pinches the skin around her eyes. “I could just—”
    “Nope. Sorry. No time.”
    Frustration gets the better of her. “But you’re really quite lovely, underneath it all. You never do anything to show it.”
    I stare at her in disbelief. “You do realize we’re in the middle of a war?” Fear moves through her eyes, so I soften my tone. “What does my hair matter, at a time like this?”
    She knots her fingers. “It’s my job. I don’t have anything else to do.”
    I want to say it’s a not a very important job, but Clara doesn’t deserve my meanness. Even so, I can’t delay any longer simply to make her feel better. “Another