Awakened

sounded guilty. I didn’t mean to keep thinking about Heath, but it was hard not to. He’d been part of my life since I was nine—and dead only for a few weeks. I mentally shook myself, bowed quickly to Sgiach, and started for the door.
    “He isna in your chamber,” Seoras said. “The boy is near the grove. He asked that you meet him there.”
    “He’s outside?” I paused, surprised. Since Stark had come back from the Otherworld, he’d been too weak and out of it to do much more than eat, sleep, and play computer games with Seoras, which was actually a super weird sight—it was like high school meets Braveheart meets Call of Duty.
    “Aye, the lassie’s done fussin’ about with his makeup the now and is actin’ like a proper Guardian again.”
    I put my fist on my hip and narrowed my eyes at the old Warrior. “He almost died. You cut him to pieces. He was in the Otherworld. Give him a little break. Jeesh.”
    “Aye, well, he dinna actually die, did he?”
    I rolled my eyes. “You said he’s at the grove?”
    “Aye.”
    “Okie dokie.”
    As I hurried through the doorway, Sgiach’s voice followed me. “Take that lovely scarf you bought in the village. It is a cold evening.”
    I thought it was a kinda strange thing for Sgiach to say. I mean, yeah, it was cold (and usually wet) on Skye, but fledglings and vamps don’t feel changes in weather like humans do. But whatever. When a warrior queen tells you to do something, it’s usually best to do it. So I detoured to the huge room I shared with Stark and grabbed the scarf I’d draped over the end of the canopied bed. It was cream-colored cashmere, with threads of gold woven through it, and I thought it probably looked prettier hanging against the crimson bed curtains than it did around my neck.
    I paused for a second, looking at the bed I’d been sharing with Stark for the past weeks. I’d curled up with him, held his hand, and rested my head on his shoulder while I watched him sleep. But that was it. He hadn’t even tried to tease me about making out with him.
    Crap! He’s hurt bad!
    I mentally cringed as I recounted how many times Stark had suffered because of me: an arrow had almost killed him because he’d taken the shot that had been meant for me; he’d had to be sliced up and then destroyed a part of himself to pass into the Otherworld to join me; he’d been mortally wounded by Kalona because he’d believed it was the only way to reach what was shattered inside me.
    But I’d saved him, too, I reminded myself. Stark had been right—watching Kalona brutalize him had made me pull myself together, and because of that Nyx had forced Kalona to breathe a sliver of immortality into Stark’s body, returning his life and paying the debt he owed for killing Heath.
    I walked through the beautifully decorated castle, nodding to the Warriors who bowed respectfully to me, and thought about Stark, automatically picking up my pace. What was he thinking, dragging himself outside after what he’d been through?
    Hell, I didn’t know what he was thinking. He’d been different since we’d been back.
    Well, of course he’s been different, I told myself sternly, feeling crappy and disloyal. My Warrior had made an Otherworld journey, died, been resurrected by an immortal, and then yanked back into a body that was weak and wounded.
    But before then. Before we’d returned to the real world, something had happened between us. Something had changed for us. Or at least I’d thought it had. We’d been super intimate in the Otherworld. His drinking from me had been an incredible experience. It’d been more than sex. Yeah, it’d felt good. Really, really good. It had healed him, strengthened him, and—somehow—it had fixed whatever had still been broken inside me, allowing my tattoos to return.
    And this new closeness with Stark had made losing Heath bearable.
    So why was I feeling so depressed? What was wrong with me?
    Crap. I didn’t know.
    A mom would know. I thought about my mom and felt an unexpected and terrible loneliness. Yeah, she’d messed up and basically chosen a new husband over me, but she was still my mom. I miss her, the little voice inside my head admitted. Then I shook my head. No. I still had a “mom.” My grandma was that and more to me.
    “It’s Grandma I miss.” And then, of course, I felt guilty because since I’d been back I hadn’t even called her. Okay, sure, I knew that Grandma would feel that my soul had