Encore of the Avenging Muse (Sylvia and Rupert) novel Chapter 471

Sylvia slept fitfully, tossing and turning, haunted by a gnawing sense of dread—like there was a guillotine hanging over her head.

Somewhere between dreams and waking, she felt a gentle touch on her cheek. Still half-asleep, she blinked up at the man leaning over her, his fingertips tracing her jaw. That’s when she realized: this had to be a dream. Only in her dreams could she face Rupert with anything close to calm.

She stared at him, mumbling, “My stomach’s killing me.”

The words barely left her lips before she curled up, knees to her chest.

Rupert brushed his thumb over the split in her lip, scolding softly, “Still getting yourself in trouble, huh?”

Sylvia shook her head, suddenly meek as a lamb.

His hand paused for a beat, his eyes darkening as he studied her face. Then, without another word, he pulled her gently against his chest. His hand pressed against her stomach, warm and steady, rubbing slow circles.

She had no idea how long they stayed like that. Finally, Rupert leaned down, his voice a low rumble against her ear. “Feeling any better?”

“Yeah,” she whispered, shivering as his breath tickled her skin. She reached up to scratch at her ear and winced as her arm brushed a raw, stinging patch.

Her hand barely lowered before Rupert caught it, his grip firm but not harsh. He started rolling up her sleeve, and though Sylvia instinctively tried to pull away, he was too strong. Still, if this was a dream, she figured she might as well let it play out.

After all, none of it was real. No one really cared how she was doing.

Rupert peeled back her sleeve, eyes flickering as he took in the red, angry marks crisscrossing her arm. He grabbed the ointment from her nightstand, squeezed some onto his fingers, and dabbed it gently on her wounds.

The sting made Sylvia recoil, but Rupert held her hand tight, his voice low and steady. “Almost done.”

He softened his touch, and suddenly Sylvia’s eyes stung for a whole different reason.

Rupert frowned. “Still hurts?”

That little bit of kindness broke something in her. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she nodded, hard. “It hurts. It really hurts… I just— It hurts so much.”

Rupert’s expression shifted; he set the ointment aside and pulled her into a hug.

But the tighter he held her, the more suffocated she felt—like a fish gasping for air, desperate and flailing, but never really breathing. She was trapped.

Through the blur of tears, Sylvia pleaded, half-asleep, “Please… just let me go, okay?”

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