Storm Warning by Beth Doyle

Author:Beth Doyle [Doyle, Beth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy
ISBN: 9781999312893
Publisher: rwpublishing
Published: 2020-02-29T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18:

Waking

Frankie thinks she might be alive; the darkness is becoming strained, as though corrupted by early daylight.

She would rather stay in this darkness. She does not fear the dark because she knows what it is hiding; she fears the light of day. Knowing your demons is one thing; seeing them thrown in light is another entirely.

She must be alive. What world she has awoken into, Frankie does not know.

She opens her eyes, with the very last of her nerve. The monsters lurking in her mind grin and gnash their teeth in the light of consciousness.

The room is sparse; white walls, white ceiling. She is in a bed; she can feel the mattress is thin and the duvet worn. Where is Matthew?

Frankie manages to turn her head; has waking always hurt this much? There – another bed, beside a window. Matthew is tangled in the sheets, fast asleep.

She had triggered the apocalypse and put the barrel of that savage gun against his temple – and for some reason, he is still here. Hasn’t he the strength in his legs to walk away? There is no other reason he would stay, not when her crack-shot stupidity had so nearly left them bleeding out.

Nearly - here’s the newest mystery to solve. Her luck had changed so swiftly, but can she trust the man with raven hair not to be a villain, or another paper friend?

Her body has been made old, a thing of aches, pains and creaks. Frankie might still be asleep, the world still drenched in a haze – but unconsciousness, she knows, is kinder than waking, and she feels no sympathy in the glare of this daylight.

A noise – Matthew is stirring. Here it comes; he will run as soon as his legs will bear his weight, and she can never blame him for it.

She sees him tense as the realisation hits him, sees him go rigid in the unfamiliar bed.

“Matthew,” she says, “Matthew, are you alright?”

He looks to her - there is bruising around his eye, his lip is cut. He doesn’t relax. “Frankie. Are you hurt?”

What’s wrong with him? “I’m okay,” she says. “I’m not hurt, I’m fine. What about you?”

Incredibly, this is where some of the tension leaves his body; as if her wellbeing is the most pressing matter at hand. Does he really not hate her yet?

“What, me?” he waves the question away. “I’m grand. Where are we?”

“Matthew,” Frankie says. “You – you’re hurt. Your face –”

He frowns, touches the bruising. He doesn’t even wince. “I’m fine, Frankie. Believe me, I’ve had a lot worse. Where are we?”

They have no time to deliberate such an imposing question, because the turning of the doorknob has Frankie and Matthew tensing; the door opens and the man with raven hair strides in.

At first glance, the man can only be likened to a blueprint – precise, systematic, and clear-cut; his face is one of careful lines and corners, his mouth stern and his eyes pencil-grey, and he wears ironed slacks and a white-collared shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to the forearms.

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