Darkness. It filled his mind and conquered his thoughts.
Dead was good. Dead was quiet. The silence was fucking golden.
He should have blown himself up a long time ago.
Sol turned his head, his mind swimming in the wavering blackness. Something was there—a pinpoint of light. He didn't question why it was there, he just watched as the light grew into a fire, slowly infusing the dark.
Sunrise?
Sol scoffed inwardly. He hadn't figured he'd get to see another sunrise. That fire blazing toward him was more likely a demon come to claim his soul. The flames floated over him, the reds and oranges burning his eyes. He was hot all over. His skin. His hair. His mouth bone dry.
The fire touched him, but it wasn't hot. It was cool, blessedly cool and completely unexpected.
He bolted upright and was assaulted by a rush of nausea that invaded his throat. He pitched on his side. Something scraped across the floor. Gentle fingers gripped the back of his neck, holding him in place. His stomach spasmed, his body canting like a boat cresting a wave. Up and down. Up and down. He'd never been seasick a day in his life, but he felt it now. He knew he wasn't on his boat anymore. His boat was gone. And he wasn't in the Deep. It was too dry. He clutched the bed, helpless to do anything but ride out the spasms.
Bed? Where the hell was he? After his stomach settled and he quit heaving, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to make sense of his surroundings.
"That was close. I almost didn't get the trash can under you in time. You've been doing that all night." The demon had a nice voice. A feminine voice. A sexy voice. Something cool pressed against his forehead.
Sol blinked through his confusion. Darkness he understood, but why in hell would a demon hold his head while he puked and then press a cold rag on his head? He fell back onto the pillow, oddly exhausted. A fucking pillow. He squeezed his eyes shut and rasped, "I'm not dead."
"No," the voice said, a note of sympathy in the gentle tone.
"Where am I?" He needed a drink, something to soothe his throat and numb his mind. He was supposed to be dead.
"The cottage behind our house."
Should that mean something to him? And that voice? He knew that voice, but he couldn't place it.
"Levi used to stay out here until he went totally castaway on us."
"Farron?"
She laughed and the sound drifted over his skin like a thousand warm breaths. "So you do know my name."
He knew her name though he couldn't recall ever using it, and he was having a hard time picturing her face. As Levi's sister, Farron had always been off-limits. Levi had made that abundantly clear numerous times. He'd seen firsthand what happened to guys that looked at Farron in any way Levi deemed inappropriate. Guess that's why he'd quit looking at her years ago. Now he wished he'd paid more attention.
"How did I get here?" He'd wanted to die. He deserved death, but as he gulped in the moisture-rich air an overwhelming sense of relief snaked through him, making his arms and legs feel like jelly.
He was alive and it was quiet.
"I found you washed up on the beach." The damp cloth smoothed over his cheek, wiped across his mouth and down his neck. His hand shot out, fingers curling around a delicate wrist. An erratic pulse beat against his finger.
