Page 76 of Dark Night of the Soul

“Yes,” I said with a nod.

I knew what I was asking. That one or both of us could get hurt. But I had to know. I had to know if I could fight this. I couldn’t let it control me.

“But I’m the one who hurts you.”

His expression said it all. He despised this idea.

“I won’t hold it against you,” I said, trying for levity. He was not amused. “You’re the trigger. It’s the only way we can test it.”

“Fuck, Anna. I hate this idea.”

“I know.” I didn’t look away from him. I wanted to, but I didn’t. “I can’t do this without you, though.”

A long silence as he stared me down, trying to decide if I was a lunatic. It was likely the worst idea in the history of ever, but I had to know.

He was quiet for a long moment. His mouth formed a thin line. “Fine. But we do this smart. Small steps.”

“Agreed.” Relief flooded through me, even as my stomach knotted with anxiety.

“What triggered it before?” he asked.

I tried to think back through the fog. “In the first safe house... you moved too quick at the window. I didn’t even see you, just felt the movement.” The memory made my skin crawl. “And then later, when you...” I gestured vaguely. “When you touched my wrist. That set it off, too.”

“Fast movement. Touch.” He said it like he was cataloging threats. “What didn’t trigger it?”

“The car.” I frowned, trying to remember. “You were right there. Close. But nothing happened until I fell asleep and had the nightmare.”

“So, proximity alone isn’t enough.”

“Not by itself.” I met his eyes. “But we don’t know, do we? We’re guessing based on two incidents.”

He nodded. “So, we test variables. Movement first. Slow. At distance.”

“Okay.” My heart was already racing. “Like... what? You walk across the room?”

“If that’s what you want to start with.”

God, this was insane. We were treating me like a bomb that needed defusing. But he was right. We had to start somewhere.

“Normal movement?” I said. “Like you’re getting coffee or something?”

“Normal movement. Across the room.” He glanced at the open space between the kitchen and the small living area. Fifteen feet. “And if anything starts—any pressure, any feeling—you tell me. We stop.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

“Anna.” He waited until I looked at him. “I mean it. The second something feels wrong, you say stop.”

“I will.”

We stared at each other for a long minute, neither of us moving, like a Mexican standoff. My palms broke into a hot sweat. I waited. He waited.

I got to my feet. He walked across the room, past me and into the small living room.

Nothing happened. Not even a glimmer of pain.

“Well,” I said after a minute. “That was anticlimactic.”

“Be serious,” he snapped.