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When she next calls out to him - seemingly unwittingly - through the tether, he isn’t surprised to find her in the Little Palace. He does give a start when he recognizes her surroundings, hazy though they are around her, his vivid central focus. Memory fills in the gaps to sketch the six severe walls, the stained wood bookshelves, the wink of mother-of-pearl constellations amidst the inky obsidian of the ceiling high above… and, centrally, the canopied bed, which is a different kind of familiar with Alina beside it.
As she reaches down to run a hand across his pillow, her head bows slightly: a living Saint, his to mold. The smooth, dark strands of her hair glimmer in the barest hint of moonlight. Her brow is furrowed, lost in thought. Something in the way she carries herself - the brace of her shoulders, perhaps - speaks to a new kind of power, someone adjusting to a position of command.
He feels a tightening in his chest. He aches with recognition, and something else he cannot name.
“Alina,” he utters aloud, because he cannot keep her name from his lips, not when she is in this place. He wanted nothing more than for her to truly call this palace her home, but at his side. To see her here, now, brazen in his chambers, ignites a quiet rage in him… and a not-insignificant stir of longing.
Her eyes snap open as she spins to face him. He relishes the twist of fear across her features, the tightening at the corners of her mouth as she bites back a shriek. The proud set of her shoulders gives way to a hunch, as though her body still hasn’t learned that she is a weapon, and it sends a little stab of pleasure through him to see her armor fall. The subtle wave of guilt that follows underneath, however, is less expected. He’s missed her, and as he hinted in taunts to the tracker on that accursed pirate’s vessel, there are far more interesting ways he can think of to make her scream.
“My Alina,” he murmurs, like a prayer, as much in supplication as awe. He thinks of her laid out among the sheets she ran her hands across moments ago, her hair blending in with the pillow, the pale gold of her skin against silken black, and he thinks how easy it would be to find his own way to worship Sankta Alina.
He slowly paces around the bed, wrestling with each step between the thrill of seeing her again and the aggravation of knowing she’s only here to further rebel. Her hands move from clapped over her mouth to her eyes - so she still thinks she can hide from this, begs it to be an illusion, is that it? Undeniably, he intends to shape her sense of reality, but this isn’t quite what he had in mind. He should be more than a hallucination to her, the one thing she always knows to be true. He comes to a halt a single pace in front of her, and when she opens her eyes again, panic flares in them. She backs against the wall and makes a delightfully unnerved sound.
In a different version of events, one where Baghra did not stick her nose in where it was not wanted, after the fete, he could have had Alina pressed up against that wall and breathless far before now. It’s that spark of resentment that pushes him to lift an arm and extend it toward her, even knowing that he will not be able to actually make contact. He needs to touch her, even as a phantom.
“You cannot run from me,” he whispers. You were made for me. Together, we will never be alone again, don’t you understand?
The impossible happens: his fingers make contact with the soft skin of her cheek, and he feels it. Not like he does when they are truly together - it lacks the zing of her power sharpening against his amplifier ability - but she is solid, real, against every singing nerve ending in his fingertips. He feels his eyes widen, hunger taking root - just as she uncurls herself and flings her hands up, blasting the room with all the heat and brilliance of the sun.