Page 32 of Iron Roses
Did she see Giovanna’s portraits? The ones I refused to move, even when the memories clawed at me like open wounds? Did she stare into her sister’s eyes and feel nothing?
Or worse—did she feel everything?
My fists curl at my sides.
The altar.
Did she touch it?
A thin vein throbs beneath my temple. I shove the thought down. Bury it deep.
Because if she touched the stone—while still bound to me... and my blood, once given, had been stirred, defiled, mixed with Giovanna’s—
The consequences would not be symbolic. They would be real.
No. I tell myself she fainted from shock. The cold. The scent of memory clinging to stone and shadow.
A soft sound escapes her lips.
“…water…”
I blink.
Her mouth parts again, breath shallow. “Water…”
I move across the room. My hand slides over the pitcher. Glass clinks against porcelain. I fill it halfway. I bring the cup back.
At her side, I ease down—one knee on the mattress, the other braced on the floorboards. The bed dips beneath me. My palm slips behind her neck, cradling her upright. She stirs but doesn’t wake.
Her skin is clammy. Sweat beads faintly at her hairline.
The glass tips against her lips. She drinks—thirsty, unconscious, greedy—and some of it trickles past the corner of her mouth.
I catch it with my thumb.
When she’s done, I draw the glass away, careful not to let it clink. I shift, preparing to rise—
Her hand curls around my wrist. A tether. Loose but insistent.
She tugs.
Half-asleep, she shifts against me, forehead pressing to my chest like it’s instinct. Her breath is warm where it touches my shirt.
Then—
“Cas…”
Soft.
Barely audible.
My heart stops.
“You smell so good…” she murmurs, the words breaking into a smile as her hand flattens over my ribs.
Still half asleep. Still half in dreams.
I don’t move.
