“No.” He lets out a quick exhale, removes me from his lap, and stands. “Not tonight.”
My gaze lifts to his. Taut lines stretch across his brow, and he holds his jaw tight like he grits his teeth.
“Perhaps soon.” I straighten my surcoat as he nods and disappears into our room.
The pleasure ebbs, leaving me with a tightness in my chest. He’ll always throw walls between us, and I’ll never know what it’s like to truly be his wife.
As I turn toward the sofa and sit, a stark truth stabs me in the chest. I don’t deserve more. I never did. Not with what I intend. Maybe Gabriel was right all along to not bed me.
It’s better this way.
ChapterForty-Two
Aloud, insistent knocking draws me from my attempts to make bread. Over the last three days, I have attempted it more and more. My loaves never come out like Kassandra’s, yet I keep trying. I’m determined to prove to Gabriel that I can cook for him.
I open the door to a pale, trembling Everly. “You must come quickly, Sol. It’s Kassandra.”
Fear strikes at my chest, my heart. “Has something happened to her? Do I need my herbs?”
“Yes,” Kassandra says, her voice frantic. “Please hurry.”
The fear strikes harder, more violently against my chest. With trembling legs, I do as she requested, hurrying back inside, grabbing the satchel and returning to the young woman at my doorstep.
I follow her through the city, my feet scurrying to match hers. We jerk around wagons, people, animals. All the while, my heart races faster and faster.
This cannot be good.
I clutch my satchel closer, willing it to not be too late. Willing my herbs to be able to help. Or maybe my magic, the way I was able to heal Praxis.
Surely, it would be all right to test those waters now. For Kassandra, I would cast a thousand spells. I would draw on my kyanite stone, draining its very essence if necessary.
I take a deep breath as we arrive a few moments later. Everly shoves open the front door to the sounds of crying and moaning. My gaze snaps to Everly as the color drains from her cheeks.
My heart slams against my chest. My hands shake as I hurry to Kassandra’s room to discover a sobbing Averill and a groaning Darla. The older woman rocks back and forth and moans to the gods, or to whomever she is vengeful against.
Frantically, my attention jerks to the bed, to the pale Kassandra. Her skin bruised and bloodied. Her surcoat nearly torn from her body.
My chest aches as I step closer. She doesn’t move. Her chest doesn’t move.
No. No. No.
I crumble beside the mattress and press my fingers against her throat.
No throbbing. No beat. No life.
Chills slice down my arms as I rock forward and let out a cry I couldn’t contain even if I wanted to.
I’m too late.
She already stares vacantly. Her skin is already ashen.
Oh, why couldn’t I have run faster?
Why? Why? Why?
Please.
I check again, pressing my fingers against the area that should show signs of life.
