I didn’t want to lose that illusion of a different life, a different path—one I could have walked if revenge didn’t burn a flame inside me.
Now, the illusion is all gone.
Most of the cottages are on fire. The streets are lined with bodies. The sky is thick with smoke.
It’s all gone, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do to draw that picture again. To make it real. Vivid. Worth living.
Kassandra’s death was the first sign that I could never stay here.
This is the last.
I sit in the tent Gabriel had raised for us earlier. Gabriel kneels in front of me. Concentration lines deepen across his brow as he holds a cloth against the cut. Fire explodes through my side as I keep perfectly still. If I thrash or stiffen, it will only make the pain worse.
After several moments, he pulls the material back. “It’s deep, but not too long. You’re lucky.”
“Lucky?” I ask when the throbbing subsides enough to think. “Lucky would have meant not getting injured.”
Gabriel sinks back against his heels. “You are fortunate the injury isn’t worse.”
As he stitches my wound, I try to think of anything other than the searing pain. It refuses to wane or to fade. So, I concentrate on my breathing, and I count the amount of times the torch shudders over the tent. Five hundred and fifty-seven. Or was it five hundred and fifty-eight?
After he finishes, he stands and moves to the washing stand. He cleans his hands, dries them, then turns to where I sit.
“I saw you with Addie.”
I shiver and readjust my position, slumping deeper against the sofa Gabriel dragged into our makeshift home. “When Luc came to get her?”
“No. Before.” He grabs a blanket from the table and places it over me, draping it to warm my body. “I tried to reach her. Then, you were there, grabbing her. Fighting.”
“Oh.” I dig my thumb into my palm and avoid his gaze.
“You were brave.”
“Gabriel, I—”
“—there’s no need to fret, Sol. I’m complimenting you.” He moves to where I sit, kneels, and grabs my hand, stopping my movement. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“It doesn’t.” I swallow and pin my focus beyond his shoulders. “I don’t even think about it anymore.”
“You should.” He turns my hand over and runs his fingers against my palm. “You need a new outlet, something that will not cause you injury.” Tenderly, he lifts my hand and presses his mouth against the indentation.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Nobody has ever touched me so caringly before. Nor has anyone ever tried to stop my habit.
“I’ll stop,” I whisper.
“Are you just saying that?”
“No.”
Boldly, I scoot forward enough to brush my mouth against his. He clutches my shoulders and deepens the kiss. I welcome it, the familiarity, threading between us. The warmth that pierces the ice the Malachite’s attack left.
He pulls away and skims my cheek with his knuckles. “Would you like wine?”
I swallow and try to not think about him ending our kiss so soon. “I’m all right.”
His attention lowers to my side and lifts back to me. “Are you certain?”
“I am not a piece of pottery. I will not shatter from a simple wound.”
