I rolled over, pushed to my hands and knees, and crawled toward him. Lying prostrate at his feet, I said, “I can’t go with you. You’ve got to leave me here to die. I refuse to keep living—Balthazar will continue to hunt me and take whatever’s left. You’ve got to let me go.”
My body shook with sobs.
Somehow, Grey Feather pulled himself out of his grief and said in a strong, clear voice, “You’re going with us. We’ll find Roman. We leave tomorrow and will take care of you, Little Moon.”
“No!” I wailed. “I refuse to go with you.”
“And I refuse to listen to you. You’re going, and that’s final! We need to find a place where we can all heal—you’re not the only one who’s suffering. I lost my only son as well as my wife. I, too, am grieving.”
He turned and lumbered from the teepee, leaving me alone once more.
I rose to my knees and tore at my hair and face.
“I’m not leaving,” I said to no one. “I’m going to stay and kill myself.”
I lurched to my feet and paced unsteadily around my living quarters. As I walked, sweat poured down my face and neck. My stench wafted from my unwashed body, drifting toward my nose, making me want to gag. My legs began to give way. I was too weak to perform the simple act of pacing. So, I fell to the ground, buried my face in the furs, and cried myself to sleep.
My dreams were no better. I roamed through bleak landscapes, where thunder shook the skies, and the rain poured down in stinging sheets. I slogged through the mud. I swam through streams. Then, I sank beneath my liquid world of tears, watching Balthazar shove me backward and kicking me brutally against the ground.
I saw Roman, blood pouring from his body, rivers of crimson coloring the stream I swam through. The ruby-red liquid got in my eyes, nose, and mouth. I gulped Roman’s blood, drinking it as if it would keep me close to him. I choked and coughed on his life essence as if my body rejected it. And then I began violently heaving, and ropy strings of scarlet burst from my mouth, swirling around my face.
A man lifted me from the deep water and brought me to shore.
“Wake up, Olivia,” he said. “Wake up.”
Startled, I burst awake.
A faint glimmer of light came from the few glowing embers in my fire.
Is that a shadow moving around me? Wait. It looks like the outline of a man.
I squinted, trying to see something, anything. “Who’s there?”
The man said nothing.
But I thought I saw a glimmer of emerald green flashing from his eyes.
Not possible, Olivia. You’re hallucinating. It’s pretty dark in here. How can I possibly see the color green?
The door flap lifted, revealing a sliver of the moon. The outline of a man stood watching me before stooping to leave.
“Don’t go,” I said.
I tried to get up, but my legs wouldn’t carry me.
“Don’t try to come to me,” the man said in a British accent similar to Roman’s. “Save your strength. I will come to you.”
He crossed the teepee with supernatural speed and grace. His warm hands touched my face, and I wanted to weep joyfully at the soothing contact. His lips found my forehead, and he kissed my eyebrows, eyelids, and head.
“I want you to get better. I want you to get strong.”
I didn’t fight him. Instead, I melted into his touch.
His fingertips burrowed into my scalp, massaging and caressing. “Get strong, Olivia. Let me help you heal.”
His voice came from nowhere and everywhere, all at once, echoing around me. The deep baritone reached inside my soul and found a place inside me that still wanted to live, love, and find Roman again and make more babies.
But I wanted to see the man who stirred me this way, reaching past my grief and discovering a glimmer of something undamaged. His words and kisses served to fuel me back to life. I strained my eyes, peering hard into the blackness that permeated the teepee.
