As his surprise faded, the math that followed was quick. “No wonder you kept it a secret. The fucking glymera—”
“Does this change how you think of me?” Her eyes locked on the fire, as if she couldn’t bear to see any disapproval on his face. “You can be honest. Please.”
Boone recoiled. “Of course it doesn’t. Did the fact that I fell in love with a civilian change your opinion of me?”
“Are you serious?” Rochelle frowned. “Not at all. I was just glad you were happy. Are happy, that is.”
“Well, I only want you to be happy. As far as I’m concerned, that’s all that matters.”
Lowering her head back into her hands, Rochelle started to shake—and Boone stroked her shoulder, letting her have a moment of emotional release.
“She’s dead,” Rochelle said. “My love is dead . . .”
“Oh, God.” Boone eased to the side and got out a handkerchief from the back pocket of his leathers. “She’s dead?”
Sniffling, Rochelle accepted the square and pressed it to her face. “She’s dead and part of me died with her. I haven’t been the same since. I am never going to be the same.”
“Dearest Virgin Scribe . . . Rochelle. Tell me what happened.” He rubbed her back again. “From the beginning. And I can’t imagine what it’s like, holding this all in.”
His friend took a shuddering breath. “When I came here, a year ago, to break the arrangement with you, she and I had decided to stop fighting the attraction and commit to a relationship. I was scared about my family finding anything out, but she was . . . she was my whole world. I’d never been so happy, so complete. And she didn’t know about you. She didn’t know about . . . all of this and everything that comes with it.” Rochelle indicated the formal room with her hand. “I knew I couldn’t go through with the mating with you. Not just because of what it would do to her, but because of what it would do to you. Both of you deserved more than that. And she especially deserved my respect and my love. She was no one’s shameful secret.”
“So you came here . . .”
“And I told you, and you called me brave.” Rochelle sniffed again and patted her nose. “I’m not brave. I was trying to hold on to my family and have her at the same time. I knew my parents would never understand or accept her, and worse, I’m their only offspring. After me? There is no one left of the bloodline. I was hemming and hawing over this socalled problem . . . when . . .”
Distantly, he caught a whiff of hot chocolate and straightened. Maybe he should tell Helania to wait a moment? After all, even though he trusted Helania with everything in his life, she was a stranger to Rochelle.
“Ah . . . listen, Rochelle.” He reached for her hand. “I’m just going to—”
As the contact with his friend’s palm was made, Boone froze, a sense of shock and disbelief flooding through him. While Rochelle sniffed again and looked at him as if she were waiting for him to finish her sentence, he slowly turned her hand over.
There, in the center, was a network of fine scars that had been salted into place.
“What is it?” she asked him.
Boone swallowed hard as he stared at the wounds. “Where did you get these?”
“I buried my love. Out at a state park. With her sister—” The crash of a tray shattered the quiet, and Boone jumped up. Helania was standing in the archway of the parlor, her face white, her hands shaking, the mugs of hot cocoa and plates of sandwiches in a mess at her feet.
“What are you doing here?” she croaked out to Rochelle.
Helania went completely numb as she stared at the female who was sitting, composed as a matron, on Boone’s formal sofa. The clothes and the jewelry were nothing familiar, nor was the makeup or the hairstyle, but the face . . . that face was unforgettable.
And the recognition was not only on Helania’s side.
The female slowly stood up, her hand falling out of Boone’s, her visage going pale. “It’s . . . you.”
Helania went to take a step forward, but when she put her foot down, it was on broken china. Falling off-balance, she caught herself on the archway’s molding. When she looked up next, the female was right in front