opened her eyes when he laid her on something soft. A bed. Were they home? And when had she started considering Maccus’s place home?
The handle of the dagger still protruded from her. The pain tore through her, becoming unbearable.
He tore open her shirt and dragged her bra off, tossing it aside. As he finished stripping away her clothes, he swore. The sound of his voice helped ease the pain.
When she chuckled, his head jerked up and he pinned her with a glare. She coughed and moaned. “Impressive swearing,” she managed to get out. At least five languages she’d recognized and many she hadn’t.
“This is going to hurt,” he warned.
“Already does.” She fisted her hands in the sheets and gritted her teeth. Maccus wrapped his hand around the handle and yanked. She screamed as pain ripped through her.
Blood spurted from the hole in her chest now that the knife wasn’t blocking it. Maccus grabbed a pillow and pressed it against the wound.
She wasn’t going to make it. The world got fuzzy around the edges, and the darkness followed. Panic filled her. She was going to Hell.
Maccus swore and pressed hard against her chest.
She gathered her strength and used the last of her breath. “Love you.”
He jerked back as though she’d hit him. Not the reaction she’d hoped for. But Maccus wasn’t an ordinary man.
She loved him—had been ready to die for him. The only other person she’d been willing to do that for had been her sister.
Kayley. Where was her sister?
Something had happened.
Something.
Then the world faded away into nothingness.
…
“No! No! No!” He yanked the pillow away. It was soaked with her precious blood. He didn’t know what to do to help her, wasn’t versed in even basic first aid. What didn’t kill him made him stronger. But she was different.
She loved him.
That’s what she’d said. Maybe it was delirium. She certainly couldn’t remember he’d killed her sister.
Now she was dying in his arms.
He threw back his head and roared. The chords of his neck ached with the strain of his fury. Why? It would have been better to have never met her than to have her for so little time.
His breathing grew deeper and heavier. The sweet scent of Morrigan mixed with the stench of her sweat and blood.
Blood. Could he stop the bleeding?
He manifested one of his blades from his body. Holding it in his hand, he willed it to heat. Her breathing was almost nonexistent. He forced himself to ignore her and focus on the blade. They were an extension of him, a part of him, just like the tiny sliver of light left from his time as an angel. He pulled on it, dragged it from the depths of his soul where it resided to the surface.
The blade quivered in his hand as though trying to escape from the light.
Ruthlessly, he forced his body and soul to comply, bending both to his will. It might kill him, but so be it.
Bright light radiated from his palm, and the tip of the blade exploded in a blaze of white fire.
He laid the flat of the blade against her skin, covering the wound. The stink of burning flesh was overwhelming, but he held on, pouring the light into her.
“Come on,” he muttered. This had to work. There were no other options.
The light on the blade began to fade. “Not yet.” Sweat beaded on his forehead, and tears bled from his eyes as he pushed himself to the limits of endurance. Finally, he was so weak, the light snapped back and retreated, dimmer than it had been before.
Maccus pulled the blade away and stared down at her chest.
The wound was gone. The bleeding hadn’t just stopped, there was no scar, no blood, and no sign there ever had been a knife in her chest.
He slumped forward, barely having enough energy to catch himself before he fell on top of her. His knife