Despite all the wise choices he'd made over the centuries, despite all his sage counsel that had helped others . . . when it had truly counted, his logic had failed him. He'd made a colossal mistake.
One that might cost him his life-and, worse, cost him Bettina.
He didn't fear death; he'd lived long enough. No, Trehan feared never seeing her again. He dreaded what would happen to her in the coming days. Likely wed to Gourlav, if the demon advances-and if my cousins fail to protect her.
"I'll assist you with Lothaire," he'd told the three of them, "if you vow always to safeguard Bettina. . . ."
Now regret hammered at Trehan. He'd thought he could personally present the bag to her, gentling her reaction; he hadn't expected to be at sword point while Vrekener heads bounced before her eyes.
With no warning.
Realization was dawning on Bettina's pale face, and there was nothing Trehan could do to remedy this, forced to watch helplessly.
"Heads, Bettina!" Morgana cried, clasping her hands to her breast and batting her eyes. "A bag full of them! Just like you've always wanted!" Trehan could hear the sorceress adding under her breath, "Not the most original of gifts, true. But these do appear to be fresh."
Bettina looked like she was about to vomit.
Fuck.
Zeii mea, I've . . . failed. After the momentous day he'd experienced?
Before dawn, he'd shot awake, fresh from a dream. For days he'd failed to access the memory he'd sought from Bettina's drops of blood.
Finally, he'd succeeded; he'd relived her attack.
Her beating. Trehan had felt everything, every last second of the horror as a tender young girl was savaged by winged fiends in the name of "good."
My Bride savaged. Her limbs broken at angles, her skull and pelvis cracked. Two ribs rupturing her skin. Blood painting her body.
Long after she'd accepted death, when she'd ceased screaming and her pleas had fallen silent, they'd still brutalized her.
Only Raum's summoning had saved her from slowly burning to death.
Trehan had awakened to his own howl of rage, covered in shredded fur. His fangs had been sharp as razors.
Hungering to punish, he'd envisioned flesh rending beneath his fangs, arteries plucked with his claws. Dear gods, yes, to punish.
Breaths heaving, he'd collected his sword, gripping his talisman. Trehan had hoped that with her memory of those attackers, he could use their identities and the crystal to trace directly to them. Sword in hand, he'd pictured the first one's face, then begun to trace, having no idea if this would work. . . .
It had been night in the air territories, the shadows plentiful. He'd smiled, baring his fangs, knowing he was a chilling sight.
One by one he'd meted out retribution for his Bride; one by one he'd gathered their heads.
Trehan and Bettina were indeed connected. Her attack had happened the day he'd had that ominous sense. Had his Bride been calling out through the ether, calling for her male?
I answered today.
He'd returned to Rune still filled with rage, but knowing he had to win this round tonight.
Yes, an eventful day to die. Momentous.
Disastrous.
Strange-he'd never truly failed before. Figured his first time would result in his death.
Can't stop shaking. With unsteady steps, Bettina sank down in her seat.
The contents of that bag had shocked her, then dredged up horrors she'd desperately tried to bury.