Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,159

soft lips part and that foreign voice comes again: “Don’t m-mourn me, love.”

The sun burns hot through the window but my skin is cold like ice.

Clutching the silver chain, I shake my head fiercely. “No. No, you’re not real.”

“You ran.” Throat working, he takes one step into the chapel and then another. The once maddening, deadly stride is now uneven, his weight leaning heavily on his left leg, and he braces himself twice with a fist on a pew. But his gaze never leaves mine and his lips never stop moving, the words halted, the syllables shattered over a baritone so deep, so gritty, that it feels like a pulse beneath my skin. “You ran and I’ve c-chased you. Caught you. Wherever you are, however you got there, I will find you always, Rowena, until I’m b-buried and gone from this world for good.”

A vow. A promise.

Tears burn the backs of my eyes.

I should leave my spot at the altar, should climb to my feet and meet him in the aisle, but I’m frozen in place, confronted with a hope that I don’t dare believe. “You died.” The chain threatens to draw blood, I clasp it so tight. “I’ve seen you die twice, and I—”

“L-look at me.”

I tip my head back and let my eyes pass greedily over his long legs and the shirt that’s plastered to his broad chest. His dark hair is damp, like he’s recently showered, and his stubble is just as thick, just as rough, as it was last night when I brushed my mouth over his in a kiss that failed to wake him.

We are nothing if not a fairytale steeped in tragedy.

With one hand balanced on the altar, Damien holds his other out to me in a wordless gesture. The same desperation that I feel crawling through my veins is mirrored in his expression. His lips part, his solemn gaze fastened on mine. As though he can already feel my hand against his, his fingers squeeze briefly into a fist before flexing back open.

He’s no shade come to haunt me from the Underworld but neither is he the same infallible god who threw a grown man over one shoulder while ushering me to safety.

He grips the altar because he needs the support, and he rests his weight on his left leg because he clearly fears that his right might give out and send him sprawling to the floor. He was shot. Gunned down like prey, and in those flame-blue eyes, I see a silent plea for me to take his hand, along with the worry that if he lowers himself beside me, he may not rise again.

Vulnerable. Humbled.

Mine.

Choking on a small cry, I slip my hand into his, only to remember too late that I’m still holding the necklace. It dangles between us, a divider that I ignore because he’s alive. Breathing, living, before me, and I don’t know whether to throw my arms around his waist or bury my face in his chest. Or both.

“Damien, I—”

“Who gave this to you?” he asks, his velvet voice so raw that it’s unrecognizable. When I look at him, questioning, he flips our hands over to reveal the necklace pooled in his palm.

I dance my fingers over the links. It may not be a lucky charm, but I can’t deny that having it over these last few days has offered me comfort. Having something of Damien’s was better than having none of him at all. “The queen. Your brother left it behind in Oxford, and she brought it with her to return to you.”

Like fire trapped behind a pane of glass, the blue of Damien’s stare is visceral. Haunted. Wanting to soothe him, I skim my hand up his corded forearm, then over the ball of his shoulder, until I’m framing his face, the thick stubble of his beard scraping my skin. His lids fall shut and a hard breath escapes him. When he angles his head to press his lips to the center of my palm, my toes curl into the stone floor.

I love you.

I’m yours, today and forevermore.

“No one comes into this world bearing h-hate,” he utters roughly, before I can even open my mouth to confess. “It’s something we’re taught, something that shapes us. But in the b-beginning, before we’re irrevocably hardened, we’re born to love.”

A shiver skates down my spine.

“I forgot what life could be without the rage.” Interlacing our fingers, he brushes my knuckles against his cheek, back and forth. Gentle. Affectionate.