Page 20 of The Enemy's Daughter

He disappears, and midnight swirls behind my eyes. I let it engulf me. The darkness is emptier of pain this time.

Rough hands draw me back to the light. “Wake up!”

I gasp as my eyes flutter open.

“This is a wedding, Isadora, make no mistake about that. But there are worse things than marrying me.”

Like dying by poison. My gaze blurs. An older woman wearing glasses and holding a small book goes in and out of focus as she speaks. My breathing has taken on a terrifying wheeze that drowns out some of her words. I know exactly what it means. I’m close to death.

But I want to live.

“Make it fast,” Tristan commands.

“Do you—”

“I do,” Tristan says.

“And do you, Isadora—”

It’s like a barbed wire is being threaded through my body. I whimper. My skin stretches and splits at the seams. It’s the only explanation for what I feel.

Tristan holds my face, his eyes desperate. Wild. “If you want the pain to end, if you want to live, then say yes.”

I don’t understand what marriage has to do with any of this. But I believe him that he has something that will help me.

He waits, his jaw so tight it looks like it could crack. He won’t force my hand.

Something gives in me at being allowed to make this decision for myself. To live or die on my terms. I can surrender to the poison and end this pain or accept his promise of hope. The choice is surprisingly easy.

“Yes,” I whisper.I will marry you to save my life.

Tristan’s eyes flick to the people standing to the side as if confirming something before coming back to me. “Louder.”

His urgency adds to mine. “Yes! I do.”

The room bursts into a flurry of noise. Voices. Footsteps. “Is it done?” Tristan asks.

“It is, but sir—”

“Later. Go. Everyone. You, too, Vador. I’m not arguing about this now.”

My eyes are slits as the door shuts. Then Tristan appears beside the bed. With a grunt of pain, he rips off the bandage that I wrapped around his shoulder. His jacket and blood-soaked shirt go next. Then the mattress dips under his weight as he crawls beside me, his head above my face.

What is he doing?

His eyes close. His face tightens with concentration, and then, of all things, he starts to sing.

None of this is real.

Only, the longer I feel his breath and listen to his voice, the more I’m unsure.

The words of a foreign language drift over me as he continues to sing. They’re stilted and quiet, like an unfamiliar lullaby. After a minute, he adjusts his weight on his elbow, then starts again.

I try to lie still beside him, but the pain won’t allow it.

“I’m sorry. I’m messing this up. This isn’t working.” He averts his gaze and lowers his head a little, as if he can’t bear to look me in the eyes. His face is strained. “Isadora, you have to find a way to open up to me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Open up to him? My brows furrow.

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