Page 55 of Once Charmed, Twice Cursed
I crawl the last few feet. My half-dead fingers snag the dress’s hem.
Finally, a bit of luck, because the gown slides from the hanger as if leaping into my hands.
I manage to get my yellow dress off. That takes an hour. I put the wedding dress on. That takes two.
I pass out.
When I regain consciousness, panic sets in. Maybe I’ve missed my chance. I have no idea what time it is, what day it is...
What if the duke has come and gone again?
A sob rips from my abused throat. More follow on its heels, but my tortured body produces no tears. I don’t have the water for it. I barely have enough energy to drag myself to the door, where I collapse in a tangle of white brocade and nerveless limbs.
Another year crawls by.
I wait. I float. I fade. I fall.
At long last, the door cracks open. I squeeze my eyes shut, recoiling from the hallway’s too-bright light.
The duke’s boots scuff against the carpet.
“Please,” I say. My plea comes out brittle and cracked, like a dry branch breaking in the heat of summer. “I’ll marry you. Iwantto.”
“I know,” he says. “Even if you didn’t, I would’ve come for you anyway, Birdie.”
Chapter Nineteen
That voice.
I open my eyes. Or try. My dried-out lids stick to my eyeballs, and I have to force the movement. On the third attempt, my lashes part with reluctance.
I find myself face-to-face with black boots.
I roll onto my back, my gaze traveling up over black-clad legs. Next comes a black shirt that laces at the neck. Then a mask—black fabric, framing amber eyes that slowly fill with horror.
The most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.
“Jack,” I croak. “It’s you.”
“Birdie?” he bleats. “What happened to you?”
Such a surplus of emotion crushes my insides that I pass out again.
When I come to, it’s in snatches. Weston is carrying me, I think, because my head lolls and my ankles bob. The world flickers. I glimpse a door with four stout deadbolts, a keyring jammed into its bottom lock. A long, decadent hallway. A manlying on the carpet, beaten senseless, his face too bloodied to be recognizable—my guard, probably. Whoever he was.
Then we’re in a dim, cramped stairwell, some back passage intended for staff to use.
“What did he do to you?” someone is saying, over and over again. The voice sounds enraged, and yet it’s safety. It’s love. It’s home.
“Starved me,” I say. “No water.”
Darkness comes for me again.
Only—no, we’ve just gone outside, because when I blink, stars hover overhead, peering at me with concern.
“I’ll kill him.” A world of fire roars inside Weston’s words. “He’ll die for this.”
“No, don’t. He’ll...” Fortuna, every syllable strips my throat raw. “Just leave it alone. Your curse. He’ll hurt you.”
