Page 150 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days
Of watching the life drain out of his eyes.
When he turned around, Alexandra had retrieved his pistol, and stood in the middle of the crypt slowly turning in a bewildered circle. Her unfocused eyes shifted restlessly as she pointed the gun at Patrick’s facedown corpse, then to what little was left of Julia, before landing on Forsythe, whose blood still gurgled from his neck.
Piers dropped him like the sack of refuse he was, a grateful euphoria weakening his knees at the sight of her. God, but she was precious. She was alive.
She was his.
And she loved him.
He put his hand up, reaching for her. “You’re safe,” he said, rounding the dais and approaching her cautiously.
She gripped the gun, staring at him as though his presence startled her. As though she’d only just awoken from a nightmare to find herself surrounded by this chaos.
“Piers?” she mouthed, then winced, putting a hand to her ear.
He went to her, the ringing in his own ears only abating slightly as he slid his hand down her arm and relieved her of the pistol before abandoning it to the platform. “Can you hear me?” he asked gently. “Are you hurt?”
“I can hear you… barely.” Her body trembled like she’d spent the night in a snowdrift, and her pallor began to worry him. “What a mess,” she exclaimed, her voice breaking as she truly took in the aftermath of the horror.
“Don’t look,” he admonished her, reaching out once again.
She flinched away, staggering a little.
“What a disaster,” she murmured, a crimp appearing between her brows. “A tragedy. I’m sorry they wanted to hurt you, Piers. I’m sorry. I should… I should help clean it up. I am used to the dead. But I think I might be sick if I tried. My stomach couldn’t take it… it’s so unsteady. It hurts so much.”
Piers paused, disconcerted by her nonsensical torrent of words.
Tears streaked down her face when she looked back up at him, and he could stand it no longer. “I’m going to hold you, Alexandra.” he warned. “Probably tighter than is comfortable. And you are going to let me.”
“It’s all right,” she said in a voice belonging to a girl much younger. “I don’t need…”
“I do! Dammit,” he all but roared. “Now be still.”
He dragged her against him, cloak and all, not realizing until she was safe in his arms that he trembled just as mightily as she did.
She leaned into him, slightly at first, and then heavier, burrowing her arms into his jacket.
He couldn’t stop saying her name. He chanted it like asong, a psalm, a prayer, enfolding himself around her, over her, stroking her hair, dragging her scent deeper into his lungs with every breath.
He swept her out of the room, taking her a few strides down the catacomb tunnel before resting his back against the dank stone wall, allowing themselves a dark place to fall apart for a moment.
To know nothing but each other.
To feel alive.
They’d always connected here, in the darkness. It was a place they could be honest. Truly, finally honest.
“You… you know everything about me now,” she whispered. “All my secrets. I’m a murderer.”
He made a derisive noise. “And I don’t bloody care,” he said fiercely. “Alexandra, if you didn’t notice, I’ve killed more men today than you have in your lifetime. I meant what I said, the only reason I would take back what you did is so that I could do the deed myself. So it wouldn’t weigh on your conscience, so the blood didn’t stain your hands, because I’d be happy to bathe in it.”
She wept softly against his chest, and he belatedly realized he might have said too much, might have shown her more of his ferocity than she was capable of enduring at the moment.
“B-but… de Marchand wouldn’t have killed me, he said as much.” She gathered a wretched breath. “It isn’t the same as fighting for your life.”
“Yes it is,” he hissed, squelching the urge to shake her. Or kiss her. Or… Or… whatever would keep her from giving in to her pain or her guilt. “You saw what he made of Lady Throckmorton. There is no question you fought for your life, Alexandra, no fucking question. There are fates worse than death, and he could have made what was left of your childhood a living hell. More than he already has.”
She was silent for a time, sniffing in hitching breaths. Burrowing deeper against him, as if she couldn’t get close enough to his warmth.
