Page 85 of Promise of Darkness
Nothing but the throbbing drumbeat of “You’re my wife,” echoing in my ears.
It lasts an age.
And just when I think it might very well kill me, I feel the thorns start to dissipate, the pressure finally easing.
Gradually I become aware of a warm body pressing against my side, and the flat of a palm skimming her back.
“Breathe,” whispers the Prince of Evernight. “Just breathe, Vi. You’re through the worst of it.”
I turn my face against his thigh, sucking in a shuddering breath. Every inch of me remains knotted tightly, but the pain is easing. The world around me begins to seep back into my vision, apart from the very centers, which remain white. Blood drips on the floor, and I feel it running hotly down my lip. My nose. My nose is bleeding.
“What happened?”
“The spell that binds your memory has a rather unpleasant sting when it’s shattered.” He tips my chin up with firm hands, examining my face. “It’s nearly killed you before.”
It feels like it came close to killing me now.
I can’t hold my head up. Everything hurts.Everything.
My wife….
I can’t even dwell on what that means, for the mere thought brings pain back upon me with a vengeance.
“I’ve got you,” he says, sweeping me up into his arms.
I can’t fight it.
Instead, I turn my face into his shoulder and suck in a lungful of that familiar scent as he strides toward the door.
* * *
It seemslike eons before my head stops splitting.
The prince offered water, but all I want to do is vomit it back up. Finally, once my stomach stops threatening to rebel, I manage to push myself up onto my elbows.
I’m on the bed in his—my—bedchamber. Dried blood crusts on my lip. My nose stopped bleeding ten minutes ago, and the bloodied remnants of his shirt on the bedside table show how much I’ve lost.
Thiago leans on the fireplace, staring into the flames. There’s no sign of the charismatic prince who greeted me at the Lammastide bonfires. Shadows carve harsh lines into his face, and his eyes are dark and brooding. It should scare me, but I can’t fight the dull ache of familiarity every time I look at him, and now I know why.
Husband.
He’s my husband.
I press my hands to my temples, but the answering ache feels like the dull aftermath of a migraine, and not the excruciating torment of a knife to the brain anymore.
It’s unthinkable. How can I even reconcile his words with the truth? I have no recollection of our marriage. No hint I’ve ever known him, beyond certain scents and words tugging at my mind like elusive will-o’-the-wisps.
And the vague familiarity of his kiss.
I must have made a sound, for Thiago looks around sharply.
“You’re awake.”
“And alive.” Somehow, I manage a hint of a smile. “Barely.”
His face darkens. “Don’t joke about that, please. The first time the spell shattered, you nearly died in my arms.”
“Spell.” Of course, it was a spell. I’ve had a taste of the remnants of a shattered spell turning back on me before, and it felt like it had burned my bones from the inside. This was worse. A thousand times worse. I was certain my brain was dribbling out my ears at one stage. No wonder my nose is still sluggishly bleeding. “I don’t understand. Who cast the spell? What does it do? How…. You and I…?” I draw my knees up to my chest. "Why didn't you tell me?"
