Page 188 of Heat of the Everflame

“No,” he said harshly. “This hasnothingto do with that. This is not your fault. None of it is.”

“Then why are you—” I stopped and squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. “It doesn’t matter. I told you, I’ve made up my mind.”

“Diem—”

I placed a finger over his lips, and he fell silent. My shoulders rose and fell, my pulse hammering in my ears. “At the Challenging, when I realized the truth of why you’d Challenged me, I swore to myself I would never doubt you again. And that’s a promise I’m trying to keep.”

My palm slid to his cheek. His skin was on fire beneath my touch, triggering a wave of alarm bells somewhere deep in my brain, but the words were coming faster than I could stop them.

“My father told me that loving someone doesn’t always mean brutal honesty. He said you don’t have toseeall of someone toloveall of someone. I didn’t believe him then, but now... I think I understand.” I smiled softly. “Love isn’t contingent on never keeping a secret. It’s about trust. It’s about standing together, even when you don’t understand, and never giving up, even when things get hard.”

His eyes grew wide. I stepped closer until our chests pressed together. Like clockwork, his hands curved around my waist and folded me in, our bodies becoming a single, pulsing thing.

“You said I was a Queen worth fighting for. Luther Corbois, you’re worth fighting for, too.”

My forehead leaned to his. “If you don’t want to be with me, tell me, and I’ll let you go.” I raised on my toes and pressed a soft, tender kiss to his lips. “But I don’t think that’s what you want at all, is it?”

His arms wrapped tighter around me in wordless response.

“So keep your secrets. Push me away, if that’s what you need. When you’re ready, I’ll still be here.” I kissed him again, deeper this time, leaning into him as my hand trailed down his torso. “For you, I will always be h—”

As my hand crossed his hips, his body shuddered and hunched inward, a pained groan bursting from his lips.

I recoiled as he collapsed against the table and sank to the floor. I reached for him, then froze, horrified at the sight of a blackish-red liquid coating my hand.

“Luther, you’rebleeding.”

His head hung low as he clutched at his waist. “I know.”

“You’re wounded.” I kneeled in front of him and began yanking at the buttons of his jacket. He made a halfhearted attempt to stop me, but after I shoved his hand away, his head thumped back against a chair, his eyes dull and pleading. “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry. I’ve failed you again.”

“You’ve never failed me,” I scolded. “How did you get hurt? What happened at the bathhouse?”

I grunted in frustration at my hands, which were trembling too hard to manage the intricate fastenings. I spied a small dagger on the table and snatched it, then ripped its blade along the fabric.

“Not the bathhouses,” he panted. “Arboros.”

I stilled. “Arboros?”

The dread that had been quietly pacing in the depths of my chest reared its ugly head and roared with all its might. I dropped the blade and clawed frantically at the fabric, yanking it free of his chest.

And I screamed.

Only it wasn’t a scream—no sound came out at all. Because it wasn’t my voice. It was my hopes, my joys, my every happiness fleeing my soul at once.

Low on his hips, a wrap of gauze was soaked through with dark blood, the surrounding skin swollen with infection. Spreading in every direction, stretching up his scarred chest and circling his neck, was a thick, tangled web of blackened veins.

Poisoned veins.

Godstone.

Chapter

Thirty-Nine

It all made sense.

Awful, horrible, dreadful sense.

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