Page 31 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

For her.

Because if I don’t make it—if I leave her alone in this world, in my world—I know she’ll never be the same.

I can’t let that happen.

A sharp gust of wind blows through the pier, cold and biting, sending a fresh chill down my spine. Or maybe—maybe it’s just me.

Maybe I’m already fading.

I exhale, my breath shaky, weak. My body is sinking, exhaustion pressing harder, dragging me under.

I barely feel it when Isabella cups my face, her touch soft, trembling.

“I’m here,” she whispers, her voice fierce through the tears. “Don’t close your eyes. Look at me!”

I want to answer her. Want to promise her I won’t.

But the darkness comes too fast.

My body feels distant now, a numb, floating thing. The sounds muffle. The burden of responsibility lifts.

The last thing I see— the last thing I focus on—is her.

Then—darkness.

Chapter 11 - Isabella

Dominic’s room feels… smaller, oppressive. It’s dimly lit and the faint scent of antiseptic cling to the sheets. I’ve spent the last two days trapped in his room, watching over him, waiting for him to wake up.

And now—finally—he stirs.

Dominic was dying.

At least, that was what it felt like as I watched Charles drag his limp, blood-soaked body toward the waiting car. His face was paler than I had ever seen it, his breaths shallow and uneven, as if each one took every ounce of strength he had left. My own hands were slick with his blood, sticky and warm, clinging to my skin like some kind of morbid reminder that this was real—that the man who always seemed untouchable was now teetering on the edge of death.

"We need to move—now."

Charles’ voice was sharp with urgency as he wrestled Dominic into the backseat of the black SUV, his usual controlled demeanor fraying at the edges.

I moved to follow, heart pounding, but Charles whirled on me.

"This isn’t your place, Isabella." His eyes were hard, his tone clipped. "You shouldn’t even be here."

"He’s hurt because of me. I’m not going anywhere."

Charles releases a sharp breath, his gaze shifting between me and Dominic’s unconscious form. Frustration lingers in his expression, but beneath it, there’s a trace of reluctant understanding.

"Fine," he muttered, yanking open the driver’s side door. "But don’t get in the way."

I barely heard him as I climbed into the backseat, pulling the door shut behind me. The car reeked of blood and gunpowder, the tension inside unbearable. Dominic slumped against the leather, his head lolling to the side, and I reached out without thinking, my fingers brushing against his clammy skin. Too cold.

"Stay with me," I whispered, more to myself than to him.

His only response was a shallow breath.

The ride back was agonizing, filled with silence except for the harsh wheeze of Dominic’s breathing. Charles drove like a man possessed. I kept my hands pressed to Dominic’s wound, applying pressure as best I could, but the blood kept coming, staining everything it touched. It felt endless.

Every few seconds, I glanced down at him, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, searching for any sign that he was still with me. His lashes fluttered slightly, but his eyes never opened.

---