Page 197 of Of Sins and Sacrifice

His hand comes down from his hair as he traces his new scar.

“I’m sorry if this offends you. It should get better with time.” He pauses, frowning. “I hope,” he adds under his breath.

“You think it offends me?” I repeat in outrage. That was the last thing I would have ever thought about. “Have you gone daft, Mine? Did this illness also addle your brain?” I shoot back.

His eyes widen in surprise.

“You don’t look like a monster, and they don’t bother me in the least.” I roll my eyes. “Here I was admiring you, in a rather positive way, I might add, and you think I’m offended by your scars?” I huff aloud. “The only thing I am offended about is that you would even think tha?—”

I squeak in surprise as he grabs me by the waist and moves me to his lap as if I weighed nothing.

Our faces are inches apart, the green of his eyes making me gulp uneasily as my stomach makes a sudden somersault.

“You maddening, beautiful, brave female,” he whispers.

Slowly, I lift my hands and frame his jaw within my palms, tracing the scars with my thumbs.

“Does it still hurt?” I ask in a whisper. Up close, I can see that though closed, the wounds are still red and puckered.

“No, not anymore. Because of your blood,” he says as he takes my left hand and presses a kiss to the inside of my palm. “I’m fine now, though a little worse on the eyes.” He lets out a dry laugh.

I pull my hand away.

“Stop this,” I tell him firmly. “I don’t care if you had a million scars. I only care about this,” I say as I stab one finger into his chest. Then I move it up to his head. “And this.” I press against his temple. “I’m not shallot,” I declare.

He blinks and stares at me. Then he suddenly bursts into laughter.

“Shallow,” he corrects.

“Whatever. I’m not that, all right?”

“All right,” he replies softly.

“Good,” I huff.

He chuckles and leans in to place a kiss on my nose. Then he slowly hovers over my lips. But before he can kiss me, I press my finger against his lips and push him back, narrowing my eyes at him.

“No, no, no. We still have to talk about this.”

“Got it, you’re not shallow,” he adds with amusement.

“That too. But I need to know more about this illness of yours. You said it’s recurring. Will it happen again?”

His lips flatten, his mood changing immediately.

“It is likely,” he answers slowly, reluctantly. But I’m not about to drop the subject, so I push on.

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know when it will happen again. Sometimes I’m fine, and sometimes an over exertion can cause it. Despite my father’s efforts, the illness remains dormant within me.”

I stare at him.

“Will you…die from it?”

He lets out a nervous laugh. “I’m mortal. We all die at some point.”

I swat his shoulder. “Stop joking about this. Will you die from it?” I repeat, this time more forceful.

---