Page 82 of The Darkest Oath

He shoved her into Rollant’s chest. “Gut him—make it slow. Let him bleed. We’ll string him up too as a warning for any royalist scum,” Gabin ordered.

Her heartbeat thundered in her chest, each pulse a countdown to the unthinkable as her gaze locked with Rollant’s. The bruises on his face, the quiet resolve in his eyes—it was too much. The crowd’s chants of vengeance swirled around her, muffled and distant, as if the world held its breath. Could she do it? Could she destroy the one thing that had felt like kindness, even if it was a lie? Her hand trembled, but Rollant’s eyes were steady as he gave her a slight nod.

“Everyone dies, Élise,” he whispered, his voice deep in a calm command. “Put the blade through my belly. Leave it in.”

The men, holding his arms, wrenched them back so his head dropped.

She grabbed his shoulder and leaned her mouth to his ear. “I am afraid. I can’t do it.”

“They will kill you if you don’t,” Rollant said, his lips brushing against her cheek. “No sense in having us both die. Do it quickly. Don’t give them reason to doubt.”

She pulled back, letting his lush brown curls give them some privacy. He stared at her like he had when he first saw her—with all the love in the world. It was the look she had always wanted. The look that confirmed it was not all a ruse, confirmed his kiss, his care, his love for her.

“I can’t take your life,” she whimpered.

Rollant’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles, his voice low and steady as it had always been. “You’ve already saved me—let me save you too.” His shoulders straightened, and he met her gaze with quiet determination. “You can do this. For both of us.”

Her breath hitched, and her head shook.

“I cannot save you if you don’t,” he whispered.

The crowd chanted, “Kill him!”

The air reeked of sweat, smoke, and fear—the heat from the torches pressed against Élise’s cheeks, making her shiver. The mob’s chants pounded like war drums, shaking the air and drowning out her frantic thoughts.

“Do it, Élise,” he coaxed her. “Quickly.”

“I’ll die with you,” she whispered.

“No,” he shook his head. “No,” he repeated through clenched teeth.

But Gabin’s hand wrenched hers. “It will be easy, Élise. A quick push”—Gabin yelled and thrust the blade into Rollant’s belly for her—“and we rid France of one more royalist dog!” The crowd erupted in joyous cacophony.

Gabin whispered, “There you go, little dove. Hold steady. Let him feel the length of the blade.”

The knife hilt was slick in her grip, damp with sweat and blood. Rollant’s breath hitched—a sound so brief, so quiet, yet it shattered her more than any scream could. Pain etched into Rollant’s brave face.

Gabin spun around with arms in the air to show victory.

Rollant’s blood oozed on her fingers as they still clutched the blade. Her jaw fell agape, and she forgot to breathe. Her fingers popped off the handle. The words spilled from her mouth: “Forgive me.”

His groan sounded in her ears as the hollers of the crowd doubled.

“Best not let the men see your tears,” he whispered in a stammer, echoing her words from their first meeting.

“Rollant,” she whispered. She had just stabbed him and sentenced him to death. Her hands slid to his chest, his neck, his cheeks, leaving a bloody trail of guilt.

“What have I done?” Her breathy words were lost in the cheers, and before she could say more, Rollant was yanked back and a rope thrown around his neck. Gabin shoved her aside, barking orders to hoist him on the streetlamp. “Easy does it,” he said. “Leave him on his toes, let him really suffer and feel our plight!”

Rollant’s gasps came out in spurts as Gabin walked up to him. “I told you she was my woman,” he murmured and spat in Rollant’s face. Gabin twisted the blade Élise left in his belly with a hard wrench of the handle.

Élise’s vision blurred with tears. Her fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms. She wanted to scream, to rip the knife from Gabin’s hands and stop this madness—but her legs refused to move, frozen by fear and the weight of her betraying hand. She should have thrown the knife down and been killed alongside him. She had allowed Gabin to force her hand.

Rollant’s face contorted as Gabin twisted. The rope tightened around his neck as they tied his arms with the same rope that hung him. He stood on his toes to keep breathing. His arms were strung up behind him at an awkward angle. To lower them meant to lift his toes off the ground and die.

“Let’s see how strong this royalist is, shall we?” Gabin said as he spun to the crowd. “Let’s see how long the king’s dog can last. Who’s betting he’ll still be breathing by sunrise? Or if he took the weak man’s way out and fell to his heels during the night?”

Élise’s breaths grew heavy as she watched Rollant. Their eyes met. What had she done? Rollant was dying before her eyes because she had caused a scene at Versailles. He was the man who had taken every chance to protect her and care for her, even until the end. He told her it was all a lie, but deep down, she knew at least his feelings for her were not false, though maybe everything else was. And she’d thrown it away. The urge to vomit overcame her, but her belly was empty.

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