Page 83 of The Darkest Oath

Gabin grabbed Élise under the top of her arm and dragged her behind him, back into a life of torment. Élise peered over her shoulder at Rollant, who was hanging onto life and perched on his toes beneath the lamplight. There was a glint in his eye, a shimmer of hope in his coming end. His coat blew in the winter breeze past his calves. She blinked back the tears from her eyes. This time, he wouldn’t be coming back.

“You see, little dove,” Gabin murmured as he dragged her away, her focus still on Rollant. His grip bruised her arm, and she winced. “There’s no one left—not your lover, not your friends, not even God himself. You’re mine to do with as I please, just as you always were.”

CHAPTER31

A Promise to Live

RUE SAINT-HONORÉ, PARIS, NOVEMBER 1789

In a murderous horde,the mob rounded up anyone they did not like and killed them on some unfounded basis of lending sympathy to the monarchy or for being wealthy. They stole barrels of ale and started a bonfire in the middle of Rue de Faubourg Saint-Antoine outside the bakery. After Gabin had drunk a few mugs, he belched and stood up, still with Élise in his firm grip.

“Stay here if you wish, but we will retire for the night,” Gabin said.

Élise tried to pry her hand off her arm.

But Gabin laughed. “See my little dove is anxious to get to bed.”

The men roared at the crude humor as Gabin dragged, half-pulled her into the bakery, up the stairs, and threw her on the bed.

But she hopped up and dodged him as he lunged for her. “Where are you going, dove?” he yelled, catching her by the hair again.

She jerked backward, her hands on her head. “Leave me alone, Gabin. I don’t want to be here.”

He threw her against the door and pressed his body against her, holding her wrists above her head with one hand, before pressing his mouth to hers. The malt in his breath made her gag. “I missed you,” he gritted and bit her lip hard.

She squirmed to move her legs, but he had her pinned.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

He punched her in the jaw. She fell to the floor with blood falling from her lip. He yanked her back up. “Looks like we will need to reteach the rules here, Élise,” he said with eyes red from the rum.

He wound up to punch her in the face once more. He had hold of her right hand, but Rollant had taught her to use her left. Rollant. His dagger. She reached into her coat pocket. Her fingers brushed the blade—a lifeline she’d never thought she’d use.

Gabin’s fist swung toward her, but instinct—fear, fury—took over. She twisted her wrist the way Rollant had taught her and struck upward. The blade sank into the underside of Gabin’s jaw. His punch never landed. His hands fell limp at his side as he staggered back, gurgling in disbelief.

He fell to the floor in a growing puddle of his blood.

Élise stood still, the knife still clutched in her trembling hand. Her heart beat out of her chest. The blood pool crawled toward her feet, staining the floorboards in dark crimson. Gabin’s eyes stared blankly at her, wide with the shock of death. She wanted to feel triumphant, but all she felt was the weight of the blade and the bile rising in her throat.

”I killed him,” she whispered, her voice shaking. But there was no time to think. No time to mourn. If they found her there, they’d string her up alongside Rollant.

A cloud of laughter rose to the window.

She stared at the blood-stained blade, wrapping the handle tighter in her grip before transferring it to her right hand. All she knew was she couldn’t let Rollant die alone if there was a chance he was still alive. She grabbed the water pail and hid her weapon in case she had to fight her way back. She exited the room and snuck down the stairs, out the bakery door, and slid into the shadows.

Malo caught her gaze.

She froze.

Yves looked up and saw her too.

She swallowed hard.

Malo and Yves shared a glance before Malo tipped his head north, and the two men dipped their heads to take another drink and rejoin the conversation as if they’d hadn’t seen her. Maybe she had a few who still cared for her.

Though her breath was shallow, she walked to the well as if Gabin had asked her to get water. Lightheadedness became her enemy. She put the pail on the well’s rim, dropped the knife back into her coat pocket, and began to run.

Her boots clacked on the cobblestone, and she ducked her head, hoping no one heard her or cared. She rounded the street corner to Rue Saint-Honoré. Rollant stood there with his hands in front, untying himself from the lamppost.

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