Page 84 of The Darkest Oath

“How?” she whispered, her voice breaking as she saw him—slumped but alive, his hands working the rope that bound him. Her feet stumbled forward, driven by relief and disbelief in equal measure. How could he still be standing after everything she’d done?

“Rollant,” she choked out, her tears spilling freely. He paused at the sound of her voice, his head turning slowly toward her, and for a moment, she thought he might collapse.

“Élise? What are you doing here?” he asked with a groan of pain.

“I had to come back for you,” she said. “Here,” she reached out and hoisted his hands up so he could roll down to his heels. She unwound the rope from his wrists and began untying his noose.

“How did you get away?” His eyes scanned the bruises on her face and the gash on her lip.

Images of Gabin’s slit neck appeared in her memory. “I had to kill Gabin. He was beating me,” she whispered. Her voice trembled, but she didn’t elaborate.

Rollant gave a small nod, his expression empathetic.

She removed the noose, and he collapsed to the street.

“Well, it serves him right,” he said, leaning back and to the side, likely to ease the pain. She knelt next to him, propping her leg beneath his back to support him.

“I’m sorry you had to do that, Élise. I gave you the dagger, hoping you never had to use it, but I’m glad you could get away.” He winced, and lines of pain carved into his brow. “If anything, I hope you stay in Charonne. The city is not what you thought it was.”

She glanced at her hands, studying the dried blood stains, one from Rollant, one from Gabin. Tears ran down her cheeks. “I should have listened to you,” she cried. “I should have?—”

His fingers grazed the sleeve of her coat, silencing her. He rested his head in her lap. “I kept the truth from you,” he said.

The blade stuck out from his belly and moved with each straining breath. His hand wrapped the handle.

“Don’t pull it,” she said, gently placing her fingers on his hand.

“It will be faster that way,” he said.

She started weeping. “I am so sorry, Rollant. I killed my only true friend.”

He cradled her cheek. “I am not dead yet.” He smiled and chuckled with the sound of searing pain ruining its glee. The lamplight glistened in his eyes.

“Oh, Rollant,” she whispered. She pushed his chestnut locks over his forehead and gripped his coat, balling the fabric in her hands. “How will I live without you?”

Tears filled his eyes. “No, how will I live without you?” he repeated her question.

As he slumped against her, she reached to brush his hair from his face, but stopped. The bruise that had darkened his eye was gone. The gash on his lip had vanished, leaving no trace of injury. Her breath caught. This was no trick of the light—his wounds were healing before her eyes, or had she imagined it?

“Rollant?” she asked in a trembling whisper.

The sound of heavy boots striking cobblestones broke the stillness of the night. Élise’s breath caught in her throat. Shadows flickered at the edge of the lamplight, growing larger with each step. Her pulse quickened as two figures emerged from the darkness, their faces twisted with drunken rage. They were men from the riot. She saw them join in Les Halles. They must have followed her.

A man’s shout pierced the sky. “What’s going on here?”

“Why’re you crying over the royalist, wench? You a sympathizer, too?” The other barked and drew closer.

Rollant yanked the blade out of his stomach with a groan.

The attacker kicked him in the gut as she screamed, “No!”

The second man kicked her in the side. Air expelled from her lungs as she gripped her ribs. She moaned in pain with an open mouth against the cobblestone.

The man grabbed Élise’s hair and yanked her along as the second punched Rollant while he was down.

“Stop!” she yelled.

Rollant caught the man’s boot and shoved it backward, sending the man down beside him. He raised the baker’s knife and plunged it into the man’s chest.

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