Page 85 of The Darkest Oath

She had both hands on her hair to keep it from ripping from her scalp as she watched in horror. She screamed again. Rollant staggered to his feet, clutching his stomach, his breaths shallow but determined. Élise’s eyes widened as he lurched forward, slamming his shoulder into her attacker. The man fell back with a grunt, but Rollant’s strength faltered, and he barely kept himself upright. Even injured, he fought with the desperation of a man who refused to let death claim him.

“Run!” Rollant yelled to her as he took another punch to his face, already bruising again.

She scrambled backward and to her feet.

“Go home!” he yelled.

Rollant was still trying to save her even after she stabbed him. She picked up a nearby rock and threw it as hard as she could against the attacker. He screamed as the skin was ripped.

“I’ll find you,” he growled as he took a blow from Rollant with his head turned toward her.

“Run!” Rollant yelled again as he landed another punch. But he took two subsequent hits to the stomach and doubled over.

The man yanked the dagger from the dead one’s chest and stabbed Rollant through the ribs.

Élise’s insides turned and knotted. Her heart stopped beating and cracked. The tingle of devastation streaked down her limbs. She staggered backward.

“Run!” Rollant yelled with a faded breath as he grabbed the man’s neck.

That time, Élise ran with tears streaming into a spinning world. Rollant was saving her. She didn’t want him to die in vain. She vowed never to return to Faubourg Saint-Antoine or Paris. Fear kept her legs moving, and she hoped that if there were a God, he wouldn’t let anyone follow her.

Stumbling through the garden gate of her Charonne home, Élise collapsed to her knees, tears soaking the cold earth beneath her palms. She dragged herself inside, barring the door behind her as though it could lock out the horrors she’d left behind. Throwing herself onto the sofa, her cries filled the empty house, echoing off the walls like a prayer unanswered.

“Forgive me, Rollant,” she sobbed, her voice breaking with each word. “Forgive me.”

She clutched her arms, her nails biting into her skin as guilt pressed down on her. She didn’t deserve life. She didn’t deserve anything. Hate seethed behind her ears and on her cheeks. She had run, but there was no escape. Not from the hate, not from herself.

CHAPTER32

The Fate of Truth

CHARONNE, PARIS, NOVEMBER 1789

A sudden poundat the door shattered her sobs, twisting them into silence. Her head snapped up. Her breath hitched. Her chest tightened as the sound echoed through the room. Another pound rattled the doorframe, more insistent, more demanding. Her gaze darted to the window. Escape? No, she couldn’t outrun them. Her trembling fingers sank into her coat pocket, clutching the blade she’d used to kill Gabin. She would fight if she had to—there was no other choice. But, a voice cut through the dark.

“Élise!” Rollant’s voice shattered her fear, and the blade slipped from her grasp.

She ran to the door and unbarred it. She slammed into his chest and tried to help him inside, but he walked in more or less without help. He barred the door and led her to the main room.

“Thank you for letting me in,” he mumbled and sank on the sofa.

Élise blinked rapidly, her mind racing to make sense of the impossible. She had seen the blade plunge into his chest and felt the warmth of his blood on her fingers. Surely, he was hurt and bleeding—dying even. Yet he had walked in, steady on his feet, alive. Was her memory failing her? No, she knew what she saw.

She hurried over to him. Her hands grabbed his bicep and forearm. “You are hurt,” she said, but Rollant kept his body from her.

“I am not hurt.”

“I saw him stab you.” She stooped to grab the edge of her dress to rip it for linen. His hand gently grasped her wrist. She locked eyes with him. “I—I stabbed you.”

“I’m fine.” He smiled. “Didn’t even leave a mark.”

But she didn’t believe him. She saw him bend over and groan like he had been stabbed. She yanked him up, ripped his blood-stained shirt open, and ran her hands over his chest and belly, searching for bloody wounds in the hearth light.

“I saw.” Her voice trailed off. “I know I stabbed you. I did! I felt the blade. I felt . . .” His belly was covered in blood smears, but there was no wound.

He grasped her wrist and pressed her palm flat against his belly. “I’m fine.” His fingers caressed the back of her hand.

He took her hand and guided her fingers to the hole in his coat. “See? It went through the fabric.” His tone was light, almost reassuring, but something unsaid flickered in his eyes.

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