Page 104 of Break Her Heart
“Winnie,” he murmured. “You’re okay. It’s me. I’ve got you.”
“What happened? Where is the blade?”
“Benedict locked it away.”
“Did it work? Did we stop him?”
He hesitated. “I don’t think so.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but the moment I tried to push myself upright, a jarring, unnatural sensation shot through my left hand. I froze.
Black veins curled and twisted up my hand and forearm, pulsing beneath the surface of my skin like something alive. They were raised—protruding—and the skin around them felt tight, wrong.
I stared at it, heart sinking, throat dry. “August… what is this?”
His face was tight with worry, but he didn’t hesitate. “It’s the magic from the stone. It fought back when you tried to take it. The room went dark and it seemed to swallow your soul before letting you back out.”
I looked down at my hand again. “So I failed,” I whispered. The words tasted like ash.
“No,” he said immediately, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. “You didn’t fail. You tried. You fought it harder than anyone else ever could have. But… it didn’t let go.”
I shook my head slowly. The chill that had crept over me since waking tightened in my chest. “I couldn’t destroy it.”
August leaned forward, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. “You survived it. That means something. We’ll figure out the rest.” He kissed my cheek. “We still have time.”
I wasn’t sure if that was true. But I wanted to believe him. Gods, I needed to believe him.
* * *
Days bled together.
More searching. More sleepless nights hunched over old tomes and scrolls, chasing threads that unraveled as quickly as we touched them. The dark veins in my arm remained—constant, aching, a reminder of what I’d failed to do.
August had gone to speak with Varric—the mad one who mumbled things that made no sense. He said he’d go alone. Said I needed rest.
But when he came back, hours later, I could tell.
He stood as he always did, tall, composed, jaw set in that unyielding way. But his eyes had given up pretending. They were heavy, holding the weight of whatever he’d heard. I didn’t ask what Varric said. I just sat beside him and laced my fingers through his.
That night, the castle was quieter than usual. No servants bustling past our door. No echoing footsteps in the halls.
He lit a fire, the low orange glow flickering against his pale skin, and I curled near it, pulling my knees in. A moment later, he settled behind me, his legs stretched out, pulling me between them like I might break apart if he didn’t hold me together.
“You should sleep,” he murmured against my hair.
“I can’t,” I whispered back.
His lips brushed my shoulder, and when I turned toward him, he was looking at me like I was something sacred. His hand traced the curve of my jaw, down to my collarbone.
“You’re still trembling,” he said softly.
“You’re still pretending you’re okay.”
His mouth found mine—soft at first, familiar. Then deeper, like each breath fed something hungrier between us. His hands slid beneath my shift. “You’ve ruined me, Winnie,” he breathed against my neck.
I ran my hands through his hair. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
He lifted me into his lap, our foreheads touching, breaths mingling. “Tell me what you need,” he rasped.
