Page 77 of A Warrior's Fate

Fatalities.

Fatalities.

“What do you mean?” Isla felt like her heart was in her throat again, and her tongue was sandpaper.

The Alpha gave a solemn shake of his head. “Unfortunately, the hunter from Tethys succumbed to his injuries.”

She couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t breathe.

Lies.

He had to be lying.

Calm.

She battled to keep the bile rising in her throat at bay. She couldn’t sound like it had affected her. “When?”

Cassius put the bottle down and picked up his glass. “I received the report early this morning. It’s a shame. I really thought he’d pull through.”

The room had started spinning.

She was going to vomit.

He was lying. He had to be lying.

But why would he?

Isla didn’t know what to say. What to ask.

Because Lukas was very alive—in a sense—when she’d last seen him. When she’d pressed her hands to the bleeding wounds at his side that she’d inflicted herself with her own claws.

Her own claws.

She killed him.

Goddess, she’d killed him.

She was going to be sick.

She had to get out.

Out, out, out.

Shakily, she rose from her seat, nearly tipping over her water as she put it on the table. “I’m sorry. Would you excuse me for a second?”

The Alpha sipped from his whiskey. “I think we’re done, actually.” He lifted his glass to her, smiling. “Congratulations again, Warrior.”

Isla barely heard his words as she turned and gathered her bag as quickly as possible, not caring if it rattled and shook. Ravona was already waiting outside for her.

“Can you show me to the restroom, please?” Isla asked, barely able to choke out the words.

Then everything moved in a blur as she was escorted to the facilities, through the hall, and through another mahogany door that felt cool on her clammy skin as she pushed through it.

Her knees screamed in pain as she crashed to the floor in front of the sole toilet in the lavatory, not caring where she tossed her bag, and rid herself of whatever was in her stomach. Over and over until all that was left were dry heaves and shallow breaths. Tears stung her sunburned cheeks as she sobbed as quietly as she could over the porcelain, gripping onto it so tightly, that her knuckles turned a matching white to keep from falling over.

She killed him.

He was dead, and it was all her fault.

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