Page 16

Wren opened her eyes.

Rowen stood between her and the soldier, having taken the blow. She cried out at the mess of blood. He’d taken the sword squarely in the chest. There was no coming back from this.

“No!” she screamed.

Her to-be-husband shook off the blow as if it was nothing and lurched forward, making quick work of the surprised solider who had sought to dispatch her. Rowen’s lips curled into an animalistic snarl as he wrapped an arm over his wound and pushed her forward until the three of them reached the exit.

Rowen stumbled and fell to his knees.

Her legs gave out and Wren collapsed to the floor, letting go of Britta so she could place her hands on her to-be-husband’s chest to inspect the damage the Verlantian soldier’s sword had done. The blade had just missed Rowen’s heart, but he’d lost too much blood. Too much damage had been done to his insides.

Her hands shook as they hovered over his wound. “You’re going to be fine,” she said, tears dripping down her cheeks. “Just a little bit farther. Can you stand?”

He grabbed her right hand and placed it against his cheek. “My love, you need to leave me.”

Wren shook her head. “No, we can do this.”

“Wren.”

“Don’t use that tone with me,” she snapped, her bottom lip quivering. “You’re not going to die.”

He huffed out a wet laugh and then wheezed. “Always so stubborn. Look at me.”

She lifted her gaze from his wound to his dear face.

“Go,” Rowen heaved, eyes dangerously glassy as his fingers fumbled to find Wren’s left hand. She squeezed his fingers far too tightly; her beautiful soulmate, with his dark hair and swimmer’s soul and caramel eyes, had been reduced to a brutal, bloody mess. It wasn’t right. None of this was right. “Take Britta and—andgo.”

Wren shook her head miserably. “I cannot leave you. Britta and I—we can carry you. We can—”

“Go.”

“Rowen—”

“Blast it, woman, do you want our last words to each other to be our first argument as husband and wife?” he cut in, his dark humor not leaving him even in his final moments. She cried harder, vaguely aware of her sister clinging to her. It only made Wren cry more.

“Almost husband,” she hiccupped, trying to joke.

Rowen turned his face and kissed the palm of her right hand. “It may not be legal, but you are the wife of my heart. I will always love you, Wren.”

Britta began to cry, the sound crescendoing into a wail. Rowen turned his attention to the little girl and gave her a warm smile.

“It’s alright, little sister. I’ll see you soon.”

Wren sobbed as Britta released her and hugged Rowen. The man’s glassy eyes softened, and he squeezed Wren’s hand with all the strength he could muster—which wasn’t much at all. “I thought I smelled too yucky for hugs, Britta.”

Her sister sniffed. “You still smell like fish.”

He chuckled which ended up in a pained cough. “It’s in my blood I suspect.” Wren pulled away as he pressed a kiss to the top of Britta’s head. “I need you to be brave, little one, and you need to mind your sister. Can you do that?”

Britta nodded and pulled back; her dress now soaked with blood.

“Good. You be a good little dragon.”

Britta pushed back and pressed her face against Wren’s side. Wren didn’t know how to move on. Her future was dying right in front of her.

“I don’t know how to leave,” she rasped.

Rowen gave her a soft smile, his pupils blown too wide. “You get up and walk away.”