Page 41 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)

Chapter thirty-nine

Baird

I n the days leading up to this, Baird had prayed Mira would believe him. And now that she did—now that the truth was out and laid bare—he found himself wishing she hadn’t.

He thought he was prepared for her reaction.

Disbelief, certainly. Anger, absolutely.

Even fear. But this? This hollow, shaking grief that seemed to come from some place deeper than rage or reason?

He hadn’t been ready for that. It wasn’t just the story—it was what the story had taken from her.

Whatever the story had stolen, he didn’t know how to give it back—or if he even could.

He stood frozen just beyond the threshold, watching her curl in on herself like something fractured. Her silence was louder than any scream. He could feel it vibrating through the air between them—dense, impenetrable.

He wished he understood. Wished he could offer something, anything, that would ease the pain carved across her face. There was a way to know what she was feeling. A path his kind could take.

When one of them drank the blood of someone they loved— truly loved—they would begin to feel echoes of that person’s emotions.

Not the reasons behind them, not the thoughts that shaped them.

But the feelings themselves—grief, joy, confusion, terror.

A sort of window to the soul, or maybe the heart.

A way to see the truth they could never otherwise touch.

He had never done it. Not once in two hundred and forty years. He’d never loved anyone in all that time. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it now—not like this.

It would be a violation. Another betrayal.

He’d done enough damage to Mira already.

He desperately wanted to be near her—to touch her skin, see her face—but he needed to honor her request to be alone. So he padded softly past the living room’s opening on his way to the kitchen, forcing himself not to linger.

But as he passed, his eyes found hers.

She looked at him, wide-eyed, as if caught in the moment between waking and drowning. And then—

A soft, broken whimper escaped her. Barely a sound at all. Just the faintest hitch in her breath, like the air itself had caught in her throat and couldn’t find its way out.

Damn it.

He couldn’t leave well enough alone. Not now.

He turned and walked toward her, slow and deliberate, never breaking her gaze.

“I’m going to pour myself a drink—whisky,” he said gently. “Can I bring ye something? Anything?”

She didn’t answer, just blinked slowly, as if even that effort exhausted her. He knelt beside her and reached out, brushing his fingers across her cheek. Her skin was ice cold.

“Oh, lass…why are ye so cold?” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “I’ll build ye a fire. Get ye an other blanket—”

“Baird,” she croaked, her voice papery, rough from silence. She looked up at him, eyes glassy and rimmed red. “Whisky…”

It was just two words. But it was enough. Enough to tell him she was still with him—somewhere beneath the shock, the fear, the grief. Still there.