Page 55

The Fate of Truth

A sudden pound at 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.

“But I saw Gabin . . . He—he twisted the blade. I heard you . . . in—in pain,” she said, grabbing his coat to examine it more closely. “I saw the blade in your belly after I untied you.” Her fingers smoothed the spot where the baker’s knife had protruded.

“I am fine, élise,” he said softly, but there was a tension in his voice as if he were choosing his words carefully.

“A little sore in the neck, perhaps, but nothing that won’t pass.

” He smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I am alive, and that is what matters.” He cradled her cheek.

The look of love again lived in his gaze.

“You don’t need to fear or worry or cry. Not for me.”

She blinked in disbelief, her hands trembling as they traced the unbroken skin of his chest. It was warm beneath her palm, solid, real—but unmarred.

No wounds. Only the scars from a long time past. She pressed harder, searching for anything her eyes might have missed, but there was nothing.

She remembered the blade plunging into him, the resistance as it pierced his flesh, the sticky warmth of his blood on her fingers, and his groans of pain. Had she imagined the entire night?

No—she couldn’t have. She had seen it, felt it, heard it. It had all been real. And yet, there he was, whole and untouched, standing before her. She didn’t trust her eyes. Her heart raced, fear and wonder twisting into a knot in her chest.

“Impossible,” she whispered.

“It was dark, élise,” he whispered. “See, I am fine.” A soft, polite smile came over his lips. He took her hand in his and opened his mouth to speak.

“How?” she asked, her jaw agape in wonder.

“Did Gabin find this place?” he asked at the same time. “Do I need to find you another home?”

She broke through her trance. “I’m sorry,” she stammered, her voice cracking under the weight of her shame. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she clung to his hand.

“I didn’t want to go back to Gabin. But Madame Marie—she sent her child to fetch him.

I didn’t know, Rollant. I didn’t know.” Her chest heaved as the words tumbled out, each heavier than the last. “He dragged me back. He said I was his. He beat me—humiliated me. He started a riot just to show me that I belonged to him. And I?—”

Her voice cracked, and her sobs overtook her. “I didn’t know how to stop him. I didn’t know what to do.”

Rollant closed the distance between them. She closed her eyes, thinking surely his backhand would come after the night she’d put him through, but instead, he cradled her face. “There is nothing to apologize for,” he whispered. His hand curled around her fingers on her chest.

Her brow furrowed, and her gaze dropped to the ground. “Regardless, I still stabbed you. I didn’t die with you. Then I ran.”

“élise. If you hadn’t stabbed me, they would have made me watch you die a painful death before killing me as well.” Rollant lifted her chin. “I’d rather die alone than be made to witness such a thing. It was just lucky Gabin didn’t make sure I was dead in his haste to punish us.”

He had watched Amée and Cateline die, she remembered. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She nestled into his chest, but his arms stayed by his side. How could he hold her? Twice, she’d almost been the cause of his death.

Though his thumb smoothed over hers on his chest, and his cheek lay atop her head, silence lingered for a long time.

“It’s been a long night, month, for both of us,” he finally said.

She glanced up, and he tilted his head to the bedroom. “I have men’s blood on me, and I’d like to wash it off.”

She nodded. “I’ll be out here,” she said.

* * *

He returned a little while later in clean, damp clothes, holding his blood-soaked coat, while she was trying to replay the evening in her mind, given Rollant’s recent additions.

“I can’t do much about this,” he said with a half-chuckle and left his coat next to the hearth to dry.

He walked up and sank to her feet with a basin of lukewarm water and a cloth.

He dipped the cloth, gently wiped her face, and patted a few blood spots from her neck.

The heat from the water soothed her chilled skin and pulled her from her thoughts.

“I saw . . .” Her voice trailed off.

He smiled. “But I’m here. You’re here. We are fine.

Please promise me, you’ll stay in Charonne, though,” he said as he dabbed away Gabin’s dried blood on her left hand.

When he reached for her right, she pulled it back in hesitation.

She stared at her fingers and thumb. The red outline-turned-black stained them.

“I felt your blood, Rollant,” she said with a knitted brow. “I felt its warmth. I felt it on my fingers.”

He shifted. “It was . . . a very scary time,” he stammered. His gaze averted. He moved to the sofa, sitting close to her, placing the basin to balance on their thighs. He threaded his fingers in between hers and washed the blood from them.

She watched the water turn muddy brown as he cleaned the blood from her fingers.

It didn’t make sense. It was his blood. Whose else would it have been?

But his belly, his chest, perfect. Not even a bruise.

Bruises. He had been beaten. She had seen them, but then they were gone. She looked him full in the face.

“Where are your bruises?” she asked while touching the tender spot on her cheek from Gabin’s hit, knowing at least part of the night was certain.

His lip twitched. “I’ll answer all your questions tomorrow,” he said. “But for now, sleep is your best remedy.”

He helped her into the bedroom and pointed to the shirt he’d left for her on the bed. He left a basin of clean water and another cloth for her on the dresser.

“I’ll sleep out here,” he said. “Good night, élise. I will see you in the morning.”

After she cleaned herself, Rollant’s long shirt slipped over her head and fell just above the knee.

The winter tickled her legs, but his scent of old wood and candle smoke warmed her.

She breathed in his scent as she wrapped her arms around herself and pulled the shirt’s collar over her nose, thankful even after all the months he had been away and all the washes she’d put it through, it still smelled of him.

The fabric gathered in her fingers. The cold wrapped around her legs and made them shiver.

She wondered how Rollant was going to sleep with damp clothes.

The fire flickered low, casting light but offering little warmth.

She hadn’t cut enough firewood. Even though she shivered, she opened the door, and the blast of cold air weakened her knees.

“Are you well?” Rollant said, lifting his head. His coat draped over him as he curled up in the fetal position on the small sofa.

“I am thinking you are going to freeze out here. I would sleep better knowing you at least had a blanket.” Her lip quivered from the cold.

He got up and draped his coat around her shoulders.

It chased away the chill, but the iron stench of blood clung to the fabric, pungent and metallic.

Her knees stopped shaking, but his shoulders twitched seemingly from an icy tendril.

His shirt hung open since she’d ripped the buttons.

“You will be freezing all night if I take the blanket,” he said. “I will be fine with my coat.”

“You will not sleep well curled up like that with a coat.” She glanced at the sofa.

“It’s almost dry,” he said. “As are my clothes.”