His words cut deeper than the slap ever could.
How had it come to this?
Back in school, when boys mocked me for being plain, Alaric had beaten a dozen of them black and blue for me.
When we got married, he wouldn’t even let me touch the stove. If I so much as nicked my finger, he’d hold my hand for minutes, blowing on the wound as if it pained him more than me.
I used to think that love would last forever.
That he would always protect me.
“Alaric…” I finally whispered.
He turned sharply.
There was hope in his eyes—brief, flickering.
I tried to rise from the floor but collapsed again, the pain in my chest stealing the air from my lungs. The memory of Seraphine’s lifeless body flashed before me.
I clutched at the fabric over my heart, forcing myself to look up.
That’s when I noticed the door wasn’t fully closed.
Arianne hadn’t left.
She stood in the shadow of the hallway, peeking through the gap, one finger raised to her lips.
A wicked smile played on her lips as she made a silent shhh.
"What were you going to say?" Alaric pressed.
He was still waiting. Still clinging to the illusion that I might forgive, that I might confess something redemptive.
I said nothing.
He stepped closer.