Is it true? Is it actually possible?
The witch said something else, too: “a curse on a curse.” I barely registered it at the time, too focused on the immediate threat, but now the words slide into place like puzzle pieces.
All these lifetimes, and she dies each time. Similar manner, similar circumstances. What if it’s not a coincidence? What if it’s not simply fate being cruel?
What if a witch cursed her? Cursed us?
Anger flares in my chest, mixing with the grief there. The gypsy witches have lived in my territory for generations. Under my protection, in my mountains. If we were cursed—if they knew—they should have told me. They owed me that much.
Instead, they waited. Watched. Let her die again and again while they kept their secrets.
The betrayal cuts deep. I’ve given them sanctuary, safety, allowed them to practice their magic freely when other lords would have driven them out—or worse. And in return? Silence.
My gaze drops to Daciana again, and my stomach twists. The fact that she’s remembering changes everything. Something fundamental has shifted, and I need to understand what and why before—
I sigh in relief. I didn’t mark her. Thank the old gods I retained enough sense not to mark her. But I did release inside her. Multiple times. The evidence is dried on her thighs. If she gets pregnant…
My fist clenches around the sheet.
Every lifetime, it happens the same way. Once she is exactly four months pregnant, she is killed. The pattern never varies. The method changes, but the timing has remained constant.
If Daciana is pregnant now, we have four months. Or maybe less this time.
The witch said this was my last chance. What did that mean? Last chance before what? Before the curse becomes permanent? Before she is lost to me forever?
I need answers, and I need them now.
Carefully, I begin to untangle myself from Daciana’s embrace. She makes a soft sound of protest, her hand grasping at me even in sleep, and desire surges through me so sharp, it’s almost painful. I want to stay. Want to pull her close, bury myself in her warmth, pretend for just a few more hours that this is simple.
But I’ve already made enough mistakes here.
I ease from the bed and fetch the basin of water I noticed earlier on the washstand. The water is only lukewarm, but it will do. I find a soft cloth and return to Daciana’s side, moving with the quiet care of a hunter.
She doesn’t wake as I gently draw back the blanket and begin cleaning her skin. I wipe away the evidence of our joining, the traces of what I’ve done. Each stroke of the cloth feels like a prayer or a penance. My hand trembles slightly as I work, and I hate myself for the possessive satisfaction that stirs in me at the marks I’ve left on her.
She’s so beautiful like this. Vulnerable and trusting and mine.
No. She cannot be mine. Not if it means her death.
I finish cleaning her and draw the blanket back over her body, tucking it carefully around her shoulders. Leaning down to press a kiss on her forehead, I let my lips linger against her skin. She smells like us: like sweat and sex and something uniquely Daciana.
“I’ll fix this,” I whisper against her temple. “I swear it.”
Then, I force myself to leave.
The hallways are dark and silent as I make my way through the wing. No servants are stirring yet; the castle sleeps in the profound quiet that exists only in the hours before dawn. The stones are cold beneath my bare feet.
Artisem’s chambers are three doors down from mine. I don’t knock; we’re past such courtesies after years of friendship. I simply open his door and cross to where he is asleep, sprawled across his bed, one arm flung over his face.
“Artisem.”
He doesn’t move.
“Artisem.”
I shake his shoulder, and he bolts upright with a warrior’s instinct, hand already reaching for the blade he keeps beneath his pillow. Then, he focuses on my face and relaxes, though his expression shifts immediately to concern.
“Kieran? What’s wrong?” His gaze drops, taking in my disheveled state: barefoot, wearing only hastily donned trousers. “Is it Daciana?”
