I had watched Tristan kill him. I had seen him slump to the ground, lifeless. I had mourned him, grieved his loss as deeply as I grieved every other piece of myself that had been ripped away.
And yet?—
“He’s alive,” I whispered, my grip tightening on the glowing blade. “Papa’s alive!”
My vision locked onto Roman and my father, talking amicably, oblivious to my presence.
A choked laugh escaped my lips, tangled with a sob. I pressed a hand to my mouth, my eyes burning with unshed tears.
I could watch this forever.
The dagger quivered in my grip, the magic still strong, holding me within this sliver of time. This vision before me was absolution—an elixir to the loss of my unborn child, to the deaths I had witnessed, to the relentless agony I had endured.
Roman. Papa. Alive and well in the future.
The terror Balthazar had inflicted upon me faded. The rage eased.
For the first time in so long, I breathed.
“Olivia…”
An urgent voice nudged at the edges of my awareness.
I frowned. No. Not now.
“Olivia…”
I gritted my teeth, fighting to hold on, to keep my father and husband with me.
“Olivia!”
A large, warm hand wrapped around my wrist.
I gasped but refused to look away. I needed more time.
“Look at me!”
The voice snapped me from my trance.
I turned—Malik.
His gaze bore into mine, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
“What do you want?” I snarled, frantic, desperate not to lose sight of Roman and Papa.
“Your hand,” he said.
Confused, I followed his gaze downward.
Blood.
Dark. Sticky. Dripping.
A deep crimson stain spread across the thick wool rug beneath me.
I blinked. This wasn’t my blood.
This was someone else’s.
