Nik had been rendered unconscious many times in his life. Usually when his father went too far with his lessons. Whatever the reason, Nik always found his way to his feet and continued on. This time, he wanted to remain in the dark. Forever.
He would have if it wasn’t for the incessant shaking and shouting.
“Nik!”
“Watch his head!”
“Nik! What happened?”
Steps. Someone running.
“Here.”
The wretched burn of smelling salts dragged him back into a world of pain, and more than the physical kind.
“Elara!”
A hand pressed against his chest, awakening the bruises his father’s guard had gifted him. With a haggard wheeze, he collapsed back on the settee in his parlor.
Home. He was back home.
“Easy.” Chantal had a rag pressed to his forehead.
He shoved her off and stumbled to the door. “I have to get her.”
“You can’t.” Blai was behind him.
A splitting pain in his ribs caused him to topple.
Blai caught him and shoved him into a seat. “What happened?”
“Where is Elara?” Chantal asked.
“She’s gone,” he replied. “Lafontaine told her everything.”
Chantal’s eyes widened. “Everything?”
“And then some.”
Elara had been right. He would’ve told her about his father and his mother, but he would’ve taken the rest to his grave. In trying to manipulate her again, Nik had lost her because she now believed the worst of him.
Lafontaine lied.
Nik hadn’t killed the rebels.
It wasn’t his knife that had slit their throats… but it might as well have been.
If he could take it all back, he would.
He meant what he’d said to Elara last night; he would trade places with Gaetan’s corpse if it would make her happy.
“Where is she now?” Chantal pressed.
“She chose to work with him.”
She scoffed. “Nothing with him is a choice. What did he do?”
Nik relayed everything—almost everything. He didn’t tell them about the kisses or how Elara had felt in his arms. Those memories were his own form of punishment, a reminder of what he could’ve had if he hadn’t been such a coward.
