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“I’m sorry,” he sobbed, touching her face, his fingers so warm and filled with life. “Oh God . . . I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”
Agony lanced her chest as hard hands held her down, forced her to stay to the ground when she would have heaved up from the agony.
“Angel . . .” she gasped. “Don’t let her blame herself . . . please. . . .”
Her daughter, both her daughters, they’d blame themselves.
“Bliss . . . make her talk . . . don’t let her hide. . . .” There were so many things she n
eeded to tell him about Bliss.
He had to stop with the convent crap. He had to start listening to their daughter. He had to let her grow up.
There was so much he needed to know, and there was no time.
“No, by God, I won’t do that for you,” he snarled down at her. “You’re giving up. You will not give up on me. If you die, Chaya Mackay, I’ll follow you. They’ll bury me in that fucking box beside you. Right beside you where I belong.”
Panic. Disbelief.
Pain struck at her chest again, nearly stealing her breath forever before she forced it back into her heaving lungs.
“No . . . Bliss . . .” she tried to protest. He couldn’t leave Bliss, too.
And Angel would need him.
Declan . . .
“You’re giving up on her for both of us.” Fury filled his face. “Live or die, you make the choice.”
“Bliss . . . Angel . . .” she gasped, fighting for air, fighting to breathe as she felt a strange, painless lassitude begin to steal over her.
“Make the choice. . . .” He wouldn’t relent; she knew he wouldn’t. He would die with her and she wouldn’t be able to stop him.
“Momma . . .” Angel seemed to just drop to her knees beside Natches, her eyes wide, so filled with horror, with guilt and shame.
No . . . God, no . . .
“I’m so sorry,” Angel whispered, her face white, and for the first time, Chaya saw herself. “Oh God, Momma, please . . . I’m so sorry. . . . Don’t leave me now. . . . Please don’t leave me now.”
So long ago, when Chaya was young and too damned dumb to walk away from the military, she had been Angel. So determined, so filled with a wild rage and fury because so much had been taken away from her. She’d lost her baby, forced herself to walk away from Natches, and all she’d had was the fight.
Her daughter looked just like her at that age, too. The shape of her eyes, the arch of her brow, the curve of her chin. So stubborn and so determined. Her mini-me. Her baby.
“I’m so sorry,” Angel whispered again.
Bliss was screaming in the background, hysterical, her voice broken, begging her.
Chaya felt the tears that escaped her eyes, felt the weakness growing in her body.
“No . . .” Not yet. She couldn’t go yet.
She gasped for air, but there wasn’t enough. She fought to breathe, but it was so cold now, and she couldn’t make her body obey, couldn’t make it work.
Not yet. Oh God, not yet . . .
She couldn’t make herself breathe, but she didn’t feel like she was suffocating. She felt like she was drifting. Just drifting. She wanted to cry out in fear, but everything was so distant, so hazy. She wanted to hold on, she really did. For Natches, for her daughters.
Darkness rolled over her, waves of it, stealing her will, taking her, just taking her away.
