And yet...
The jealousy festers beneath my ribs, growing vines through my chest.
Jealousy not of another man—there were no others, not for her or I would’ve smelled them, routed them out and sentenced then to very gruesome deaths.
No, this jealous is of time itself. Of whatever touched her during those lost centuries when I couldn’t.
I imagine her trapped beneath that nunnery, surrounded by whispers and wards, her body preserved, her magic drained. Who watched over her? Who tended her while she slept? Did they touch her? Did they pray over her skin, trace those sigils glowing along her spine?
The thought makes my vision blur red.
I shouldn’t care.
I should be beyond such mortal sicknesses as jealousy. But she was mine before the world took her. And some part of me—the part the centuries couldn’t carve out—still believes she is.
I turn toward the door. I should leave her to rest. Give her time. That’s what a sane man would do.
But I am not a sane man.
My hand is already on the doorknob of her chamber when Jean’s voice echoes softly from the corridor. “Sire?”
I stop. “What?”
“Madame isn’t in her room if she’s the one you’re seeking?”
My jaw clenches tight. “Where is she then?”
“She retired to the solarium. She requested privacy.”
Privacy.
From me.
The word slides through me like a knife.
I shouldn’t follow.
I shouldn’t need to.
And yet I’m already moving.
The halls are dim, lit by the ghost of dawn seeping through stained glass.
The servants have learned not to meet my gaze; they bow, step aside, vanish into doorways. I cross the marble floors in silence, the scent of lilies growing stronger with each turn.
When I reach the solarium, the door is ajar.
She stands near the arched window, bathed in the pale light filtering through the ivy. My shirt slips from one shoulder, baring the faint lines of the sigils beneath her skin. She’s humming something low, familiar—the melody she used to play on the piano, centuries ago.
My throat closes.
For a moment, all I can do is watch her. She looks like a painting come alive: fragile, impossibly beautiful, unholy in her allure.
The sight of her should soothe me. Instead, it feeds the storm.
Because I realize, with something close to horror, that she belongs here too easily.
In my house.
