Page 115 of Revealing Fate

The aroma hit Imogen like a blow to the head, and she momentarily forgot how to breathe. Years ago, she’d been in a room like this one. She’d donned the same delicate robe, had that balm massaged into her skin. After Karrick, Imogen had come to enjoy the soft, floral scent of wombwillow. It meant she’d see him, that they’d be together.

Now it made her ill.

“Elder!” Railah turned, smile radiant.

Imogen dipped her head in greeting, words lodged painfully in her throat.

“What a glorious day, Elder.” Railah’s hands rested over the flat plane of her lower abdomen. “Mender Vulgren says my womb has ripened. This vessel is ready to receive our Goddess’s blessing.”

Imogen tried not to vomit.

The shorter maid dropped into a curtsy. “This Fate has been prepared, Elder. She has received the ceremonial brew.” The tonic Vulgren concocted for all Fates to keep them from shifting during their servicing.

Imogen unhinged her jaw. “Very well. Let’s get this over with.”

She hadn’t lingered in Railah’s room after the maid’s announcement. There was no sense in delaying the inevitable. The ceremonial chamber had been readied. Karrick would be escorted by his guard. It was unfortunate she hadn’t had an opportunity to see him before.

No, that wasn’t entirely true. Imogen could have seen him before going to Railah’s room. She’d just been too much of a coward to face him. She’d been too selfishly focused on her own agonized foreboding. What was the point of torturing each other further? They couldn’t do anything to change their immediate circumstances. Perhaps it was better that he be caught off guard—less chance of him attempting something reckless and jeopardizing their plans.

Imogen clenched her jaw until her molars ached. She was so close to getting both of them out. This was just another scourge they had to endure. She’d fucking steel her spine and take it, just like she had with every other tragedy life threw at her.

She and Karrick had survived so much already. They would survive this, too.

Imogen strode down the hall at a brisk pace, Railah struggling to keep up. The female had donned her heavy Fate’s cloak before leaving her room, thank the divine. The midnight fabric concealed Railah’s supple body from passing guards. Not that she would have cared if they saw every inch of her pale, pink flesh. The young Fate didn’t even see her body as her own. Imogen suspected feelings of immodesty were beyond her.

The gray stone walls of the Stronghold felt particularly cold, the sconces lighting their path doing nothing to warm the chill that settled into Imogen’s core. They approached the simple wooden door to the ceremonial chamber. Imogen stopped abruptly before it. Lieutenant Gore stood to one side.

Imogen reached past her personal guard and gripped the iron handle, wrenching the door open with more force than was necessary. She looked into Railah’s flushed face, those wide cornflower irises sparkling with an anticipation that made bile rise in Imogen’s throat. Gods above, she was sick of the persistent nausea that plagued her with every new misfortune. “Please go in,” Imogen instructed.

Railah peered beyond her into the dimly lit chamber and nodded. “Mender said you will accompany me, I hope?”

“Shortly,” Imogen bit out.

Railah bowed and entered the room.

Imogen shut the door, sealing Railah inside, and resisted the urge to lean her forehead against the wood.

“Elder,” Prestyn Gore said, voice low. “The male will be here shortly.”

The male. “I know. Please go, Lieutenant.”

“Will you join the Fate inside?”

Imogen met his stern umber eyes. If only she had the option not to. “I must.”

“Then I will stay,” Prestyn said with conviction. “I am to ensure your safety. I would guard you during the Fate’s duties.”

An unexpected lure of gratitude tugged at her weary bones. “That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant. I haven’t taken Vulgren’s brew. I am not without my own defenses.” Never mind that Karrick would die before permitting any harm to befall her.

Prestyn opened his mouth to argue when the clanking of chains drew their attention.

Three guards turned the corner and started toward them down the hall, their booted steps muffled by the gray rug underfoot. Between them, ankles and wrists circled with heavy manacles, was Karrick.

Dark eyes pierced Imogen. Guilt seized her. She should have gone to him. Should have warned him.

Karrick’s expression was one of wary regard. He was barefoot and in first form. His body was covered by a ceremonial robe not unlike the traditional Fate’s cloak, but absent the vibrant sun emblazoned on the front. The guards pulled him to a stop by jerking the thick chain welded to the iron collar around his neck.

He was close enough that she could smell the male’s fertility balm on his dark skin. Imogen glanced at the opening of his robe and saw a sliver of bare chest where the balm hadn’t been thoroughly massaged in, as though whoever tried had abruptly abandoned their attempt.