Page 173 of The Immortal’s Mark

And I don’t regret it. Not for a second. Not for any of the six hundred and forty-four seconds I’ve spent dying before this one.

The shadow bindings around Ren dissolve.

The Hungering King’s attention fractures—I can feel it, a psychic shudder that runs through the tomb as his carefully maintained control shatters. For eleven centuries, he’s been focused on one thing: the ritual. The sacrifice. The return of the woman he loves.

And now the ritual is activating. Now the sacrifice is bleeding out on the floor of his beloved’s tomb. Now everything he’s worked for is finally happening.

He can’t afford to hold Ren anymore. Can’t afford to divide his attention. The power flowing through the tomb is enormous, ancient, hungry, and he has to control it or risk losing everything.

The shadows fall away from Ren like curtains dropping.

And I fall.

Ren catches me.

His arms are around me before I hit the ground, pulling me against his chest, cradling me like something precious. Something breakable. I want to tell him I’m not breakable—but the words won’t come.

His hands are shaking.

Not trembling. Shaking. Full-body tremors that I can feel through his grip, through his chest, through every point where his body touches mine.

I’ve never seen Ren shake before.

He is always still. Always controlled. Always that maddening, beautiful composure that made me want to shake him just to see what was underneath.

The composure is gone now.

His face is wrecked. Tears streaming down his cheeks, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscles jumping under his skin, eyes wild with something that looks like love and grief and fury all tangled together into something that doesn’t have a name.

“Why—”

His voice cracks. Breaks. Shatters like everything else he’s been holding together for twenty-two years of ruling an empire he never wanted.

“Why would you—”

“Because I finally found something worth dying for.”

The words come out wet. Thick. Something warm is spreading across my chest, soaking through my clothes and into his, and I should probably be concerned about that but I can’t quite remember why concern matters.

He’s holding me. That matters.

He’s here. That matters.

Everything else is just details.

“You didn’t have to—” His voice is ragged. Ruined. Like he’s been screaming even though I know he hasn’t, like the words are tearing themselves out of his throat. “I would have—you should have let me—”

“I know.”

My hand finds his face. It takes more effort than it should, my arm heavy and distant like it belongs to someone else. But I manage it. Manage to cup his jaw in my palm, feel the wetness of his tears against my fingers.

“That’s why I couldn’t let you.”

His eyes close. Tears leak through his lashes, dropping onto my face, warm against skin that’s growing cold.

“Lián—”

He says my name like a prayer. Like a curse. Like both at once, two meanings occupying the same sound.