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She held out the knife, pointing it directly at my heart.
Instinctively, my hands went up. “Martina,” I started.
The older woman hissed. “Shut up, Carmen. You are a filthy parasite. I know what you are, and you will never touch my son again.”
Tension swirled around us like a cyclone.
“Martina,” I said, praying that her given name sounded like the plea to return to humanity that it was. “You already applied for the marriage.”
She frowned. “You can’t marry if you are dead.”
There was a commotion in the hallway. Both our heads snapped to the direction of sound. I heard footsteps approaching seconds before the door swung open.
A tall, powerful young man stood in the doorway. Isaac Monroy de León.
Everything inside of me settled like silt at the sight of him. He was here. For me. A warmth bloomed in my chest.
He looked at his mother. At the knife. And then at me.
“What the hell is happening?” Isaac demanded.
I underestimated Martina’s rage. In place of answering her question, she sneered. “Hijo, she’ll kill us all. Stay back,” she spat, and charged. Light reflected off the knife as she plowed forward.
“Stop!” Isaac yelled.
I closed my eyes and put up my hands in defense as unseen hands flung me backward. The impact of slamming into the bookshelf sent a jolt through my entire body.
The wet sound of knife piercing flesh had me shrieking in terror, but the knife didn’t hit me.
Slowly, I opened my eyes and saw Isaac kneeling between me and his mother. He had shoved me out of the way. My throat tightened. His shoulders were slumped and his head was bowed, giving me a perfect view of the knife protruding from his back.
Martina de León’s hands were covering her mouth in horror as she took a staggering step back. “Isaac,” Martina said. She sounded desperate.
Bile rose in my throat as I dove forward and took Isaac into my arms. I shook his shoulders, but his eyes were shifting in and out of focus.
“Isaac,” I pleaded through the tears that were cascading down my cheeks.
His hand reached up and stroked my cheek. “Renata,” he murmured and then winced.
This seemed to bring his mother back to life.
“You think you’re going to steal my son, but you can’t.” She was huffing like a wild beast. “He loves me. I am his mother, so give him back.” Martina lunged at me, and—instead of hurting me—drew the knife from Isaac’s back.
“What are you doing?” I shrieked. “He’ll bleed out faster!”
“Rena,” Isaac said heavily. “She… is trying to… help me heal…” he trailed off and took a wet breath.
It hit me. Blood Magic. Of course.
A few of my tears had landed on Isaac’s neck, and I wiped them away. “Right, right. You are going to be okay, mi amor,” I whispered and held him closer. I almost didn’t notice the words sounded hollow in my own ears. Was it wrong to lie about loving a dying man?
With his head resting on my shoulder, and his hefty weight pinning me against the bookcase, I stared at the gaping hole, pumping blood down in his back.
“Why isn’t he healing?” I asked.
Martina was staring at the same hole, transfixed by the flow of crimson blood.
Isaac, once my chance at a beautiful future, went still.
