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His nose twitches first.
Then his hand.
And finally, Gael opens his eyes.
I hold my breath, waiting, wanting to be sure this is real. That I’m not delusional and hallucinating.
He blinks and takes in the space, eyes scanning, before sitting up.
“Gael?” It’s the thinnest shred of a whispered prayer.
He looks at me. Those clear, brilliant eyes take me in, but he doesn’t say a word.
“It’s me, Gael. Dove. Your betrothed.” Tears sting my eyes, and I take his hand. It burns. My eyes burn to look at him, but we’ll figure it out. He can wear a glamour ring for me.
He would do that.
Gael would do that for me.
He looks down at my hand on his, and a snarl of disgust twists his face. He rips it away.
I prepared for this. I thought he might come back damaged.
I had.
It might take time for his personality to return to normal. Or his memories. I smile at the thought that he might even get an “affliction” like mine.
“It’s OK, Gael. I’m here. Yoursha-ræ.Your betrothed is here.
“Betrothed?” It’s caustic, an acerbic tone I’ve never once heard from him.
“Betrothed,” he repeats with an ugly laugh. “All I see is a fallen whore.”
