Queen of Myth and Monsters (Adrian X Isolde, #2)(66)

“There is no understanding it,” Adrian said. “Because it is hate, and hate can exist with no reason.”

“It shouldn’t,” I said. “We were only trying to help banish the thing they feared.”

“You were,” he said. “And they did not deserve it.”

Before tonight, I wouldn’t have agreed, but now I was starting to think that the world did not deserve my blood or tears. “Do you know what was so terrifying?” I asked. I kept my voice low. Perhaps I thought that would lessen the pain of what I was about to say. “I got to the point where I was going to accept death,” I said, and suddenly, I found the ability to shed more tears. “I could feel it. It blanketed my body, a familiar and warm embrace…and if I had succumbed, you would have too.”

I had been closer to death than any other time before now, and that struck me hard. I was tired of being the weakest—tired of being the target for everyone’s revenge against Adrian.

“Isolde,” he said, my name a soft plea on his lips.

I knew he did not wish for me to think of this right now.

I released his hand and shifted onto my knees, wrapping my arms around his neck, but he did not touch me. Instead, he had fisted his hands and they rested beside him on the bed.

“Change me,” I said, with more force in my voice than I had managed to use since I had woken up from this nightmare.

“Isolde—”

“You must! Before it is too late. You cannot be so blind. This will happen again.”

“Not this way,” he said. Now his hands had moved; they braced my body, as if he were prepared to push me away. “I will not change you this way.”

“Because you have some fantasy attached to turning me?”

A shock of anger flashed in his eyes, and he looked away from me, his jaw clenched.

“I want to do what is best for you,” he said. “You have not even managed to accept or master shifting. You need time before you have to handle another change in your life.”

“I cannot be responsible for your death,” I said. “I can’t.”

“You won’t.” He spoke with a conviction I did not have.

He lifted his hand once more, slowly this time, to prepare me, and as he stroked my face, I leaned forward and kissed him. It was soft, barely a kiss at all, but the gentleness of it spoke to our pain, our fear, our love.

“I will call for a bath,” he said. “We must prepare for the executions.”

Adrian rang the servant’s bell, and my heart rose into my throat when the first knock came. It should have been Violeta waiting on the other side, directing the other servants as they filled the tub with water. Instead, a string of people I hardly recognized entered, carrying pail after pail of hot water into the room.

“Where is Vesna?” I asked.

“She will be along after your bath,” Adrian said, meeting my gaze. “I…wanted this time with you.”

I did not mind spending more time with him.

When the servants had gone, I untied my nightgown and let it pool at my feet, leaving Violeta’s necklace on, before stepping into the bath. Adrian watched me as I lowered into the water, but his gaze was different, not alight with desire but a strange intensity. I wondered if he was trying to prepare himself for the last time he saw my body—likely bruised and broken and bloodied.

He waited to approach until I was submerged in the water and knelt beside the bath.

“Is this okay?” he asked, and I nodded.

He lathered soap on a washcloth and began at my back, running the cloth over my skin in soft circles. There were places he touched that were sore, muscles that ached, and as he passed over them, I took a breath, releasing it slowly between my lips. When he moved to my shoulders and arms, his expression was hard, his mouth tight. I lifted my hand to his face, water dripping from my skin. I had no words to offer, but he met my gaze, eyes glassy.

“You should finish,” he said, taking my hand from his face, offering the washcloth.

“It’s all right,” I said, voice hushed, holding my breath as I guided his hand over my breasts.

“Isolde,” Adrian said tightly.

“Shh,” I said and rested my forehead against his, moving his hand lower, down my stomach and between my thighs. His lips hovered near mine and his breathing grew ragged, but he did not attempt to touch me beyond my direction. I became frustrated, the heat between my thighs unbearable.

“Adrian,” I whispered, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “I love you.”

He kissed me hard, his free hand gripping the base of my skull. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and he lifted me from the tub, but when he pressed into my skin, I arched against him, a shock of pain escaping my mouth.

He froze, dropping his hands.

“I’m sorry. I—”

“It’s okay.” I took his face between my hands and forced him to look at me, but when I tried to kiss him again, he drew away and it hurt.

“I’ll summon Vesna,” he said.

“Adrian—”

“I will not be responsible for hurting you further,” he said. “I can’t.”

I brought my hands to my chest, feeling strangely exposed and ridiculous before my own husband. I hated it. He crossed the room to ring the bell, and I sought my robe, desperate to hide.