Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(98)

He loved me.

Silence stretched between us. Unable to stand it any longer, I glanced up. His blue eyes—once so beautiful, like the sea—were living flames.

“Please say something,” I whispered.

His jaw clenched. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“I’m still me, Reid—”

He jerked his head in swift dismissal. “No, you’re not. You’re a witch.”

More tears leaked down my face as I struggled to collect my thoughts. There was so much I wanted to say—so much I needed to tell him—but I couldn’t concentrate on anything but the loathing in his eyes, the way his lip curled as if I were something repulsive and strange. I closed my eyes against the image, chin quivering once more.

“I wanted to tell you,” I began softly.

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because I . . . I didn’t want to lose you.” Eyes still closed, I extended his Balisarda tentatively. An offering. “I love you, Reid.”

He scoffed and jerked the handle from my grip. “Love me. As if someone like you is even capable of love. The Archbishop told us witches were clever. He told us they were cruel. But I fell for the tricks, same as him.” An angry, unnatural sound tore from his throat. “The witch said your mother was waiting for you. It’s her, isn’t it? Morgane le Blanc. You—you’re the daughter of La Dame des Sorcières. Which means—” An anguished noise this time, raw with disbelief, as if he’d been stabbed through the heart without warning. I didn’t open my eyes to watch the realization dawn. Couldn’t bear to see the final piece click into place. “The witches’ story was true, wasn’t it? Their performance. The Archbishop—”

He broke off abruptly, and silence descended once more. I felt his gaze on my face like a brand, but I didn’t open my eyes.

“I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.” His voice was colder now. Chilling. “His unnatural interest in your welfare, his refusal to punish your defiance. The way he forced me to marry you. It all makes sense. You even look alike.”

I didn’t want it to be true. I wished it away with every fragment of my fractured heart. My tears fell thicker and faster, a torrent of sorrow Reid ignored.

“And here I was—pouring my foolish heart out to you.” His voice grew louder and louder with each word. “I fell right into your trap. That’s all this was, wasn’t it? You needed a place to hide. You thought the Chasseurs would protect you. You thought I would protect you. You—” His breathing turned ragged. “You used me.”

The truth of his words was a knife to my own heart. My eyes snapped open. For a split second, I saw the flicker of misery and hurt beneath his fury, but then it was gone, buried beneath a lifetime of hatred.

A hatred proving stronger than love.

“That’s not true,” I whispered. “At first—maybe—but something changed, Reid. Please, you have to believe me—”

“What am I supposed to do, Lou?” He wrung his hands in the air, voice escalating to a roar. “I’m a Chasseur! I took an oath to hunt witches—to hunt you! How could you do this to me?”

I flinched again and stepped back until my legs pressed against the bed frame. “You—Reid, you also made an oath to me. You’re my husband, and I’m your wife.”

His hands dropped to his sides. Defeated. A spark of hope flared in my chest. But then he closed his eyes—seeming to collapse in on himself—and when he opened them again, they were void of all emotion. Empty. Dead.

“You are not my wife.”

What was left of my heart shattered completely.

I pressed a hand to my mouth in an effort to stem my sobs. Tears blurred my vision. Reid didn’t move as I fled past him, didn’t reach out to catch me as I tripped over the threshold. I crashed to my hands and knees outside the door.

Ansel’s arms wrapped around me. “Are you hurt?”

I pushed away from him wildly, scrambling to my feet. “I’m sorry, Ansel. I’m so sorry.”

Then I was running—running as hard and fast as my broken body would allow. Ansel called after me, but I ignored him, hurtling down the stairs. Desperate to put as much distance between myself and Reid as possible.

Do not urge me to leave you or turn back from you. His words stabbed through me with each step. Where you go, I will go. Where you stay, I will stay.

I won’t let her hurt you again, Lou. I’ll protect you. Everything will be all right.

I love you, Lou.

You are not my wife.

I turned into the foyer, chest heaving. Past the shattered rose window. Past the witches’ corpses. Past the milling Chasseurs.

God—if he was there, if he was watching—took pity on me when none moved to block my path. The Archbishop was nowhere in sight.

You are not my wife.

You are not my wife.

You are not my wife.

Fleeing through the open doors, I lurched blindly into the street. The sunset shone too bright on my stinging eyes. I stumbled down the church steps, peering around blearily, before starting down the street for Soleil et Lune.

I could make it. I could seek shelter there one last time.

A pale hand snaked out from behind me and wrapped around my neck. I tried to turn, but a third quill stabbed my throat. I struggled weakly—pathetically—against my captor, but the familiar cold was already creeping down my spine. Darkness fell swiftly. My eyelids fluttered as I collapsed forward, but pale, slender arms held me upright.