I stared at Alistair's ashen face, willing his eyes to open. The room smelled of antiseptic and fear. Outside, the afternoon sun struggled through winter clouds, casting weak light through the windows of the blue guest room. My hand never left his, as if my touch alone could tether him to this world.
"Please," I whispered. "Come back to us."
The door burst open. I turned to see Clara, her face flushed.
"Your Grace! The Duke has returned," she announced breathlessly.
Heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway, and seconds later, Alaric appeared in the doorway. His normally immaculate appearance was disheveled—hair windswept, clothes rumpled, boots caked with mud. But it was his eyes that shocked me most—wild with a panic I'd never seen before.
"Isabella," he said, my name sounding like a prayer on his lips. His voice held a strain I'd never heard before—raw with suppressed rage and naked fear.
I rose immediately, crossing to him. "He's still unconscious but breathing steadily."
