Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Kieran
I wake to warmth and softness, and for one perfect moment, I don’t think. I just feel. Satiated, comfortable, whole in a way I haven’t been in so long.
Then, I look down.
Daciana is asleep in my arms, her dark hair spilled across my chest, one hand curled against my heart. The moonlight barely touches the room, but it’s enough. Enough to see the curve of her bare shoulder. The marks I left on her throat.
What have I done?
The memory crashes over me. Her cry in the night was faint, but I heard it through the stone walls separating our chambers.
I’m always listening for her, tuned to every breath, every whisper.
Before conscious thought could form, I was already moving into the hallway, where I found her door unlocked.
She was thrashing in the sheets, caught in a nightmare. But underneath it, threading through her distress like poison in wine, I felt something else: magic. Gypsy witch magic, with its particular, bitter honey taste that clings to the back of my throat.
I sit up slowly, carefully, but Daciana clings to me even in sleep. Her arm tightens around my waist, and a part of me deep inside splinters at the trust in that gesture. I shouldn’t feel this way.
I run my hand through my hair, fingers catching in the tangles. My oath. I swore to myself I wouldn’t do this again. Wouldn’t touch her, wouldn’t claim her, wouldn’t risk…
But when she looked at me, I didn’t see Daciana. I saw Elara.
The memory split me open. Elara, crying, her voice breaking: “Why didn’t you come? Please, please, why didn’t you come?”
That’s what shattered my resolve. That’s what made me forget every vow, every promise I’d made to myself. For one terrible, beautiful moment, I saw my first love looking at me with desperate need, and I was powerless against it.
But it was Daciana who kissed me. Daciana’s lips on mine, Daciana’s hands pulling me closer, Daciana’s body I claimed throughout the night. Not a substitute. Not a ghost. The woman in my arms, real and solid and here. She was the one who reached for me.
Grief lodges in my throat like a stone. Always too late. I find her body cooling, the light already gone from her eyes. In every lifetime, I arrive after the end.
I swore I wouldn’t let it happen this time.
But here I am. Here we are.
I look down at her sleeping face, peaceful now, and gently brush a strand of hair from her cheek. My fingers linger despite myself. She has never remembered before. Not once in any of her lifetimes has she recalled who she was, who we were to each other.
So, why now? Why this dream of Elara dying?
The gypsy witch’s words echo in my mind: “The curse is weakening.”
Is it true? Is it actually possible?
The witch said something else, too: “a curse on a curse.” I barely registered it at the time, too focused on the immediate threat, but now the words slide into place like puzzle pieces.
All these lifetimes, and she dies each time. Similar manner, similar circumstances. What if it’s not a coincidence? What if it’s not simply fate being cruel?
What if a witch cursed her? Cursed us?
Anger flares in my chest, mixing with the grief there. The gypsy witches have lived in my territory for generations. Under my protection, in my mountains. If we were cursed—if they knew—they should have told me. They owed me that much.
Instead, they waited. Watched. Let her die again and again while they kept their secrets.
The betrayal cuts deep. I’ve given them sanctuary, safety, allowed them to practice their magic freely when other lords would have driven them out—or worse. And in return? Silence.
My gaze drops to Daciana again, and my stomach twists. The fact that she’s remembering changes everything. Something fundamental has shifted, and I need to understand what and why before—
I sigh in relief. I didn’t mark her. Thank the old gods I retained enough sense not to mark her. But I did release inside her. Multiple times. The evidence is dried on her thighs. If she gets pregnant…
My fist clenches around the sheet.
Every lifetime, it happens the same way. Once she is exactly four months pregnant, she is killed. The pattern never varies. The method changes, but the timing has remained constant.
If Daciana is pregnant now, we have four months. Or maybe less this time.
The witch said this was my last chance. What did that mean? Last chance before what? Before the curse becomes permanent? Before she is lost to me forever?
I need answers, and I need them now.
Carefully, I begin to untangle myself from Daciana’s embrace.
She makes a soft sound of protest, her hand grasping at me even in sleep, and desire surges through me so sharp, it’s almost painful.
I want to stay. Want to pull her close, bury myself in her warmth, pretend for just a few more hours that this is simple.
But I’ve already made enough mistakes here.
I ease from the bed and fetch the basin of water I noticed earlier on the washstand. The water is only lukewarm, but it will do. I find a soft cloth and return to Daciana’s side, moving with the quiet care of a hunter.
She doesn’t wake as I gently draw back the blanket and begin cleaning her skin.
I wipe away the evidence of our joining, the traces of what I’ve done.
Each stroke of the cloth feels like a prayer or a penance.
My hand trembles slightly as I work, and I hate myself for the possessive satisfaction that stirs in me at the marks I’ve left on her.
She’s so beautiful like this. Vulnerable and trusting and mine.
No. She cannot be mine. Not if it means her death.
I finish cleaning her and draw the blanket back over her body, tucking it carefully around her shoulders. Leaning down to press a kiss on her forehead, I let my lips linger against her skin. She smells like us: like sweat and sex and something uniquely Daciana.
“I’ll fix this,” I whisper against her temple. “I swear it.”
Then, I force myself to leave.
The hallways are dark and silent as I make my way through the wing. No servants are stirring yet; the castle sleeps in the profound quiet that exists only in the hours before dawn. The stones are cold beneath my bare feet.
Artisem’s chambers are three doors down from mine. I don’t knock; we’re past such courtesies after years of friendship. I simply open his door and cross to where he is asleep, sprawled across his bed, one arm flung over his face.
“Artisem.”
He doesn’t move.
“Artisem.”
I shake his shoulder, and he bolts upright with a warrior’s instinct, hand already reaching for the blade he keeps beneath his pillow. Then, he focuses on my face and relaxes, though his expression shifts immediately to concern.
“Kieran? What’s wrong?” His gaze drops, taking in my disheveled state: barefoot, wearing only hastily donned trousers. “Is it Daciana?”
“I need you to contact the gypsy witches.”
He stares at me. “The gypsy witches don’t leave their mountains, Kieran. You know this.”
“One left a few days ago.” I step over to his window and stare out at the darkness. My hands ball into fists. “So, it is possible. Send word. Tell them I need to speak with them. Tell them it’s about Daciana. They’ll know that name. They’ll have made damn sure to know exactly who she is.”
Artisem is silent long enough that I turn to look at him. He is sitting on the edge of his bed, his expression tense in a way I rarely see.
“Kieran.” His voice is careful. “What happened?”
“She had a nightmare. There was magic in it: gypsy witch magic.” The words come faster now, pressure building behind them.
“And she remembered, Artisem. She remembered Elara dying. She has never remembered before, not in any of her lifetimes. Something has changed, and I need to know what. I need to know if she is cursed. If we’re both cursed.
” I slam my fist back against the window frame.
“If they knew, if they’ve been sitting in my mountains all this time with answers—”
“Kieran—”
“They will tell me. Everything.” My voice drops to a dangerous level. “Or they’ll learn what happens when you betray your lord’s trust.”
Artisem is quiet for a moment, and then he nods slowly. “I’ll send riders at first light.”
“No. Now. Send them now.”
“The mountains are three days away even with fresh horses. A few hours won’t—”
“Now, Artisem.” My voice cracks like a whip, and I see him flinch. I take a breath, attempting to calm myself. “Please. I—I slept with her.”
Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed quickly by something that might be sympathy. Or pity. I’m not sure which is worse.
“Alright,” he says softly. “I’ll wake the riders now. I’ll tell them it’s urgent.”
“Tell them to mention Daciana’s name specifically. Tell them to say the curse is breaking and Kieran needs answers.” I turn back to the window, my jaw tight. “And have them tell the witches that their lord is calling in old debts. They will come.”
He must recognize the certainty and the threat in my voice, because he doesn’t argue. I hear him start pulling on clothes as I stare at the night sky.
I can still feel her in my arms. Still taste her on my lips.
“Last chance,” the witch said.
This time, I’ll make sure I don’t waste it. And if the gypsy witches have been hiding answers from me all along, they’ll reap the consequences of standing between a man and the woman he has been dying to save.
I return to Daciana’s room because despite everything, my feet carry me back to her chambers like a lodestone pulling north.
The door is still unlocked. I push it open quietly, expecting to find her still sleeping, perhaps starting to stir. However, she is sitting upright in bed, the sheet clutched to her chest, her face as pale as the moon.
Her eyes meet mine, and what I see in them makes my stomach drop.
“Why are you back?” Daciana tries to keep her voice steady, but I hear the tremor underneath.
I close the door behind me. “We should talk.”