49. Isolde
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
ISOLDE
I solde didn’t linger by Selene’s body. The moment she tore her Sire’s heart free, she collapsed to the stone. Everett tossed Selene’s body aside like a ragdoll, and Isolde didn’t spare her even one last glance.
She turned around, and as the world blurred at the edges of her vision, she drug herself toward the place where Bastian had collapsed, his strength spent in his effort to get to her.
Isolde crawled toward the chalice of blood in the center of the courtyard.
It was madness to believe this would work, but an idea had sparked as she lay there on that altar, waiting for Selene and Anselm’s blood to drain away—a desperate, last hope. She had to try.
Bastian’s eyes fluttered open as she hauled herself past him, praying with every shallow breath she took that she wouldn’t lose consciousness before she could do this. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t .
Finally— finally —she reached the divot. With trembling, unfeeling hands, she plunged into the pool of blood that had gathered and grasped the chalice. Blood sloshed over her arms as she lifted it out, cold and sticky in the frigid air.
High above, the blood moon began to fade.
“Bastian,” she breathed, holding onto consciousness by a thread as she drug herself back toward him, fighting to keep the chalice upright.
Black spots danced in her vision. Every blink felt slower than the last.
No , she commanded herself. No. You hold on. You save him .
Isolde tipped the chalice toward Bastian’s mouth.
“Drink,” she urged him, the blood sloshing over his nose. He blinked slowly up at her, but didn’t open his mouth. “Please, Bastian,” she sobbed. “ You have to drink .”
His sides heaved. He shifted, just slightly, nudging at Isolde’s hand with his nose, but he didn’t drink. With fumbling fingers, Isolde pried his mouth open. She tipped the chalice again and poured their blood right onto his tongue.
Bastian’s eyes fluttered shut. He was perfectly, utterly still. For a long moment, Isolde wasn’t even certain he breathed.
And then his tongue curled back into his mouth. He swallowed. Began to lap feebly at the blood in the chalice.
Almost instantly, as he swallowed the Vampire blood, he shifted back to his human form.
“Isolde,” he breathed. He was too weak to even lift his head. “Drink.”
Isolde knew she didn’t have time. God, she knew.
And still she hesitated.
If she drank this blood, it would heal her. Bastian’s Wolf blood would heal her wounds and replenish her strength.
But would it heal Bastian? If the ritual didn’t work, now that they’d broken the rules and done it differently than they were supposed to, would Bastian survive? He’d lost so much blood. He barely breathed, his eyes drooping as he began to slip away.
And if Bastian died, Isolde wasn’t sure she wanted to live.
From the moment he’d pressed that dagger to her throat on Burning Night, she’d felt alive for the first time since she turned.
It didn’t matter that she couldn’t feel the sun on her skin or enjoy the taste of pastries and roasted meat.
It didn’t matter that he was a Wolf, and she was a Vampire, and they were supposed to be sworn enemies.
Even before she’d had that first taste of his blood, the world had seemed brighter .
Colors, scents, sounds—they were all more vibrant.
And she had woken up each night feeling eager , invigorated, excited to sit on the town hall roof at his side, even if all they did was glare at each other and stare down at Bloodhaven’s streets in silence.
And Isolde knew, with every fiber of her being, that it would all disappear if Bastian died, and she lived.
Everett appeared at Isolde’s side. His hazel eyes were wide and lined with silver. His hands shook as he wrapped them around Isolde’s, over the chalice.
“He needs you,” he murmured, lifting the chalice to Isolde’s lips. “Drink.”
Isolde drank.