In spite of that knowing, this moment brought with it, for me . . . pain.

Along with the final unfolding of all I had sought to avoid.

No. Not so soon. Not yet. Not now.

The agony—the same from two nights ago—it came despite my plea, returning full force to ransack me from the inside out, exploding into being from the very core of my person.

I groped at my chest, wadding into my fist the waistcoat and shirt that concealed my ravaged form. But, as before, that did nothing to assuage the reckoning that occurred inside me—the likes of which I had never known. Not even when Rastin had applied his powers to my desolate soul.

That kiss.

The vilest of poisons could not have slain a man any better than that kiss killed me. And, like the twisting pain, their embrace wore on and on.

Weakened by the mounting intensity of both, I had no choice but to lean into the window that trapped within its frame this hated picture. One that, though I could not bear to watch, I found impossible to look away from.

How well their bodies conformed to each other. How lovely and alive they looked entangled. And how poor a judge I had been. To think that the worst could have ever been prevented. To think that, in her presence, a heart—any heart—would not break.

Another swell of pain rocked me. With it, though, I managed to tear myself from the window, from the scene that would forever replay in my hollow head.

His lips on hers. Her answering embrace. Their desires united and undenied.

My footing compromised by the slickness of metal, I staggered forward to grab the railing. When my hand came away from my chest, though, it brought with it rivulets of red. A glance down at my personage showed a stain of crimson spreading its way out from my sternum, saturating my already soaked white dress shirt.

But . . . how could this be?

I descended, my feet clanging over the stairs that brought me to the landing below. With difficulty, I reentered Charlie’s room, where both rainwater and blood dripped from me to the floor. I could not stay here on this side. Not in this state that would quickly have me discovered. And yet, with the rose obliterated, I could not dare to return to my Moldavia, either.

Undecided, I staggered to the hallway door as thunder rumbled overhead. But I did not have to grasp or turn the knob. For the door, with a low and ominous creak, opened all on its own.

Beyond, against the backdrop of the lit chandelier that, on my side, still hung perfect from its chain, stood a figure resplendent in crimson. The plush hallway runner under him softened the booted steps that brought him nearer to the threshold. The one that, for the second time that day, stood as the only barrier between us.

“Even now,” I said, my voice little more than a labored rasp, “I cannot let you win.”