“I know you’re there.” Her voice was weak, but familiar. “So quit skulking, and come in.”

Smiling, I opened the door.

Thirty years had come and gone, but even though illness had rendered her frail, she was as beautiful as she’d been at seventeen. Her crimson hair had grown long again, and it hung in a thick braid over one shoulder. The scar on her cheek had faded into a thin white line that was fiercely lovely, and the faint creases near her eyes spoke more to character than age. But none of that mattered, because her blue gaze was filled with pain, fluid rattling in her lungs, and her heartbeat weak. It would not be long now.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she whispered as I sat next to her on the bed, taking her hand. “But I was starting to think you wouldn’t come. That you didn’t…”

Twin tears rolled down her cheeks, and mindful of her fragile state, I pulled her close. “I told you once that I’d love you until the day I took my last breath, and that is true now as it was then. But how did you know…”

“He told me,” she said, her breath ragged against my throat. “When Alex was born, he told me that I’d see you in the end.”

And how many times had I accused my uncle of being heartless and cruel?

A rash of coughing took her, and I held her slender form through it, fear building in my chest as her heart stuttered. She was dying. Cécile was dying.

“It hurts.”

My eyes burned. “It will be over soon.”

Cécile took one last breath, and then her heart stilled.

The pain was incredible, like I was being gutted, my chest ripped in two. The silken thread of our bond stretched and frayed, but I clung to it, held on. Refused to let go.

Please, was the only thought in my mind as I tore open a path to Arcadia and stepped through.

Chapter Sixty-Six

Cécile

The air was warm and humid with the taste of a lurking summer storm. The sweet scent of some unknown flowers filled my nose, and against my cheek, I felt the press of a linen shirt, the skin beneath burning with unnatural heat. And a heartbeat in my ear that was as steady and familiar as my own.

“A dream,” I whispered, because I’d lost track over the years of how often I’d lost myself in his arms, only to be torn awake and find myself in an empty bed.

“Not a dream,” Tristan said, and I lifted my face to gaze into silver eyes, his face exquisite and unchanged.

“Then I’m…?”