“Husband?” A strangled noise escaped Brochan as he sagged into her. “I love you, kitten. I love you so much.”
The most sublime contentment filled her, overflowing, all but seeping from her pores.
Narcissism writhed and wailed with agony, as if… Had she closed all doors to him, leaving him without a lair?
She must have! He clawed at her mind; sharp pains left her wincing, but she didn’t care. The demon grew weaker… Wait. Her skin was heating. Hotter and hotter. She frowned. Pressure mounted, and alarm surged. What was…why…? Black mist rose from her skin, a cloud forming around her.
“Viola,” Brochan rushed out, his fear a match for hers.
Her pain crested. Pain like she’d never known. Radiating. Scorching. Blistering. “Being…torn in…two,” she tried to tell him. A scream barreled from her as the mist separated from her completely.
Some internal wound gushed, draining her strength. Her heartbeat slowed… Limbs shook, suddenly boneless. She collapsed.
“Viola!” Why did her new husband sound so…far…
Darkness encompassed her. She fought against it—a bright light flared. Viola gasped and blinked open her eyes. Her pain? Gone. Her mind? Clear.
Brochan held her, terror etched in every inch of his face. Tears wet his eyes.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I think…I think you died,” he croaked, hugging her close. “Just for a second. Just long enough to kill me.”
The mist! It remained in the room, drawing together near the ceiling and coagulating. A grotesque picture soon formed, and she gasped. Narcissism. They glared at each other, one foe pitted against the other.
The demon had left her, she realized, ripping out an eternal battery along the way. Killing her. But she had revived.
How long this fiend had tormented her. “You. Are. Grotesque,” she said, wrinkling her nose. A hideous creature with bloodred eyes, a skeletal face and a body oozing something putrid. “Seriously displeasing to gaze upon.”
Brochan followed her line of sight and stiffened. His arm shot out, a sword of fire appearing in his hand. Oh, wow. She’d assumed the Forsaken lost the ability to create those when they fell.
The demon hissed at them and fled, disappearing. And, and, and… “I’m free,” she gasped out. The most amazing feeling in the world!
“Yes. You are free, and yet you live,” Brochan said, swinging his attention back to her. The sword vanished as he reached for her. “How is this possible?”
“I must have used one of my lives,” she explained, then laughed as he spun her around, lifting her feet from the floor. “By the way. I love you, too.”
“You love me. Is this truly my life?” When he set her down and pulled back to peer into her eyes and unveil the sweetest, most magnificent smile she’d ever—
Viola sucked in a breath. “No!” She couldn’t be seeing what she thought she was.
His smile fell. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“You—Brochan, you have an aura.” Acid decimated her throat. “You’re soon to die.”
Chapter Fifteen
For the whole of his life, no one had ever coddled Brochan. Until now. He loved every second. The only downside…Viola’s worry. For days she refused to let him depart the realm or even the palace without her. Which would have been fine with him—he didn’t want to be without her for any reason, anyway. Especially since she’d lost her ability to flash.
The cost of her new life.
But. He needed to speak with Xerxes, Thane or Bjorn without an audience. Brochan thought he might be a Sent One again. When the demon had left Viola, he’d sensed the threat to her and reacted on instinct. The sword had simply appeared. The sword he hadn’t been able to create since his fall. He hadn’t realized the significance at the time, but he had definitely realized it after.
He should be sure before he broke the news to Viola. But, if he were a Sent One again, why did he still appear Forsaken? And why couldn’t he communicate telepathically with the others? Was he deathless? Would a wing transplant still (possibly) save McCadden and Fluffy?
He and Viola had put the wedding reception on temporary hold, choosing instead to spend their time crafting weapons. Well, she crafted. He observed and guarded.
His goddess labored over a furnace even now, her favorite music blasting in the background. Recordings of her own singing—a true assault to the ears. And yet he reveled in every screeched note.
He wiped the sweat from his brow. Not that it helped. New beads of sweat immediately welled, trickling down his temples. He’d already discarded his shirt and pants. Soon, his underwear would join the pile.
Brochan had turned the royal stables into a royal forge. First, he and Viola had fetched equipment and tools she required, as well as her most prized metals, collected from countless other realms. Fireiron. Bloodgold. Automaton parts. Anything to help him protect himself.
He would cherish whatever she designed for him, but he wasn’t worried about dying. Whether he died or not, he would find a way back to her. He’d finally won her. He would not give her up for any reason.
“Fluffy!” McCadden’s roar echoed through the forge. His brother stomped inside the blistering room, a pair of boots raised. “Your little monster peed in my shoes. Again!”
The pup rested at Viola’s feet, yawning as she hammered at a link.
Brochan stuck out his arm, stopping his brother in his tracks. “Genius is at work. There are to be no interruptions.”
“Are you kidding me? First she tells you how she’s going to redecorate your home. Now, she has you acting as her doorman.” Disgust all but dripped from McCadden. “Is there anything you won’t do for her?”
“No,” Brochan said simply. He derived more joy and satisfaction making his goddess-kitten happy than he’d ever thought possible.
“I have accepted your relationship,” his brother continued, growling now. “I’m at a point where I no longer wish to vomit every time I see you together. But I will not tolerate this!”
“And yet you will. I tolerated your tantrums for centuries,” Brochan reminded him. “So, you’ll learn to live with this.” Again and again, he’d wondered if he should tell his brother what he knew. That McCadden had chosen to push Brochan from his life in order to be with Viola. But again and again, he had refrained.
A mistake was made. McCadden had learned from it. Why rub his guilt in his face now? What purpose would it serve? Especially when Brochan had already forgiven him. If his brother had passed Viola’s test, Brochan would not have her now.
His gaze found her, as it always did, and he grinned. She’d anchored her mass of hair into a messy bun, sweat making stray strands stick to her cheeks. She wore a pink shirt with a high collar and long sleeves, a pair of gloves, leather pants tucked into steel-toed boots. A leather apron draped her chest, and a tool belt encircled her waist. Safety goggles were perched on her nose.
She’d never looked lovelier.
Contentment enveloped Brochan.
“What’s she even making?” McCadden demanded. “No. You know what? Never mind. I’d rather leave before she notices—”