Chapter 345. What Ifs II

Chapter 345: 345. What Ifs II

Maisie

The helplessness burrowed so deep, I felt my bones weaken. Their hands were tied. They were trying, but it wouldn’t do a single thing to stop the wedding, short of an intervention.

And seeing as the first wedding went, the Queen would be expecting it, too.

Seeing my understanding and the panic that rose with it, Jericho brought my frightened gaze back to him. "You can do something about it. You have a claim on him, far stronger than we do. Why do you think the date is being moved up? Lysandra knows every day that passes before that ceremony is one more day you have to take him back for good."

"I can’t," I whispered, my fingernails digging crescents into the palms of my hands. "I can’t risk it."

"Can’t? Or won’t?"

The frankness in his question threw me off balance, and I got angry all of a sudden, gesturing roughly towards Quinlan’s almost-still body. "It could’ve been worse! Another inch and he would’ve died! That is what happens if I do it! What don’t you understand about I can’t?!

"I understand you perfectly, malsyshka. You are terrified. You are scared that the very thing that binds us will destroy us. And you have every right to be," he said gently. "The risk is real. It will always be real. Would you rather he spend the rest of his life bound to a monster who despises him?"

I flinched, but he went on. "A woman who calls him by his rapist father’s name, who uses him as a pawn to sit on the throne, forces him to fuck whenever she likes and calls him a bastard and treats him less than a dog during?

"Tessa doesn’t care about Mercer, or any of us. Soren is the only one she’s ever wanted, because of what he represents, and since she can’t have him, she’ll take the next best thing. Would you rather he die a slow, miserable death inside, just because you were too afraid of your own strength to pull him back?"

No.

I couldn’t let him go. I couldn’t let that wretched, manipulative bitch win, and I wouldn’t let Mercer martyr himself for a ghost of a chance at keeping me safe. He was mine. Every stubborn, prickly piece of him belonged to me.

But I was assaulted by an image of Quinlan’s body jerking, his limbs twitching with a seizure.

Tears spilled over my lashes. "I... I can’t risk him dying for me."

Jericho’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t look disgusted with me, like I thought he would. He merely nodded, his arms around me unmoving. "Then you must know you will lose him, not because your hands are tied. But because you made a decision to lose him. Which means you have to stop complaining about it and come to terms with it."

I stared at him, horrified and heartbroken, and I began to wail, burying my face against his chest. "How can you be so mean?"

Jericho rested his cheek against my hair, his thumb tracing slow, comforting lines up and down my spine. "I am not being mean, malyshka. I’ve lied to you once, and you hated me for it. I’ve vowed never to do it again. So, I tell you nothing but the truth, even if it hurts you. Mercer has never had a single person lay claim to him because they loved him or wanted him. Except us, his brothers, and for him, that probably doesn’t count as much as it should.

"He’s walking into this because he believes it’s the only way to keep you alive. Happy. If you have made a decision not to claim him, we will respect it. But you must realize you have a choice. You must let him go. Or you must mark him. I think he came here with the hope that you would. He just didn’t know it."

My heart began racing at the possibility of it. The insanity of stealing back what was mine. But my stomach dropped again. "The wedding is in two weeks. He’s... returned to the castle."

Jericho grinned. "Knowing Tessa, she’ll want to throw it in your face that she has him. He’ll be back soon, at least, for the wedding shoot here in Ashbourne." His grin widened. "The way I see it, you have two weeks to bring the prick home, malyshka."

How? How was I supposed to do that? Just mark him? Would he let me? I wondered.

But a small moan drew my attention back to Quinlan. His brows were furrowed and a small sob slipped out of him, like he was caught in a nightmare.

I lurched forward, leaning over him as I brushed his hair back from his face. His skin was hot to touch and I sucked in a sharp breath when his lashes fluttered. His eyes were fully black and glazed.

"Maman..." He moaned again, sweat gathering on his brow. "Je ne veux pas." He groaned, head turning left and right. "May. Tu veux bien... retrouver May pour moi?

"Quinlan," I breathed, not understanding, but I knew he was calling for me. "It’s me. I’m here."

"Maisie?" he whimpered, nostrils flaring. "J’ai soif. ?a fait mal. J’ai besoin..."

"English?" I said, but Jericho moved around me, headed for the jug on the stand. I stared at him blankly when he began pouring a glass of water.

Jericho shrugged. "He says he’s thirsty."

"You speak French now?"

"I’ve known him since we were little. You pick up a few things," he shrugged.

Jericho handed me the glass, and I slid my hand under Quinlan’s head, lifting it so he drink. But he twisted, growling angrily and I gasped as he smacked the cup out of my wrist.

It hit the ground with a wet crash, and I turned to Jericho. "I thought you said he was thirsty!"

"That’s what he said," Jericho argued, but my focus was on Quinlan. His eyes were unfocused, but his hand was twisted around the front of my hospital dress, and without warning, he yanked me down into him, breathing in my neck.

"Gods, you smell so good..." he whispered. "I’m... so... thirsty. I just need... a bite... will you..." he whimpered like a child. "...give me this?"

A spark of desire lit up my core as he dragged sharp fangs along my pulse. And I came to the startling realization that he hadn’t meant water.

Just like me, he needed to replenish what he’d lost.