Page 83 of Fire to the Stars

“Oh, nonsense,” I laugh awkwardly. I’m turning away when Abel’s hand clasps my wrist. I halt in place, unsure what to do.

“Claire.”

I gather my wits and turn with stubborn confidence. “Yes?”

“You’re more beautiful than you think.”

I stare at him. His eyes are half lidded, sunken in from this angle. Traces of poison must linger in his system, because for Abel to say something like that, he must be hallucinating.

I toss a lock of hair behind my shoulder. “We established my beauty already.”

Abel’s grip slips from my wrist to my fingertips. “I meant on the inside.”

His gaze remains on our joined hands. My heart constricts. I give Abel’s fingers a quick squeeze to hide the tremors before I pull my hand away.

“I’ll tell the doctor you’re awake,” I manage.

I swipe his sword off the floor as I go. I need to take his belongings back to the inn. That’s why I’m leaving.

As I close the door behind me and lean against it, sword clutched to my chest, I know I’m telling myself a lie.

“Mademoiselle?”

It takes a few blinks, but the blur of my tears clears enough to see a nurse’s kind, round face. She digs through her apron pocket until she finds what she’s looking for—a handkerchief, which she hands to me. I take it and wipe the wetness from my cheeks to regain some composure.

An emotional assistant won’t reflect well on Abel’s reputation. I must collect myself.

“Monsieur Estellio is lucky to have such a caring belle,” shesays.

My heart nearly stops. “Belle?”

“No need to hide it. I can tell. You were asleep at his bedside for the last, oh, three hours.” She places a hand on her cheek, the other arm crossed over her chest in deliberation. “I debated bringing you a cot, but it seemed such a shame to disturb you. Is he awake?”

I barely process the businesslike shift in her last question. With so much raw emotion swirling in my mind, all I manage is a nod before I move aside to let her through.

“Don’t worry. He’ll survive.” She pats my shoulder and steps inside.

I stand with my back pressed to the wall, hugging the handkerchief and sword, then slowly sink to the floor. I look at the ceiling with wide eyes and stare at the lamp there, recognizing for the first time in months what it means to be finite.

A sob chokes me. I cast these stupid material objects aside and press the heels of my hands to my tear-filled eyes. They fail miserably at stanching the flow. My chest heaves as I gasp through a horrible realization: In my quest for death, a life of torture wasn’t the worst thing that could’ve happened to me.

I would rather face Micah’s fate a thousand times than find someone new to lose, but I can’t mask this feeling anymore.

I’m in love with Abel.

A slayer’s word is sufficient grounds for any suspected dragon’s immediate arrest.

—Royal decree renewed by His Majesty King Philippe, 1739 AA

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Abel

A nurse is talking to me, but her words don’t sink in. Now that I’m being discharged, it takes immense willpower not to forgo the pain meds, leap off the edge of this bed, then return to the inn and settle in with Claire.

“Are you listening?” the nurse huffs.

“Sorry, can you repeat that?”