I dabbed a cool cloth across Alaric's forehead, my fingers trembling with exhaustion. Three weeks had passed since our confrontation with the High Priestess in the sacred grove, and though the immediate danger had passed, my husband's recovery remained painfully slow.
"His fever's down again," I said to Mariella, who stood mixing herbs at a small table by the window of our bedchamber at Thorne Estate.
"That's the third day in a row," she replied, her voice cautiously hopeful. "The darkness is finally releasing its hold on him."
I studied Alaric's sleeping face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw with my eyes. Though still pale, his skin had lost that ashen quality that had terrified me for weeks. The silvery mark on his chest—where the Serpent's corruption had entered his body—now resembled a starburst rather than a festering wound.
"I thought I'd lost him," I whispered, more to myself than to Mariella.
