I relax my hold and begin rubbing her back soothingly. I’m still not used to the tight ball of fear that’s made a home for itself in my stomach, or the slow release of its poison.

I’m also not used to being caring, affectionate. The previous women I have been with can attest to that. But with Serenity, it comes naturally, perhaps because I know just how unused to it she is as well. It’s easier to give another something that’s never been demanded of you.

She’s still coughing, and at some point several droplets of her sickness hit my chest. Concern trumps any disgust I might have. She hasn’t stopped coughing; if anything, it sounds like it’s getting worse. She rolls away from me.

I pull her back against my chest and press my lips to the back of her slender neck. “Nire bihotza, I’m not letting you go.” I’m not sure whether I’m referring to this moment, or the larger trajectory of her life. She’s mine. Her life is mine, her heart and her soul are mine.

“What does that even mean?” she rasps, choking down her cough to talk.

I swallow the golf ball sized wedge that’s taken up residence in my throat.

A reluctant smile tips the corners of my mouth up. “‘Nire bihotza’ means ‘my heart’ in Euskara—Basque.”

“That’s your native tongue?” Her voice sounds painfully rough.

I run a hand down her arm. “Mhm.”

“You’ve been saying that for a while.”

My hand comes to the end of her arm, and I thread my fingers through hers. “It’s been so since the moment I met you.”

Even now I want to wrap myself up in her and make her the air I breathe and the earth I stand on. But she’s not earth or air.

She has been and always will be fire. She’s my light and my death, and I couldn’t escape her unscathed even if I tried.

Serenity falls quiet after that. With relief I realize that her coughing fit is over, for now.

Finally she breaks the silence. “Montes?”

“Yes?”

“Bury my body in my homeland.”

My hand tightens around hers. A single sentence shouldn’t be so devastating. This one levels my heart.

No.

No, no, no.

I want to shout my answer at her. She’s not leaving me. I won’t let her.

“Go to sleep, Serenity.”

She sighs.

I wait for her body to relax before I leave her side and go to the bathroom. Turning on the faucet, I splash water on my face then settle my palms heavily against the marble countertop.

War comes at steep costs. Everyone I’ve ever held in high esteem has told me this. I just never felt the breath of it until recently. Things I’ve never had trouble holding onto are slipping through my hands—friends, loyalties, countries, lovers.

When I glance back up at my reflection, I notice the blood speckled across my chest. I touch my fingers to it and look down at them. The crimson liquid is smeared across the pads of my fingertips. It hadn’t been saliva that Serenity had coughed on me.

My last straw just broke.

I return to our bed and pull her back into my chest, attempting to get as much of her pressed to as much of me as I can.

“Fuck you and your bravery,” I whisper. This hurts worse than the bullet she buried in my shoulder.

She murmurs against me.

For the first time in what feels like eons, tears spill from my eyes.

My eyes had burned when I found out Marco died, and they’d watered when we lost our unborn child, but it’s Serenity who gets my tears. This is the first time since my father died that I let them freely fall.

I bite my lip to keep a sob from slipping out, and it takes most of my self-control to not squeeze her to me when it might trigger another coughing fit. I can’t, however, stop my body from shaking as premature grief consumes me. It’s almost unbearable, watching someone die. I’ve callously killed millions, but when my victim is my lover and she’s dying in my arms, I can’t bear it.

What I told her earlier was true. I never planned on loving her, but I do. I never planned on losing her either.

I still don’t.

Serenity

I GROAN AS I wake, stretching my limbs out and wincing when I feel a sharp lance of pain in my abdomen. I tilt my head to the side and stare tiredly out the window. The sun has an orange glow to it. For a moment I relish the fact that I can wake to the sun at all. Aside from my stint with the military, I’ve lived belowground for the last five years. I’m used to waking to total darkness or the bunker’s sickly fluorescent lights.

Then I noticed that along with the deep orange light are the beginnings of shadows.

How late did I sleep?

I look over my shoulder. The other half of the bed is empty. And now that I think about it, I vaguely remember Montes bending over and kissing my lips.

That snake.

He slipped away before I woke to resume his post and help his troops fight the rebellions in South America. He left his weak, sick wife to sleep in.

For all his good intentions, he left me here, out of the action. I hate that. If there’s trouble on the horizon, I don’t want to be left in the dark about it.

I push back the covers. That’s when I notice the blood. It speckles the sheets and my pillow.

Had the king seen this?

He couldn’t have, otherwise he’d be riding my ass to get in the dreaded Sleeper. Even now I shiver at the thought of it. Months spent in stasis as my body heals and no memory to account for that lost time. Could you even call that living?