Mallos had a particular expression when he was concentrating, and Croe was pleased that she could recognize it, even in her state. His fingers extended, his brow furrowed, his mouth pursed slightly. It was appalling – appalling! – that even with a touch diminished by fabric barriers, he made her heart race. Or maybe it was a different kind of anticipation. Maybe she could no longer tell her feelings apart. Her quickening blood chilled her, suddenly, as if it had been touched by a kind of magic that was unfriendly to it.
He recoiled from her.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she repeated as he snatched his hand away. “I should have…taken care of it. I should have done something. But I couldn’t, I couldn’t…”
Croe had not known what to expect, had not formulated some fantasy of a reaction, had not hoped for his happiness. She had never been one to imagine a pretty future for herself. Even so, his response hurt in a way she had never hurt before. She felt it go through her, like the blade in their first meeting – straight to the heart of her and past it, straight into something deeper than her heart. Her healing magic flared, stupidly, as if this was a hurt that could be healed. Her hands spread over her belly. She supposed, later, that she had some instinct to protect her daughter from the rejection she herself had endured in childhood. When had that changed? When had she stopped seeing this child as a parasite, an invader, and started seeing her as a lifeline?
The last time you saw him, a hard voice reminded her.
When you let yourself fall in love with him. When you could no longer destroy any part of him. And what did you think would happen? That you would give birth in secret? That you would pretend the child was fatherless, a division of yourself, that you would let Mallos come to his own conclusions – or not? Did you think anyone could have mistaken her for anything but a demigod? You have broken every law, every law, even laws that can only be broken by gods. And now you’re going to die, and leave your daughter motherless, and burden your lover with a weight of scandal that even he cannot scoff at, that even he cannot escape…
You should have ended it, when you told him it was a mistake.
Mallos’ look of intense study had evaporated, replaced by something hidden, something distant. It was a kind of wild animal look. He did not seem to hear her apologies, or at least he did not acknowledge them. Croe thought he might have stepped out of time. Or perhaps he was thinking the same things she was. Then his brow twitched down, reflexive, as if he’d been suddenly wounded…he leaned forward and braced himself with a hand on her shoulder, and her hand went out to his chest, to steady him. He seemed to come-to, eyes focusing on her as hers had focused on him minutes before, searching her, one hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. Croe felt sure, even in the fog of new memories, that he had never looked at her that way. And then he kissed her.
And Croe thought, I would do it again. I am a selfish, cruel woman, and I would do it all again, so help me…
He pulled away, leaving her wild-eyed and breathless, and rested his forehead against hers. “I won’t let them touch you.” She burned with sudden fire, cupped his face in her hands. You should, she thought. It would have been better for both of them if she could convince the King to spare her. But it would have been useless to say the words; his mind was in the here-and-now, his magic was melting away her shackles, his hands were on her legs. She shivered, in spite of herself, and not from cold. “Are you hurt,” he repeated.
“They sent a dozen men,” she answered softly and half-smiled, as if it were meant as a dismissal. “I’m just…tired. From this,” She sighed, her breath hot and feverish in her throat, and gestured to her simultaneously emaciated and swollen body. “The baby is wreaking more havoc than the King’s guards ever could.” She shifted her legs, becoming aware of the painful needling of having sat on them too long, and stretched them out in front of her. In the flickering light, her thin feet looked bony and weak. She scowled at them. Bastards stole my boots. “How long do we have?”
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