Her hands shook as she took the book and rapidly thumbed through it.
Calm down, she told herself sternly, taking deep and even breaths. But when she closed her eyes the memory of its face hovering over hers returned.
She didn’t know what had happened. Matteo had been nothing like she remembered, or what the Conte had described. His skin had been warm to the touch, maybe a little cooler than normal, but nothing like the icy coldness of that terrible night. And he’d spoken to her, murmuring endearments the way the real Matteo did.
Oh, God.
Heart racing, she pressed the flat of her palms hard against her temples, physically trying to blot out the images flooding through her mind—and the physical memory of them. She could still feel his phantom touch all over, the way he had moved inside her and tasted the skin at her neck before he found his completion.
Its completion, she corrected.
And her body hadn’t been able to tell the difference between the man and the monster. She’d been helpless to retreat, or stifle the response her body had been experiencing like a play that could have only one end.
No, she hadn’t been able to stop it. Instead, she’d found ecstasy in a demon’s arms. Then he’d collapsed against her, whispering her name tenderly before falling asleep almost immediately.
Why hadn’t he killed her? Not just right now, but also the first time? Matteo had said she was different. At first she’d believed it was because her magic protected her somehow, but that wasn’t the whole story.
By rights, she should be dead now. Contrary to all expectations, she was alive and well, allowed to move freely while he—it—slept upstairs. Matteo had slept all morning, the shade inside him dormant.
Somehow, she was exceptional to it. But he was different now too. Something she had done that night had changed him. Instead of a murderous automaton he was…well, she didn’t know what he was.
She’d been watching, waiting for the evil to grow back and overwhelm him. Watching for the obvious had been a mistake. It had hidden from her, working itself in more deeply to him until she couldn’t see where Matteo ended and the curse began.
What if, instead of temporarily alleviating him of his curse, she’d somehow bound him to it more tightly? If that was true, then this was all her fault. Her and her damnable ignorance. How could she possibly cure him now?
Isobel desperately wished she could speak to her grandmother. She would give anything for a few moments with her, or anyone who might be able to guide her out of this mess.
Running a hand through her disheveled hair, she tugged on it hard. Maybe the pain would give her focus. Putting the book down, she stood up to reach for another. And when that one didn’t offer answers, she reached for another.
***
Six days later, Isobel was back in the carriage with the Conte, determinedly trying to ignore his continuous complaints. Her husband slumped against the wall, asleep. He’d been doing that a lot lately.
When he’d woken later that morning after their wedding night, she’d been expecting the worst. But Matteo had come down to join her in the library as if nothing had ever happened. His golden brown eyes had been clear and his manner romantic and affectionate—the besotted groom on the first day of his honeymoon.
He’d immediately offered to help her sort through the books, taking up the task with energy and determination. Together, they organized a search of the countryside, gathering up what little herbs they could find with the help of Nino and, to a lesser extent, Ottavio.
There had been a bittersweet visit to her grandmother’s home. She’d been surprised it was still standing. She’d been half expecting to find a burned out shell, but the locals must have feared the memory of her grandmother enough to leave the place alone. Matteo had inspected the contents inside, saving a decorative pitcher and a tray from the tea service for her. The precious plants and mosses from that garden and surrounding wood were cleaned and stored with the stock she’d received from Meg.
Throughout the week, Matteo behaved like the ideal husband, caring and considerate—and understanding when she told him resuming marital relations right away would be too uncomfortable. He patiently waited several days before asking again, though he hadn’t been able to resist caressing or holding her.
Things had been so normal, she actually convinced herself that she’d imagined the whole thing. Perhaps she’d still been asleep, her nightmares blending with reality in an unexpected way. After everything that had happened, it was only natural that her imagination would take a dark turn.
But she hadn’t been imagining it. She knew that now. Two days later, when her husband had determinedly seduced her, she had let him, closing her eyes to the danger because she wanted to believe, more than anything, that she was wrong.