Cursed

When he saw she was awake, he nodded at her. “It’s over now. I told him the truth before he died.”

 

 

Isobel burst into tears. “Matteo’s dead?”

 

Aldo flinched and gave her an apologetic glance. “No. He’s...sleeping. I meant Nino. About his daughter.”

 

She sat up and crossed her arms. “You do remember her.”

 

It was a statement of fact.

 

The Conte nodded. “And she is dead, but I never harmed her. Gina died in childbirth.”

 

Understanding dawned. “And the babe was yours.”

 

“Yes. I never let any of my friends share her. She didn’t want that and I respected her choice. And I didn’t force her either. I made sure Nino knew that. And about the child.”

 

Surprised, she narrowed her eyes. “The child lived?”

 

Aldo inhaled, drawing himself up. “Yes. It’s being taken care of.”

 

Out of sight and out of mind, she thought. What a mess.

 

“Does Matteo know?”

 

He looked away. “He has enough to worry about.”

 

That was more than enough to get her out of bed. She stood up stiffly. “Where is he?”

 

He gestured to the connecting door, and she hurried through it to Matteo’s bedroom.

 

Her chest squeezed her heart when she saw him. His aura was intact—mostly. A few glints of green, the distinctive shade of her own aura, could be seen here and there. She picked up her hand and examined the shimmering haze surrounding it. A few prominent streaks of red ran through it.

 

Somehow she’d blended their auras, weaving hers over the tears in his. In turn some of his had been transferred to her.

 

We’ll always be tied together now.

 

Unfortunately, Matteo’s hands and chest hadn’t fared as well. They were wrapped in white gauze, but badly. Bits of burned flesh were visible between the strips. And it was starting to seep. If she didn’t clean the flesh and change the bandages, it would grow infected.

 

“I didn’t really know what to do and neither did the staff,” Aldo murmured “We sent for a physician, but the sawbones was soused and could barely stand. I didn’t let him near my son. I was going to send for another doctor, but I think you can do better.”

 

Isobel walked up to her husband, inspecting him closely. She nodded in agreement. “Go fetch me clean gauze and scissors. I’ll need the crates in the greenhouse, as well. The one’s holding all of my supplies.”

 

“Will he live?”

 

Leaning over, she put her hand on Matteo’s chest. His breathing was shallow, but even, and his heart was steady. His aura looked bad, but it would mend.

 

“Yes, I think so,” she whispered.

 

“What about his hands?”

 

She glanced down at them. They were curled into claws, likely a reflex to all of the damage. Whether or not he would be able to use them again was doubtful.

 

“I don’t know, but we can’t go waste anymore time. My things, please,” she said, waving him away.

 

Once he was gone, she sat on the bed. To her relief, Matteo’s lids fluttered and opened. Despite the pain he must be suffering from, he smiled weakly at her.

 

“Still alive, bella, and all alone.”

 

Isobel frowned, and was about to assure him she wasn’t going to leave him when what he meant became clear. There was no “other” in his body anymore, and he could feel it.

 

Inhaling deeply, she relaxed. Pressing a kiss to his forehead, she whispered, “Yes, my love, you are.”

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 29

 

 

 

Days passed in anxious vigil. Isobel tended to Matteo’s burns with healing poultices and restoratives draughts, getting little sleep. What rest she did get was snatched sitting up in bed at his side.

 

But day-by-day he improved and eventually the risk of infection passed. The burn on his chest scabbed over and by moving gingerly he was able to sit up and eventually stand and walk.

 

Unfortunately, his hands were far worse off. The skin had been badly burned and the musculature deeply damaged. He couldn’t move them. They hung at his sides, lifeless claws he couldn’t open or close. Without a miracle, it was likely he would never be able to use them again.

 

Despite being witness and catalyst to the events in the greenhouse, the count couldn’t stop from criticizing her role. Upset over Matteo’s hands, he cornered her in the parlor a few days later. He argued that she should have found a way that wouldn’t have left his son scarred if things went wrong.

 

Hanging onto her temper by a thread she defended herself, and Matteo, who had been willing to risk everything—including death—than live with that blackness in his soul.

 

“And let’s not forget exactly why we are here now,” she added through gritted teeth. “This is because of you and your arrogance and sense of self-entitlement.”

 

“What does that mean?” he argued back.

 

“Gina.”

 

He scoffed. “I provided for the child and would have done so for the mother had she lived.”