“Where is Aelin.” There was pure panic, too—pure panic as Whitethorn saw the blood, the scattered blades, and the shirt. “Where is Aelin.” What had he done, what had he done— Pain sliced Lorcan’s neck, warm blood dribbled down his throat, his chest. Rowan hissed, “Where is my wife?” Lorcan swayed where he knelt. Wife. Wife. “Oh, gods,” Elide sobbed as she overheard, the words carrying the sound of Lorcan’s own fractured heart. “Oh, gods …” And for the first time in centuries, Lorcan wept. Rowan dug the dagger deeper into Lorcan’s neck, even as tears slid down Lorcan’s face. What that woman had
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