As Rowan’s face, calm with lethal wrath, appeared in his vision. “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.
