Was it because of her? Was he too far away from her? Was she killing him?
Scarlet cried out in agony as another wave of torment went through her.
She would not let him die.
Pulling her strength together, Scarlet sat up. The dark room was spinning, but she could see the door. Crawling on her hands and knees, she inched her way out of the bedroom, wincing with every movement. Once she reached the hallway, she forced herself to stand.
Wobbly and tortured, Scarlet’s body felt like it was ice cold and on fire at the same time. She saw the stairs, commanded her feet to move, and climbed her way up.
She reached the main floor and gathered more strength.
Scarlet kept moving until she reached the cabin’s back door and made herself stand up. With a shaking hand, she turned the doorknob and stepped outside, a cry of pain escaping her mouth.
But something about the frigid forest air, the black sky above, and the feel of Tristan’s not-so-distant heart breathed new life into her lungs and she began to walk.
She walked and walked…off the cabin’s back porch…past the shooting range where Tristan had watched her with pride…and into the tall trees.
She was getting closer to him.
Following the pull of Tristan’s heart, Scarlet walked faster into the darkness.
Her pain was easing with every step and, before she knew it, she was running.
Through the woods, through the pain, and straight to Tristan.
He wasn’t dead yet.
50
Tristan braced himself against the kitchen counter in the shack, trying not to fall over. He was in too much pain to get back to Scarlet. Even if he wanted to return to her, his body physically would not allow him fluid movement.
He hadn’t eaten in days and his muscles were just as weak as his resolve to live. He felt like his insides were being eaten alive, disintegrating one cell at a time. His joints were on fire, his bones were sore, and his head was bursting with pressure.
But the most concerning thing about his condition was his heart. It was pumping angrily, as if any moment it would explode in his chest.
Or maybe it already had.
His legs were useless bolts of fire as he stepped forward, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. He put his hands out, feeling the wall beside him, as he clambered his way over to the couch. Once there, he collapsed on the soft cushions.
Torment continued to riddle him, causing him to convulse and suck in short breaths. His shaking body could not be held in one place and, eventually, dropped from the couch to the floor beside the lit fireplace.
The wood crackled and popped as flames devoured it, and gave heat to the side of his face.
Wracked with suffering, Tristan considered crawling into the fireplace and letting the fire engulf his body and singe away his suffering.
Surely, burning to death was less painful than this.
But he couldn’t even muster the strength to roll himself into the flames.
Sickness and madness invaded his mind until every sound, sight, taste and smell became nothing more than a memory.
Somehow, he knew he was dying. As impossible as it seemed, Tristan knew this is where he would die. On the dirty floor of an old shack, surrounded by the teasing flames of release and the haunting memories of a dark-haired girl with a sharp tongue.
He swam through the pain in his head until he found a picture of Scarlet laughing in his arms. He held on to the memory for dear life and waited for death to claim him.
Scarlet was barefoot, but she ran with determination. The February night barely chilled her skin as adrenaline spiked her veins. Trees, rocks, and shrubs all passed her by in the silent night. Where was she going?
Was Tristan lying in the middle of the forest?
Scarlet felt the pain—and the fever—leave her little by little as she neared Tristan’s location.
Keep going, keep going.
Finally, she came upon a small hut. Tucked away and nearly hidden, it was nestled deep in the trees with a single light on inside. Scarlet ran to it.
She didn’t knock, she didn’t scream, she didn’t call out for Tristan.
She didn’t have to.
She felt him inside the hut. Dying. Because of her.
Scarlet burst through the front door and scanned the small interior. Her eyes fell to Tristan’s body lying at the foot of the fireplace and she sucked in a breath.
Without thinking, Scarlet slammed the door shut behind her, hurried over to Tristan, and threw her hands on top of his shirtless chest.
Instantly, every ache and pain dissipated from Scarlet’s body. It felt incredible. Amazing.
Heavenly.
Her pain was completely gone and her body was rapidly filling with pleasure.
Scarlet looked down at Tristan’s chest, feeling more and more pleasure pulse up through her hands, into her arms, and down her body.
Was this what it felt like for Tristan to touch her? Pure bliss?
And yet he never touched her. Always choosing torment over pleasure.
Scarlet shook her head as she spread her fingers out, trying to touch as much of his bare skin as possible. Looking down, she noticed how small her hands were compared to his chest. One hand laid flat over his beating heart and barely covered the expanse of the muscle beneath.
He was big and strong and immortal. Nothing could hurt him.
Except her.
She pressed her palms down harder, waiting for his pain to subside and revive him.
But he didn’t respond.
Panting and frantic, Scarlet tried to find his heart inside her.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
It was there. Tristan was alive, but still in pain.
Scarlet looked at his face and everything inside her became desperate. His eyes were closed, his hair was a mess, and dark stubble shadowed his cheeks. His face looked hollow and his skin was pale.
Beneath her fingers, his bare chest felt warm as her eyes traced the tattoo that stained his hip and disappeared into his faded jeans. His heartbeat was erratic as it pulsed against her palm and echoed in her heart.
He was broken. He was beautiful.
She would bring him back to life, back to happiness, back to everything that was imperfect between the two of them. Even if it killed her.
Without any other options, Scarlet carefully laid her entire body on top of his, wrapping herself around him, touching as much of him as possible. The thin satin top she wore instantly heated against his body, sending warm tingles across her skin.
Against his chest, she was small. But she was also powerful.
Her touch was powerful.
Listening to the fire beside them crack and spark, Scarlet laid the side of her face against Tristan’s shoulder and tucked her hands around the sides of his ribcage.
She knew touching him was suicide, but she didn’t care.
Tristan was dying. To hell with the rules.
She took a few deep breaths, waiting for his pain to ease. But before she knew what was happening, her world started to spin and she felt herself being sucked into a memory. Violent and blinding, the memory pulled her away from reality and drew her into another time. And, somehow, it seemed like Tristan’s soul was being drawn into the memory with her….