Maeve
“This is at least the fourth time I’ve died for you–or almost died for you,” Troy said weakly as Cleo rolled a bandage over his chest. “You’re going to marry me.”
“Okay,” I whispered, my mouth trembling as I smiled, and my eyes welled with tears. I looked from his face to his chest, which was moving up and down as he breathed.
He was breathing. He was alive.
And he had a moonstone.
Keaton was sniffling behind us, Myla murmuring reassurances in his ear as she stroked his back with her head pressed against his shoulder.
I’d had a strained relationship with Keaton since the day I met him. I thought he was ornery and arrogant, and I would continue to think that, but kneeling on the beach with him while Troy died in front of us had cemented an intimate type of relationship between us–a shared indescribable grief, and eventually a communal joy when Troy opened his eyes once more.
