Beloved Beast

Chapter Forty-Five

An hour went by, then two. Time was unbearably slow, every unchanging minute incrementally deteriorating any shred of hope that she could be saved.

In those tortuous moments, Don thought of a thousand different forms of pain, but none stacked up against a grieving heart. He was no stranger to loss, having experienced it more times over, but nothing had prepared him for the quiet spaces where her absence was blaring or how that vast reaching air could feel so gray and harsher without her to soften it.

To cram everything that was Elle into the mere chambers of his shattered organ felt like a disservice to her memory when his love for her was thunderous and unapologetic.

His greatest regret would be that he had never told her so.

Clad in a torn, blood-caked tunic, Don paced back and forth, balking at the idea that he ought to compromise with this reality, that he should settle for fleeting memories of Elle to sustain him for the rest of his abiding existence. Was he meant to accept ghostly echoes of her laughter to fill the enormous void that pervaded his chest and heart alike? Was he supposed to just forget her and carry on?

No. He would not come to terms with her loss, not when faced with a lifetime of profound yearning, of looking for her in every dark-haired woman that passed him by, wishing it was her. How was he to reconcile with life bereft of the woman he loved when despair lined his every messy heartbeat? Grief and regret were an unyielding pair, and both had been doled out by no half-measures the moment she was unfairly ripped from him —so no, he would not accept this outcome.

The deep shadows of the room vied for his attention just as much as his rampant thoughts, shifting in a way that suggested enemies lurked in every dark corner, but when Don scanned the semi-darkness, he found nothing.

His skin prickled with unease, the sensation making him restless. Maybe it was the exhaustion tugging at his brain, or the inflamed wounds spanning the width of his back that had him seeing things that weren't really there, either way, he would not rest, not until there were some signs of life, or something to give him hope.

An anxious, feral energy flowed through his tense body as his eyes frequently, feverishly, focused on the bed where Lucy perched. The sight of Elle's prone body made his heart lurch.

Jaw clenched tight, he watched the maid's every move with an intensity that unnerved the girl, making her hands tremble beneath his fierce scrutiny.

The air smelled strongly of sweet-smelling herbs, but the potent smell served to only churn his insides for it solidified the steep task ahead of them, reminding Don that all that stood between him and death, was a timid, inexperienced healer.

Distrustful and wary, he remained vigilant. He'd had enough of supernatural infractions to last him an eternity to know that anyone who exercised magic or something of that nature, could not be trusted. The maid had given him no reason to not trust her, but she claimed to have healing hands, and that was enough to rouse his suspicions. Given what they both knew about Elle, he wasn't taking any chances, but Lucy had presented a semblance of hope, albeit false, it was all he had to cling to.

By midday, there were still no changes, and Givens had not returned from the village. Had his serviceman encountered trouble? Had he failed to find an experienced healer and opted to retrieve the sister's body instead? If the girl hadn't survived and Lucy failed to resurrect Elle, he would have to inform the family.

What could he possibly do or tell them to ease their suffering? What words of comfort could he offer that wouldn't be perceived as superficial or insincere when, if not for his peremptory demands, none of this would have happened. If not for him, Sera would have never known about Elle, but he had no regrets about their chance encounter at the edge of the forest.