Severin sat in the passenger seat, with Isolde unconscious in his lap, her head resting limply against his neck. Aside from barking at his men to drive faster—because Isolde needed medical help and she needed it now—Severin said nothing. Not a word. He just sat there, silent, until he could only hear the rasp of his breath and the thunder of his heartbeat.
He stayed still, stiff as a corpse, because Isolde—curled up on his lap—felt ice-cold. Her face, pressed against his neck, was cold too. Her breaths came out faint, strained, like something was stuck in her throat. Like even fucking breathing had become a luxury for her now.
His blood-soaked hands moved to her stomach, searching for movement. Two months ago, that same movement had scared the hell out of him. But now? Now, when he felt nothing—not even a twitch—his breath caught in his throat like it was being choked out of him.
