L'Ange de la Mort (The Art of Revolution #1)

Chapter Forty-Two - 23. March. 1789

Gabriel

Gabriel can’t move. He opens his mouth—for there are hundreds of things he wishes to say—but all that comes out is silence. It’s been a mere week since he’s seen Lizabeth, and though she looks very much the same, something inside Gabriel has shifted. He convinced himself he’d never see her again—never feel the heat of her skin along his fingertips, never taste the sweetness of her kiss on his tongue. And now that she’s in front of him, she looks brighter somehow, more real, like the Lizabeth he knew before was a mere likeness of her fashioned from paper and shadows. 

“Lizabeth?” he says, half expecting her to dissipate into the afternoon air.

But she doesn’t.

Lizabeth glances up at him, caution leaping in her emerald gaze. It’s as if she expects Gabriel to suddenly disappear, too.

“How did you—how are you here?” Gabriel asks, lifting himself up to see her better, to make sure she’s really in the room. He doesn’t dare take his eyes off of her, fearing that the second he does, she will be gone.

“Jean and I were looking for you. But I—” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “I thought you were dead.”

When Lizabeth speaks—her words carrying the soft accent Gabriel has come to find so endearing—his heart contracts. Her voice holds the same lilting melody that has haunted his mind over the past few months, and even more so as of late, while he lies in bed thinking of all the ways she could reject him now. But when she speaks, her voice isn't filled with hurt or rage. Instead, the lilt is tinged with sorrow, regret, and possibly, a touch of longing.

“I’m here,” Gabriel whispers.

His words do nothing to wipe the distraught look from Lizabeth’s face. She directs her eyes to the ground and tears out the loose threads on her rose-colored gown, one by one. Her bottom lip trembles, but she keeps her composure, ripping apart her dress in lieu of shedding tears.

Wishing to prove to Lizabeth that he’s fine, Gabriel attempts to lift himself to a sitting position. But he is too eager and moves too fast, and the hasty shift in position sends a lick of fire down the left side of his body. He cries out, immediately cursing his weakness.

Gabriel grits his teeth and moves his eyes to the ceiling, waiting for the pain to subside. When it finally does, he looks at Lizabeth and the soundless tears spilling onto her cheeks, creating small tracks of pale white in the dirt that coats her skin.

“Why are you crying?” he asks.

“I don’t wish to see you in pain. Especially when it’s a fault of my own.”

The wound under Gabriel’s heart burns with memories. Memories of the terror he felt when François aimed the pistol at Lizabeth. Memories of his determination to keep her from harm. Memories of how he was desperate to be free of all the pain and anguish and death, no matter what the cost. 

“What happened wasn’t your fault. I wished to be free as well, and couldn’t think of another way.” 

“But if it wasn’t for me, if it wasn’t for my curse—” 

“Lizabeth,” Gabriel says, voice soft and careful, “you aren’t cursed.”

For a moment, Lizabeth doesn’t respond. The wetness and dirt on her face mix together, creating a smear across her skin. But it doesn’t mar her untamed beauty in the slightest. Gabriel supposes nothing ever could, at least not in his eyes.

“You must hate me after all the things I’ve done,” she says. “To you and to that boy. To everyone.”

“I could never hate you. For the past four years, my entire life has been encompassed by remorse for my actions. If anything, I now understand why I’m so drawn to you.”