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“You’re asking the wrong woman.”
“No.” His fingers tightened around mine. “I’m asking my wife.”
The word tore through me. “I’m not your wife anymore.”
“You’ll always be my wife.”
“You’re dead, Salvatore.”
“One does not change the other.”
I closed my eyes, but I could still feel him. “Rurik kissed me.”
His hand remained around mine. “I know.”
“Of course you do.” A broken laugh escaped me. “Apparently death has excellent surveillance.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, giving me a glimpse of the man who had once turned every serious moment sideways simply to make me smile. “Did you kiss him back?”
“No.”
“Did you want to?”
“No.”
“Then why are you confessing?”
“Because I didn’t stop him.” I forced myself to meet his eyes. “I knew what he wanted, and I let him kiss me anyway.”
“Not moving isn’t the same as choosing.”
“Are you angry?”
“At him?”
“At me.”
Salvatore studied my face with unbearable tenderness. “I’m not here because another man loves you. I’m here because you don’t love him.”
“I love you.”
“I know, baby.” His thumb moved across my knuckles.
The words reached deeper than accusation. I tried to pull my hand away, but Salvatore held it.
“I don’t want to die,” I said.
“That isn’t the same as wanting to live.”
“What’s left for me?”
“Your mother. Your father. The family that spent years loving you badly and is trying to learn how to do it honestly.” His gaze dropped to Henry’s envelope. “Our son.”
“Henry has Illyria.”
“Yes.”
“He calls her Mom.” Saying it still wounded me, even though I had never wanted him to call her anything else. “She knows what he eats for breakfast. She knows which stories help him sleep and what frightened him yesterday. I’m a woman he sees from a distance, if he sees me at all.”
