The sight that greeted her stole the breath from her lungs. Silas lay on his stomach, his bare back a canvas of raw, angry red burns. A wave of gut-wrenching sadness washed over Esme.
Her actions had once again caused him harm. Previously, he had taken the blow of knife for her. This time also he had been injured in the process of saving her.
Her legs, still shaky from her ordeal, carried her forward until she stood beside the bed. A choked sob escaped her lips as she gazed at his pale face, a face etched with pain but devoid of complaint.
Regret, sharp and bitter, clawed at her. She wished she could go back in time and change the course of the event.
Reaching out, she brushed a trembling hand across his forehead, the touch feather-light. "Silas," she whispered. "You shouldn't have put yourself in danger."
