Read Online Dearest by Alethea Kontis - Free Book Online

her shirt pressed flat against her left side. Just beneath her left breast, a flower of blood began to soak through the linen there. Had she been wearing a bodice, they never would have seen it.
    “She’s not a healer,” said François. “She’s an Empath.”
    “Idiot!” Philippe yelled to the skies. He could have been referring to Friday or Tristan. Or both.
    Less enigmatically, Rene smacked Tristan on the back of the head.
    “You’ve gone and killed a princess,” said Bernard.
    Tristan could feel her warm body breathing in his arms, however shallow. “She’s not dead,” he snapped.
    “Not yet,” said Rene.
    “She’s an Empath more powerful than I’ve ever seen,” said Sebastien. “She didn’t just feel your pain; she took it from you completely.”
    Tristan held the princess tighter, cursing himself for the selfish thoughts he’d had while she was trying to heal him. “Will she be all right?”
    “Let her go and let me see.”
    Tristan might not have released his hold on her for anyone other than Christian, the most levelheaded of the brothers. Christian lifted Friday’s shirt, gently and modestly, uncovering the wound and nothing more. “It’s sewn,” he announced after his examination, “and nicely, too. The blood there seems to be entirely superficial.” He blotted it away with the corner of a blanket and lowered her shirt again. “Worry not, brother. She will heal.”
    “I bore the burden of the sewing, but she will bear the scar I was meant to have.” Tristan tried not to be angry with her again, this time for being stronger than he.
    “Who
is
she?” Tristan asked again.
    “She is your destiny,” Sebastien told him.
    Tristan had had enough of this nonsense, magic flames and all. “But I don’t want a destiny!”
    “People seldom do. Just ask my sisters.” The soft body in his arms shook with a chuckle, followed by a wince. “Goddess, that hurts. Remind me not to be funny again for a while.”
    “She’s alive!” shouted Rene.
    “Incredible,” said Bernard.
    Her eyes fluttered open and those gray depths looked right at Tristan. “What happened?”
    “You took my wound,” he told her. “You just
took
it. It’s yours now.”
    She raised her right arm to her left side and winced again. “That’s new.”
    “Luckily, you took the stitches as well,” said Christian. “It already looks much better. I believe you’ll be fine . . . in time.”
    Was his brother mad? So little about this whole situation was fine.
    “I take it you don’t do this sort of magic often?” Tristan asked her.
    “Beyond sewing, I’ve performed little magic at all personally, though it does run in my family.” Friday shook her head a little. “This is definitely a first.”
    “Well, don’t go doing it again.”
    Those gray eyes narrowed into icy slivers. “We may share a destiny, sir, but you do not know me, my family, or the chaos that skips merrily in our wake. I will very likely do that again, or worse, and you have no control over it now, nor will you. Understand?”
    It was eerie how her words mirrored the ones he’d felt only moments before. Tristan hadn’t had a woman put him so firmly in his place since before their mother died. He supposed he deserved it—he just couldn’t seem to control his emotions lately. “Yes, milady. Please accept my apologies, and my extreme gratitude for the healing.”
    “She’s not a healer,” the twins chorused.
    Friday grinned. “They’re a quick study.”
    “She’s a seamstress,” Christian finished with a smile. And then his smile fell. “A . . . seamstress,” he repeated, and then shook his head. “Milady, you have found yourself among a bevy of idiots.”
    “Sorry?” Tristan had no idea what his brother was on about. He was too distracted by those eyes, that smile, and the happy realization that she had not yet excused herself from his arms.
    Sebastien hopped up and slapped his thigh. “YES!”
    Elisa quietly covered her mouth