Page 57 of Dangerous Exile

Three shovelfuls of dirt moved and Talen glanced up as Ness moved to the next headstone over, her fingers touching the top of it. A tall classical panel with side pillars and a pediment atop, the flowers etched into the stone were only partially worn with time. His gaze moved down the front of it.

Beloved wife, daughter, mother, Mariana Burton.

Mariana Burton.

The shovel fell at his side and he moved forward, his legs wooden and barely able to carry his weight. An uncontrollable shake set into his hands, but it didn’t stop him from bending and reaching out, tracing the letters etched deep into the stone. Once, twice, three times over her name.

“Mariana.” His lips moved, the faintest breath of a whisper forming the word.

His eyes closed with the name spoken to the wind and a blinding light filled his head, so bright it felt as though his brain was about to explode from the inside out.

And then nothing.

Nothing but blackness.

Blackness and one thing—the echo of a voice from long ago.

“My merry Mariana.” He whispered the words, afraid to set them into the air for fear his head would truly rupture.

Ness’s hand landed on his arm, worry in her voice. “Talen, what did you say?”

“My merry Mariana.” He swayed slightly with the words, trying not to lose them into the blackness. “My merry Mariana.”

His eyes opened to Ness. “My merry Mariana.”

The words didn’t leave him. Instead, they only grew stronger in his mind, a seed with a thousand tiny sprouts flashing all at once.

He closed his eyes, trying to stem the flow, trying to stem everything that was entangled with them.

“Talen?” Ness’s hand tightened on his arm.

The words. Concentrate on the words.

“My merry Mariana. It’s what my father used to call my mother. My merry Mariana. All the time.My merry Mariana.”

“You remember?” Her breathless words drifted into his ears.

His eyes flew open, searching for her, searching for her eyes. “Your face—when you showed up at the Alabaster for me beaten to all hell.”

She blinked hard, her head shaking. “What?”

His entire adult life instantly made sense.

Why he could never stomach a bruise on a woman.

Why he could never dabble in brothels in his holdings.

Why he cringed every time he heard a gun clicking on an empty barrel.

“They killed my father immediately—even though she fought them—he fought them. She went crazy. Pure vicious madness. Scratching their eyes. Biting their arms.” His words flew in a torrent, his eyes closing as the scene—arms and legs and terror flying in puzzle pieces in his mind. “I fought them. I did too. But my father was the first to go. Quick. Merciless. One gunshot and he went down. They turned on me next, setting a pistol to my head. And then a click, the trigger pulled.” He had to gasp in a breath.

“They shot you?”

“No. The gun didn’t have a bullet. Just the click. So they took to their fists. Pummeling me, my head, my stomach, my chest. Fist after fist crushing into my face. So much blood I couldn’t see past the red in my eyes. They dropped me to the floor when they grew tired, thinking I was dead. I thought I was dead. In and out of blackness.”

“But you weren’t.”

Both of his hands went to his face, the butt of his palms crushing into his eyes, trying to wipe free the images. Images he didn’t want to see. “They moved onto my mother.” His hands pulled away from his eyes with a growl and he found Ness’s face.