Page 184 of Carnal Wagers

“Why?” I grunted as I lugged his body toward the wall to sit him up.

“Not a good idea.”

I halted midway through a last haul to the wall and nodded.

“You’re right. He’s better off lying down.”

There was nothing peaceful about the tense way he lay. His fists were balled. His muscles spasmed. Suddenly, he coughed and gargled, and I twisted his head in time for vomit to spew over the hardwood flooring. His eyes flickered open, the look in them glazed over.

“Get Arthur and Charlie,” I tossed over my shoulder.

“I doubt they’re any better than him.”

Those cryptic words flew over my head.

I patted away the sweat on his forehead with my sleeve. “You’re going to be fine.”

“He won’t,” Maeve singsonged unhelpfully.

Suddenly, he flinched hard. His eyes went wide, and his hands grappled onto me. A sound garbled out of him, not really a word, not really a moan.

“Don’t listen to her.” I massaged my nails through his hair, not sure what to do before the emergency services arrived. A swollen bump reddened one temple where he’d fallen. “What happened?”

It wasn’t the first time Maeve neglected to answer since I had entered the office, but it was the first time her silence clawed at me.

Cillian pushed the panic button, Brody had said. The sudden illness. The rope. That stuff didn’t just appear. I gasped in a quivering breath, my eyes watery, and shook my head at my silly thoughts. It wasn’t possible she’d do this.

Except I spied Maeve’s duffel bag lying wide open and empty on the office floor, where under no circumstances did it belong. The same duffel bag I had thought held a change of clothes and necessities because she meant to ask to stay over for some space from Erel. Beside it, the grill of a small, portable electric barbecue flared red-hot, and atop it lay a branding iron, heat sizzling off the edges of the design. A sort of Celtic knot.

A tear trailed down my face as it hit me. Poisoned, branded, stabbed—the Love Knot Killer’s modus operandi. It always sounded just a little far-fetched when Cillian mentioned it, but now the truth stared back at me under the guise of my best friend as she leaned against the wall, completely unmoved by this situation. She wore her usual artless expression that had made her so approachable so many years ago.

“You didn’t call an ambulance,” I whispered.

“No.” She crouched beside me and wiped my tear with her thumb, but more flowed to replace its disappearance. “This is exactly what he deserves.”

My mouth gaped open between harsh swallows. “Why?”

“It’s either you or him, and it can’t be you. I refuse for it to be you.”

Her words were jumbled in my head, none of them fitting together in a logical combination. After all these years, how had I never seen this side of her?

“Give me the antidote.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“But he’s my husband.” I scanned his desk for the elusive panic button and instead caught sight of a gun taped to the underside of it. “You can’t take him from me. I won’t let you.”

“Babe, it’s going to happen. You just need to accept it.”

“No. He needs a doctor. Get him a doctor.” Why was I fixating on that gun? It wasn’t going to help him. I wrenched my gaze away. “My phone. Where’s my phone?”

Brody might still be listening. He could call for help, but when I launched myself to the ground to search for it, she shoved me backward.

“Call an ambulance. Get a doctor,” I yelled.

“Calm down.”

I shook off her touch and crawled over to check on Cillian. His skin was pale, too pale, and all that tension in his body from earlier was nothing but a memory. This time, I found no pulse. In a rush, I straddled him and started chest compressions.