Chapter 2

My hundredth day as Ethan's wife.

A milestone, he'd called it.

He was often away, tending to Guardian business, leaving me in the sprawling, silent Blackwood Manor.

I tried to practice, to coax back even a sliver of my lost abilities. Each attempt was a failure. The air remained stubbornly still.

That evening, a chill wind, unusual for New Orleans in May, rattled the shutters. Ethan was in his study, a place I rarely entered.

The door was slightly ajar. I heard voices.

Ethan, and the High Priest, Alistair, the one who oversaw all our rituals.

"...just like before, Alistair. Divert Olivia's Cleansing Curses to my wife." Ethan's voice was low, devoid of emotion.

My blood ran cold.

Alistair sounded hesitant. "Ethan, you deliberately sabotaged Sarah's Awakening. Then you drew the Curse to her, stripping her bare. If we continue to channel Olivia's purifications through Sarah... she might not even survive as a mundane."

"If it wasn't for the blood-kin bond being the only way to transfer these burdens, I would endure them myself for Olivia," Ethan said, his voice tight. "To see Olivia reach her full potential, to become the true Storm Weaver she's destined to be."

He paused. "As for Sarah, I've given her the honor of the Blackwood name. She should be content."

The words hit me. Harder than any curse.

My years of struggle, my inability to reclaim even a wisp of wind.

Every time Ethan saw me fail, his eyes would soften with what I thought was sympathy. He'd tell me, "It doesn't matter if you're a whisper or a storm, Sarah. I love you."

Lies.

My weakened state, the sideways glances from other Guardians, the subtle ostracization – all orchestrated by my husband. For Olivia.

I had borne all of Olivia's ritualistic burdens, her "Cleansing Curses."

The sky outside darkened abruptly. A familiar, dreadful pressure built in the air. Another one.

I backed away, desperate to hide, but the force found me, slammed into me.

Pain. Blinding, searing.

I stumbled, disoriented, down a corridor I'd never explored, pushing open a heavy oak door at its end, seeking refuge.

The room inside made my breath catch.

I expected a vault, a treasury of Guardian artifacts.

Instead, it was a girl's bedroom. Swirls of faded pink and lavender, lace and ruffles.

And it was a perfect replica of Olivia's childhood room in our old family home.

On the bedside table, nestled against a lace pillow, was a small, carved wooden doll with Olivia's bright, innocent face.

I remembered Ethan, often quiet, turning a similar wooden doll in his hands, one carved in his own stern likeness.

A matched set. For lovers.

He wasn't just thinking. He was pining for Olivia.

Tears I didn't know I had streamed down my face. This secret room, his hidden heart.

A bitter laugh escaped me.

Ethan Blackwood, you never intended to give me a marriage. You gave me a conduit for endless pain.

He wanted me to absorb Olivia's burdens, so she could soar.

Fine. If he was this ruthless, I wouldn't just lie down and break.

My wounds throbbed. I focused, drawing on the room's strange, residual energy to soothe the raw pain.

When I emerged, Alistair's form was just vanishing into the stormy sky.

Ethan saw me. His composure wavered for a split second.

"Sarah? What are you looking at?" He rushed to my side, feigning concern. "That looked like another backlash from the atmospheric disturbance. I was worried."

I forced a smile. "I'm alright. A little jolt now and then is normal for us, isn't it?"

He studied my face, his eyes sharp, then his expression slowly relaxed.

"You're always so resilient, my dear." He took my arm. "I've told you, whether you command tempests or zephyrs, or even nothing at all, it doesn't matter to me. I only want you safe and happy."

"Today is our hundredth day," he continued, guiding me. "I'll stay home, spend it with you."

His touch felt like ice.

He led me to our cold, opulent bedroom. As he did, I subtly used a nearly forgotten skill, a tiny whisper of telepathic energy, to contact my old friend, Luna Dubois.

Luna, that shielded sanctuary you built in the bayou... can I borrow it? It needs to repel everything.

Ethan pulled me onto the bed, his kisses hungry.

I turned my head, avoiding his gaze, my eyes scanning the room. When we married, I'd wanted to redecorate, to bring some warmth into the stark chamber. Ethan had refused. He preferred a "minimalist" style, he'd said, disliked feminine touches.

The image of Olivia's frilly pink room in the secret chamber flashed in my mind.

Apparently, if the occupant was Olivia, feminine touches were perfectly acceptable.

Ethan sensed my distraction. He pulled back, his desire warring with irritation. "Sarah? What is it?"

I shook my head. "Just thinking... another day older."

Wasted. So much time, wasted.