Sorin sat on the edge of the bed, studying her. She looked no different to him right now, aside from the chalky appearance of her skin from having lost so much of her blood.
In not even a full rotation of the clock, they’d gone from completing the bond and standing a good chance of defeating the curse to him turning her, and having most likely no chance of breaking the curse. He doubted she would be in any shape to do intricate witch craft by tonight.
Was he sorry? He didn’t know. Of course he was, in ways. He’d ruined her life. Taken everything from her to save himself the heartbreak of losing her.
But did that make him sorry for doing it? Not completely. She was here. Breathing. She would wake up. He would not rush to bury her in cold ground before the frost of winter froze it too so
