Chapter Eighteen
I collapsed, groaning, into a kitchen chair as soon as we walked into the door.
“Where are you hurt?” Marcus asked kneeling on the floor next to me. His face was pale in the dim light from the embers of the kitchen fire, but I just stared at him for a good minute. It was as if the portrait I’d been looking at for the past few weeks had come to life. No, that wasn’t true, I corrected myself. He was thinner than the man in the picture. Thinner, paler, and there were lines etched into his forehead. He was definitely not the carefree, handsome young man who had been painted. He had clearly seen a great deal more than that man ever had. But still, it was my Marcus sitting right next to me, looking at me as deeply as I was looking at him.
He reached up and stroked my cheek,
