A fire burned in his gut, and with any luck, it would consume the rest of his idiotic self. How had he ever idealized such a monster?
And was he any better than Henryk? He’d gotten blind drunk the night of Roksana’s murder because he hadn’t gotten his way either.
“Breathe.” A single word untangled the knot in his chest. Brygida’s intense eyes filled his vision, the halo of auburn locks framing her pale face as the sun began to rise. Why have faith in a wretch like him?
She was fighting the village for his sake. But could he say that he was truly innocent with any confidence anymore? If Henryk could get drunk and r**e someone, then couldn’t… wasn’t it possible that…?
“I saw it myself. They went into the Madwood,” said a peasant pulling a cart of vegetables.
“Those bastards, they think
