~Isabella POV~
I knew I was dying. Not in the way people say it dramatically when they are tired or afraid. I mean I could feel the actual process, slow and certain, working through my body the way water works through cracked stone.
My lungs pulled air in smaller amounts each hour. My hands had stopped warming up even when Armand held them.
He knew it too. He just refused to say it out loud, which was the most honest thing about him.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed when I reached for him, and he looked at me the way he always had, like I was the only fixed point in a world that kept moving without his permission.
"Come here," I said.
"Isabella."
"I am not asking for comfort," I said. "I am asking for you. There is a difference."
