Hundred and seventy-three

Arabella wiped away the tears sliding down her cheeks, hissing as pain shot through her side.

Her chest tightened, and she gulped in two deep breaths, blinking back tears.

"Blaze," she muttered, shaking him in her hands, though he remained stiff. "Please wake up, please."

Her shoulder trembled, her lips quivering, her head pounding, and her eyes aching. She wanted him to stir, to tease and laugh, but nothing happened.

Now, more than ever, she longed to hear his voice and the reassurance he always provided, promising that everything would be fine.

'He's dead, Bella. He's dead,' The words she didn't want to say aloud echoed in her head. Arabella shook her head, unwilling to accept the truth. In her mind, he would rise, and they would return to the villa, her tending to his injuries.

He had to be okay; her tears held healing properties, just like the first time she had saved him. She believed she could do it again.

Even as more tears fell, he stayed motionless in her arms.

"What's happen