The Reborn Duchess's Ruthless Revenge

The morning light was cruel. It cut through the gaps in the canvas tent, sharp and bright, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

Julian opened his eyes.

Pain was the first thing he felt. A dull, throbbing ache in his side that radiated down to his hip. His mouth tasted like metal and ash.

He tried to move, but his body felt heavy, like it was made of lead. He turned his head slightly.

Imogen was asleep in a plastic chair next to his cot. Her head was resting on the mattress, her hand clutching his. She looked wrecked. Her face was streaked with dried mud and tear tracks. Her scrubs were stained with dark spots.

His blood.

Julian squeezed her hand. His fingers were weak, barely a flutter.

Imogen jerked awake. She sat up so fast the chair scraped loudly against the floor.

"Julian?" Her voice was a croak. Her eyes widened, scanning his face as if checking for ghosts.

"Hey," he rasped. It hurt to speak.

Imogen burst into tears. She didn't cry gracefully. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed, her shoulders shaking violently.

"I'm sorry," she choked out. "I'm so sorry. It's my fault. You almost died because of me. I shouldn't be here. I'm a curse."

Julian frowned. He hated seeing her cry. He tried to sit up, but the pain slammed him back down. He groaned.

"Don't move!" Imogen panicked, hovering over him but afraid to touch him. "The doctor said you need to be still."

"Imogen," Julian whispered. "Stop."

"I'm going to request a transfer," she rambled, wiping her eyes frantically. "When we get back, I'll break the engagement. I can't let you get hurt again. I'm not worth it."

Julian reached out. It took every ounce of strength he had. He grabbed the front of her scrub top and pulled.

It wasn't a strong pull, but it was enough to bring her face inches from his.

"If you try to leave me," he said, his voice low and gritty, "I will rip this IV out of my arm and chase you down. And I will bleed all over the sand doing it."

Imogen stared at him, shocked into silence. Julian Harris was a gentleman. He was a scholar. He didn't make threats.

"You..." she stammered.

"I didn't save Stone," Julian said, looking straight into her eyes. "I mean, I did. But when I ran out there... I wasn't thinking about the chain of command. I wasn't thinking about the war."

He paused to catch his breath.

"I saw the angle," he said. "If he missed Stone, he was heading for the medical tent. He was heading for you."

Imogen's breath hitched.

"I took that knife for you, Imogen," Julian said. "So don't you dare tell me you're not worth it. You are the only thing worth dying for in this godforsaken desert."

Imogen let out a soft, broken sound. She leaned down and kissed his forehead. Her lips were trembling.

"You are an idiot," she whispered against his skin.

"I'm a doctor," he corrected, a faint smile touching his lips. "I know anatomy. I knew where to get stabbed."

"Liar."

"Okay, liar," he admitted. "Can I have some water?"

Imogen laughed, a wet, sniffly sound. She grabbed a cup with a straw and held it to his lips. He drank greedily.

When he finished, he rested his head back on the pillow, exhausted but content. He watched her. She was fussing with his blanket, checking the monitors. She was alive. She was here.

"Imogen?"

"Yes?"

"That proposal I mentioned before the mortars hit..."

Imogen froze. She looked at him, her expression softening.

"Ask me again," she said. "When we're not covered in blood."

"Deal," Julian closed his eyes. "But the answer better be yes."

"Go to sleep, Julian," she whispered, stroking his hair.

He drifted off, the feeling of her hand on his head anchoring him to the world of the living.