Ashlynn.
Her sister's name lodged in her throat like a fishbone. She couldn't swallow it. She couldn't spit it out.
"Owain," Jocelynn said slowly. "How did my sister die?"
His arm stiffened around her waist, just for an instant.
"Why would you ask that, sweetheart?" Owain asked rather than answering her.
"I need to know." The cold knot in her stomach had grown into a stone. "Did she suffer?"
Owain turned her gently in his arms until she was facing him. His hazel eyes were warm and soft and full of sorrow, and he cupped her cheek in one big, calloused hand.
"Of course she didn't suffer," he said. "She may have been a witch, but for a few hours, she was my wife. I gave her a clean death. A single stroke of my sword. Swift. Merciful. She was your sister, after all. She deserved that much."
The room shuddered.
