Page 13 of To Love a Dark Lord

“When what would happen?”

“When you reached your breaking point and decided this world was yours to burn.” He crooked a finger under her chin and tilted her head up toward him. “And by the Ancients, you are beautiful.”

“I—”

It was his turn to cut her off, this time with a kiss. It never quite felt the same in a dream. But he would take whatever he could get. She wrapped an arm behind his neck, pulling herself closer and deepening the embrace.

When they finally parted, he felt a peace he had not known since his imprisonment began. Though he was afraid to know the answer, he had to ask. “How long has it been?”

“Only a few weeks.”

The laugh that left him was not a pleasant one. His mind was doomed.

“I’m going to save you. I am. I just don’t know where you are.” She let out a breath. “Do you have any clue?”

“None. But I…will try to discern what I can.” Running his knuckles over her cheek, he studied her features. Tried to recommit everything about her to his memory in hopes that it might linger. “Galahad will know.”

“I doubt he’ll tell me, but it’s a start.”

“When in doubt, torture him.” When she stared at him in shock, he chuckled, and kissed her forehead. “I am not that far gone. Yet. I am simply teasing.”

“Right. Sure.” She hugged him and rested her head on his chest. “I promise I’m going to save you.”

There were no words he could summon that would do him any good. He simply let out a quiet grunt in reply.

“I love you, Mordred. And—and when you’re free?—”

“If.”

“When,” she insisted.

Yes, he truly did enjoy her with her newfound backbone. He had always suspected that she would be a force of nature when she came into herself. And she had only just begun.

“When you’re free,” she continued as if he hadn’t interrupted her, “I—I’d like if we could talk about—I mean, you and I, maybe—more permanently—I mean, officially?—”

“Shush.” He chuckled, listening to her awkwardly and obviously dance around the subject of marriage. “Now is not the time, and this is certainly not the place.” He stroked a hand through her hair, combing the strands. “I would rather I propose to you somewhere a bit more romantic than the depths of my own quickly burgeoning madness.”

“That’s fair.”

Mordred was uncertain when she disappeared. Perhaps she simply faded away. Perhaps she woke up. Did their conversation end there? Or had it continued, and he simply could not recall? Madness was a troublesome thing—elusive like a gnat flitting in and out of his line of sight. Never quite fully somehow present but always distracting.

It was destroying his mind.

Piece by piece.

Bit by bit.

One memory at a time.

“There you are, boy.” Morgana glowered at him from over her gathered herbs. “Useless thing you are, you were meant to be back by dark.”

“There were lights in the woods.” He walked forward, shyly placing his bundle of herbs on the table next to the others. “I tried to follow them, but?—”

“Fool!” Morgana’s rage was instant and unstoppable. His mother stormed over to him, and smacked him with the back of her hand, sending him reeling. He was only a child. “Never follow the lights. Not unless you wish to be taken to Tir n’Aill and fed to some Unseelie beast. You know better than that.”

“But the lights looked like home—I—” He refused to cry. He knew that would only earn him more shouting and admonishment.

“The lights always look like home. That is how the darkness takes you. It shows you peace. It shows you what you want, what you love—and it uses it to lure you in. Anything the darkness shows you is a lie, boy. Remember that. Take that to your grave.”

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