Page 72 of Once Upon an Enchanted Castle

Because the truth of what he wanted wasn’t safe. And worse—it wasn’t fair.

“Yes?” she asked, her tone light as she spread a touch of clotted cream over the end of her scone.

He watched her hands instead of her eyes. It was easier to look there. Easier to pretend this was a morning like any other. Tea and scones and not the moment everything might change.

He swallowed. The words he almost said twisted inside his chest like a knife in the gut.

Don’t say it.

But she looked up then. A flick of her gaze. Not teasing. Not expectant. Just open. As if she already knew what he wanted to say and wasn’t going to stop him.

“Nothing,” he said finally, voice rough. He swallowed hard, forced a smile. “It’s nothing.”

She raised a brow, but didn’t push as she took a bite of the scone. Somehow that felt like mercy. She set her plate aside with careful precision and rose to her feet.

“I should get back to work,” she said, her voice soft. Neutral.

Too neutral.

He didn’t move. He watched her, every part of him wanting to reach out—to say something, anything—but the words remained locked tight in his thoughts.

She headed back to the desk. Though she remained in the same room with him, there was distance. As though there was a vast ocean between them. The tension pressed against his chest like a weight. Still, he said nothing.

He was a coward.

He picked up his book and pretended to read. Looking but not really seeing the words. Because if he spoke, it would come out wrong and ruin what little time he had left with her.

For now, he was going to relish the time he had left with her.

Bella opened the book to the page she studied the night before. She sat back in the chair, acutely aware of his presence in the room. His back was to her as he remained on the sofa, stiff and on edge. The tension stretched between them, taut and thin.

Something shifted between them. He emitted a silent form of communication she did not know or understand.

She told herself she didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to understand. She told herself there was no use in hoping for something more intimate between them. If she did not find the way to break the curse, he was doomed, and she would blame herself for that until she took her last breath.

The hourglass within arm’s reach ticked away the hours and minutes with every shift of sand. The top had nearly emptied into the bottom. Time—his time—was running out.

Her gaze drifted back to the book. In the flicker of light from the overhead candles, the thorny vines shifted. With a careful hand, she reached for the nearby quill. As though a quick movement would startle the book into stilled silence.

A rune appeared with the letter N. Nothing more. She held her breath and waited. This was how it began the night before. How the letters and words formed. With stealthy movements, she slid a piece of parchment toward her, watching and waiting.

The letters formed words. The words a phrase.

Not beast. Not man.

She hastily wrote down the words. The vines rearranged, and the words disappeared as it had the night before. Now, she waited again. The letter S appeared. She gripped the quill tight in her hand until her fingers cramped. Her eyes were dry and gritty as she stared hard at the page watching the transformation. The phrase appeared moments later.

Something in between.

Dipping the tip in ink, she wrote this down under the previous line. Shifting vines. Disappearing words. Roses blooming in their place. Again, she waited.

How much time passed? Leopold shifted on the sofa, his book snapping closed. The only movement. The only sound. She wanted to tell him what she discovered and opened her mouth to do so when the thorns and vines revealed more words. She waited, holding her breath, watching every letter appear and writing down each one. The moment she did, blooming roses replaced each letter, covering the words. When she finished, she sat back again and stared at the words she had written.

Bound by thorn. Named by none.

Then she put the phrases she had discovered all together, writing them down on a clean parchment in careful script. She started from the beginning.

Shadows stir. The sands of time slip away.

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