Page 127 of Hand-Fasting and Other Hazards
Nancy’s smile faltered, but she nodded, stepping aside to let Nia pass.
Nia turned on her heel, heading back the way she’d come as her thoughts spiraled. Wulfric had orchestrated this marriage—had manipulated events, pulled strings, forced them both into the marriage they never agreed to.
Or at least, a marriage she had never agreed to.
Lochlan had said he hadn’t wanted this. He’d acted like he was just as much a pawn as she was. But what if that wasn’t true? What if he’d known all along? What if, from the very beginning, he had been working toward this—toward her?
She thought about dinner the night before, the tension in Lochlan’s voice, the way her father had glanced at him. She thought about the argument she’d overheard, the cryptic remarks.
And, then, she thought about everything she’d chosen not to see, not to look for.
When she reached the house, the sight of Lochlan’s green truck parked outside sent a fresh wave of unease through her. Inside, she called his name.
No answer.
Her pulse pounded as she strode straight for the locked office door. Her hand hovered over the doorknob for a moment, her pulse quickening. What was she expecting? Proof that she wasn’t crazy? Reassurance that it was all nothing, that she was overthinking?
She turned the knob.
It was unlocked. For a fleeting second, she wondered if maybe she was wrong. Maybe it really was nothing.
Then she pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The familiar smell of damp soil and greenery hit her first, the space filled with Lochlan’s plants and tools. Her gaze swept over the room, lingering on the small, personal touches that reminded her of him.
And then she saw them.
Journals.
They were laid out in a careful row across his desk, pristine and arranged with precision. Her breath caught in her throat as she stepped closer. She recognized the leather bindings, the delicate engravings. They looked identical to the one she carried with her, the one she had protected for years.
Her mother’s journal.
Nia’s breath grew shallow, her chest tight as she reached for the first one. Her hands trembled, her fingertips reverently grazing the leather cover before she finally flipped it open.
She expected to find earlier passages that built on the pieces of a story she already knew. Instead, her mother’s familiar handwriting greeted her, its curves and flourishes unmistakable, but the time marking at the top of the page was later than the entries in the journal she carried with her.
Her eyes skimmed the opening lines, her pulse pounding in her ears.
I don’t know where this path will lead us, but for the first time in forever, I feel a spark of hope. The beast has set me free, and though the future is uncertain, I am not alone. I can even feel him now, watching over me. He will keep me safe. It’s a promise I cling to, a beacon in the dark.
Nia’s fingers tightened on the page.
The words didn’t make sense. This entry picked up just after where her diary had left off, yet it told a story she hadn’t imagined.
Nia turned the pages, devouring the words, unable to stop. Passage after passage unraveled everything she thought she knew. Her father, Wulfric, hadn’t been the villain she’d believed him to be. He’d dismantled the dark legacy of his family brick by brick, building something extraordinary in its place. Her mother’s words were no longer filled with anguish and dread, but love and hope as she recounted how Wulfric had saved her, how she’d fallen for him, how they had conceived Nia.
Her mother wasn’t scared, she’d written. Not with Wulfric by her side.
The story of Nia’s name was there, too, written in her mother’s delicate script. Every word painted a picture of a life filled with love and purpose.
Nia’s vision blurred as she read, tears slipping down her cheeks. Everything she’d believed—about her father, her family, her mother’s life—it was all wrong. Her father had told her only part of what happened when she was younger. He’d blamed himself, told her how it was his fault, that he hadn’t been able to protect her mother. That it was why Nia had been kept hidden.
She hadn’t understood then why he blamed himself so deeply for her mother’s death. His words had seemed hollow, tainted by grief she couldn’t begin to comprehend. But when she had found that first diary at seventeen—when she’d read those passages painting a picture of a monster coming for her mother—it had all made sense.
The journal in which her mother had spoken of her fear, of the horrible man she was fated to and would be forced to marry, had been Nia’s answer, her vindication for turning her back on the lonely isolation of her father’s stifling protection. It was what had empowered her to run, why she chose to forge a path on her own; she couldn’t bear to stay, not with what she’d believed she knew about him, what she believed he had done to her mother.
But now, surrounded by the journals, these undeniable pieces of Luna’s life, Nia realized just how wrong she had been. The truth radiated from each carefully written line, shattering the image Nia had clung to for so long.
