Page 87 of Promise of Darkness
It’s not just him my mother stole.
Thirteen summers.
Gone.
All those doors slamming in my face…. My mother turning to Andraste at every opportunity, flaunting it. It wasn’t just a ruse. It was all a game, and I’ll bet my soul she enjoyed every moment of it.
I want to scream.
The constant fear I’ve felt, knowing my future depended on who was named heir. Trying so desperately to earn my mother’s approval, when it was an impossible task. Andraste knew. And what was it she’d said? Perhaps I should enjoy my time with the prince.
Oh, Maia. My knees buckle beneath me.
The prince is there in a second, catching me before I hit the floor, but I can’t stand to have his hands on me. Not in this moment.
I push him way, fighting free.
“No! Don’t. Don’t touch me.”
I’m not ready for his compassion.
It will break me.
He stiffens, and I realize I’ve escaped to the other side of the bed, my arms wrapped around my chest as if to hold myself together.
We stare at each other like two nobles facing a duel that neither of us wants.
“There were letters,” I whisper, trying to sort through everything. “Someone was leaving me letters in Valerian, urging me to trust you. Who writes them?"
I’m desperately afraid I already know.
A feminine hand in sloping Asturian cursive.
His green gaze spears straight through me. "You write them, Vi. To remind yourself of the truth. And the demi-fey leave them for you to find."
Imagine writing those letters, knowing I’m going to lose all recollection of him.
“So when you spoke of seducing me, in order to get your wife back….” They were speaking of me.
"Every year she grants me three months with you," Thiago says. "And every year I must... must win your heart." He looks down then, at his curled fist. "And every year you promise me you will not forget me."
And then I do.
I’m not the only one who’s faced years of this. I’m not the only one who’s lost more than mere memories.
I remember the way he looked at me that night by the bonfires, as if waiting for me to recognize him. I’d thought him disappointed in me at the time, but now I know the truth.
That look was the loss of hope.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” he says. “It’s never your fault.”
None of this makes sense.
But I know this prince.
He’s stolen dozens of kisses from me in the past weeks. He’s never taken more than he was owed, merely waiting patiently for me to come to him.
