Page 92 of Love & Letter Charms
“I cannot be your princess.” The words tumbled free in a rush, but she needed to say them before he could distract her again.
Instead of being upset, that slow smile returned, spreading across Prince Ryden’s features like sunrise. “My princess,” he said softly. “I confess, I very much like the sound of that.”
Frustration flared through her, and she drew herself taller. “You are deliberately ignoring the rather crucial words ‘cannot be.’” Another breath, another attempt at steadiness. “I should like to request permission to leave Solstice Hall. To withdraw from the Crown Court entirely. I believe I’ve remained long enough that my departure would not reflect poorly upon my family, and with?—”
“Lady Aurelise.”
“The timing is actually quite fortuitous,” she forged ahead, ignoring his interruption, her words coming faster now, “given my brother’s new child. I wish to be closer to my family at this time. We could announce that?—”
“Aurelise.” He took a step toward her, closing some of that careful distance she’d maintained.
“That my family?—”
“I love you.”
The words struck through her like a bell’s toll, reverberating until there was nothing left in her but silence. For a heartbeat, she was utterly still—breath, thought, and reason suspended—before the enormity of it all came crashing back, sharp and bright and terrifying.
“No.” The word emerged as barely a whisper. “You cannot say such things. It isn’t?—”
“And I know you love me.”
“I—that is—you cannot simply presume?—”
“It is not presumption.” His voice had gone quiet, certain, gentle in a way that threatened to undo every defense she’d carefully constructed.
“Nothing has changed since the Crown Court began!” The words burst from her, desperate and slightly frantic. “I remain entirely unsuitable for this role, this … this life. You require someone dazzling and unafraid, someone who does not hide in kitchens and flee from ballrooms. I would make the most dreadful princess imaginable.”
“That is categorically untrue.”
Her music began to trill around them, agitated notes spiraling through the air. “It is! You believe you know me because you’ve convinced me to attempt various improper adventures with you these past weeks, but you don’t. You?—”
“If you would allow me a moment to?—”
“No!”
“Lise—”
“You do not know me at all!”
Suddenly he was directly before her, hands pulling her against his chest, arms wrapping around her with firm, steady certainty. “I do know you!” he declared, his tone almost fierce.
The suddenness of it stole her breath. She went utterly still—frozen, wordless, scarcely certain she was even breathing. But there was something in his unyielding hold, in the steady warmth of him, that slowly unraveled her resistance. Almost without meaning to, she found herself yielding, softening against him.
“I do know you,” he repeated, quieter now. One hand came up to cup the back of her head, drawing her closer to him, and his lips pressed against her hair, his breath stirring the carefully arranged strands.
She could not prevent her eyes from sliding shut, could not stop the shuddery exhale that escaped her. Moments passed as they stood wrapped in each other, and she found her breaths slowing, calming.
“I know,” he murmured against her hair, “that your eyes are not the kind of blue that makes people write poetry, nor are they the kind brown that makes people feel steadied. They are the kind of gray that soothes and quiets. You are neither tall nor short but exactly the right height to fit perfectly against me, and youdobite your lip when you’re concentrating. And when I guessed that you laugh with a quiet shake of your shoulders rather than your whole body, I was entirely correct.”
She pulled back to look at him, confusion mingling with the warmth spreading through her chest. Those words … they were so achingly, beautifully familiar. She’d heard them before. No—not heard. Read. She’dread them before. Too many times to count.
The realization struck her like ice water poured over her head, shocking and absolute. She shoved away from him, her eyes raking over his features, wild with disbelief. A crashing crescendo of discordant music erupted around them.
R. He was R. Prince Ryden was R.
No. This was … this could not …
“And when I wrote you that dare list,” he continued, his gaze holding hers with a quiet intensity, “it was because I saw the bravery in you long before you did. I knew you needed something to draw you from behind those careful walls, to remind you that fear and wonder often walk hand in hand. Everychallenge was meant to show you what I already knew—that you are far stronger than you believe.”
