The maelstrom of power extinguished so swiftly that my ears popped, paving stones landing with a crash on the street, shards of white spinning off in every direction.

“What have you done?”

The words came not from Anaïs, but from Tristan. He strode past Pénélope as though she didn’t exist and grabbed my arm, tearing at my glove. I tried to pull from his grip, but magic took hold of me like a vice, implacable and painfully tight, and it occurred to me that never in all our years had he used his power to force me to do something.

The leather of my glove tore down the back, revealing the gleaming silver bonding marks that magic had painted across my knuckles, and Tristan went still, his eyes glassy and unblinking. “Why?”

“Because otherwise, her father would’ve killed her. He tried to today when he found out about… about the child.”

“And this was your solution? To sacrifice yourself so that she might have a few more days?” His grip tightened to the point I thought my wrist would snap. “Why didn’t you come to me for help?”

“Would you have given it?” I asked. “Or would you have merely done everything in your power to stop me from walking this path?”

He dropped my arm. “I suppose we’ll never find out.”

It was no answer, which was so painfully typical of him. As he turned to walk back to Anaïs, I said, “I didn’t just do it to save her, you know. I did it because I love her and we deserve the chance to be together.”

He didn’t respond, instead taking the arm of the weeping Anaïs, steadying her and bending to say something in her ear before pulling her against him. Fresh tears burst across her face, and she clung to him with enough force that the fabric of his shirt tore. He said something else to her that I couldn’t hear, then lifted his head to meet my gaze. And I could see that he didn’t understand – that for him, no amount of self-sacrifice was too great to ask in pursuit of his vision. An almost feral anger burned through me, and in that moment, I prayed to fate that one day he’d love someone enough to throw caution and logic and reason and his cursed plans to the wind for her sake, and to have to bear those consequences and the judgment that came with them.

“Well then, congratulations,” Tristan said. “I hope she’s worth it.” With Anaïs tucked under his arm, he turned and walked away.

I wanted to lash out. To hurt him. He was my best friend and my future king, and I’d supported him in everything – every damn thing – he’d chosen to do, no matter the costs to myself. And the one time I needed something from him, he walked away.

Then Pénélope’s hand closed around mine. “Don’t,” she whispered. “That’s his fear you’re seeing and hearing. He’ll come around.”

Her touch and the presence of her in my mind immediately softened my anger, though they did not vanquish it entirely. I’d wanted one night with her free of the involvement of others, and while that might have been too much to hope for, was it too much to have asked for?

The King rose from where he’d been kneeling next to the tree, apparently content that our world was not literally going to come crashing down, and approached Pénélope and me.

“I will see you first thing in the morning to discuss your punishment, nephew.”

Before I could nod, Pénélope said, “Will you see me as well then, Your Majesty?”

His implacable eyes shifted to her, weighing and measuring and seeing far too much for my liking. Then he said, “No, Pénélope. Your character ensures you will suffer as much or more for whatever punishment he bears for instigating this illicit union.” Straightening his coat, he turned in the direction of the palace and swiftly walked away.

My father took a step in his direction. “Thibault, wait. I…”

But the King ignored him. My father’s shoulders slumped, exhaustion dragging at his face as he watched our ruler – the man who’d once been his friend – depart.

Pénélope’s hand gripped in mine, I waited to hear what my father would say. To discover how much damage my violation of his trust had done to our relationship. To learn whether I still had a family and a home.

“What’s done is done,” he finally said. “Welcome to our home, Pénélope. I’ll speak to your father tomorrow about retrieving what items you need, but until then, please avail yourself of whatever our house has to offer.” His gaze shifted to me, but where I’d expected anger was only resignation. Which was worse.

As he departed back into the manor, my mother approached. Without a word, she pulled Pénélope into her arms and squeezed her tightly, and after a moment’s hesitation, my new wife dropped my hand to grip my mother, her emotions a riot of bewilderment and relief.

“It is always a terrifying thing when the most powerful amongst us are aggrieved,” she said. “But you are welcome here, daughter, and you may rest easy knowing that you are as safe as anyone can be in Trollus.” Taking Pénélope’s arm, she led her toward the gates. “The servants will draw you a bath and we’ll find you something more appropriate for you to wear for your bonding night.”

They left me alone in the street.

The fallout of our actions lay all around: shattered paving stones, dust in the air, and the faint pitter-patter of pebbles falling from above as the rocks settled against the canopy of the tree. Despite it being hours before dawn, the city seethed with wakefulness, trolls and half-bloods alike uneasy beneath the weight of rock, beneath the prickling heat of too much power expended in too small a space. All because of us.

Anaïs had nearly destroyed Trollus tonight.

I’d angered the King.

My best friend had turned his back on me.

The list of consequences streamed through my skull, and with them came fear. Anger. Anxiety. Trepidation. Other emotions I could barely understand, much less name. But in that cacophony, there was one thing absent. One thing I knew I’d never feel about bonding Pénélope.

And that was regret.

---

What seemed like hours later, a knock sounded on the door to my room and Pénélope entered, the gleam in her eyes matching the anticipation that had been growing in me throughout that time. Anticipation that had me on my feet, pacing back and forth even as I attempted to temper my thoughts.

It was late.

She was exhausted.

We’d both been through hell.

She was beautiful. There was no tempering of my thoughts as I took in the sight of her, evidence of her ordeal washed away with warm water and scented soap, her hair coiled into loose curls that framed her lovely face. She wore a blue silk nightdress that clung to every curve, and I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

Her head tilted, eyes growing distant as though deep in thought. But I knew what she was contemplating were my feelings, which was exhilarating and horrifying. A smile grew on her face, then she was across the room, arms wrapped around my neck. She smelled like flowers with the faintest undertones of spice.

“Your mother is so kind,” she whispered.

I did not want to talk about my mother.

“And your servants. I’m not used to that.”

The wonder bordering on disbelief carved at my insides. That such a small thing – a thing I’d always taken for granted – would bring her joy spoke volumes to what she’d endured. But never again. I’d never let life be like that for her again. “Get used to it,” I said into her hair. “This is your life now.”

Anxiety pricked at me like a spider bite – not mine, but hers.

“You’ll never have to go back,” I said. “I promise.” And for once, the leaden weight of my word was welcome.

“Marc…”

I pressed a finger to her lips, wanting for her to begin her escape from the past now, with not another moment wasted on it.

Her lips curled against my finger. “You’d have me say nothing?”

“No,” I said, removing my finger so that I could kiss her. “Nothing at all.”