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She’d been in love with him for a while now. Longer than she wanted to admit.
Rowan laughed again—and Aelin thought she might never get sick of it, that laugh. That smile.
“When you find me again, we will have that night. I don’t care where, or who is around.” He pressed a kiss to her neck and said onto her rain-slick skin, “You are my Fireheart.”
His lips crushed into hers, and he said onto her mouth, dropping words more precious than rubies and emeralds and sapphires into her heart, her soul, “I love you. There is no limit to what I can give to you, no time I need. Even when this world is a forgotten whisper of dust between the stars, I will love you.”
She had never said such words—to anyone. Never let herself be that vulnerable, never felt this burning and unending thing, so consuming she might die from the force of it.
His Fireheart. His equal, his friend, his lover. His wife. His mate.
For Terrasen. For them. For a better world. Aelin Galathynius had raised an army not just to challenge Morath … but to rattle the stars.
Unleashing a cry that set the world trembling, Prince Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, Consort of the Queen of Terrasen, began the hunt to find his wife.
