Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)

by Rachel Gillig

To anyone who’s ever felt lost in a wood. There is a strange sort of finding in losing.

“Shall I tell you the story?” “What story?” “Ours, dear one.” I sat up straighter. “There once was a girl,” he said, his voice slick, “clever and good, who tarried in shadow in the depths of the wood. There also was a King—a shepherd by his crook, who reigned over magic and wrote the old book. The two were together, so the two were the same: “The girl, the King, and the monster they became.”

He’d always thought she was beautiful.

ugh my baby elm

“Get your fucking hand off of her.”

my man my man my man

It was surprisingly heavy, her hair. Dense. Long enough to wrap around his fist and tug.

Or that wicked mouth.” “What’s my mouth to you?” “Nothing.”

She hooked his chin with her thumb, and though Ione Hawthorn was so cold in all her expressions, her touch warmed him.

“Neither Rowan nor Yew, but somewhere between. A pale tree in winter, neither red, gold, nor green. Black hides the bloodstain, forever his mark. Alone in the castle, Prince of the dark.”

“I could have helped with that.”

“Developed a taste for removing my clothes, have you, Prince?”

im screaming

“Careful.” Elm brushed his thumb along the flagon’s wet rim—where her mouth had been. “That sounded an awful lot like a compliment.” “I prefer to think of it as advice.” “I’m sure you do.” He took a drink. “But you’ll forgive me if I have a difficult time taking advice on how to feel from a woman who can’t even muster a smile.” She gave half a shrug. “Give me something to smile about.” “I can think of a few.”

the BANTER dude!!!!!!! i forgot how good it was

But it made him tighten, chest to groin, knowing he wanted to play her games. And maybe it was the wine, or the way those hazel eyes pinned him in place, but he wasn’t ashamed to admit he’d do terrible, terrible things to win.

She weathers all storms, no matter their bite.

this WILL be tattooed on me

If you touch Miss Hawthorn again, by the fucking trees, I’ll end you.”

There were not enough pages in all the books Elm had read, in all the libraries he’d wandered, in all the notebooks he’d scrawled, that could measure—denote or describe—just how beautiful she was.

“There you are.”

“For even dead, I will not die. I am the shepherd of shadow. The phantom of the fright. The demon in the daydream. The nightmare in the night.”

But the tide always turns, and the truth always outs.

Forward, always forward.

Elm looked into Ione’s eyes. “A hundred years,” he said to her, as if she were the only one in the room. “I’ll love you for a hundred years—and an eternity after.”

I was more than the girl, the King, and the monster of Blunder’s dark, twisted tale. I was its author.