Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, #2)

by Rebecca Ross

For anyone who sought a different realm through a wardrobe door, Who wrote a letter and is still waiting for a reply, Or who dreams of stories and bleeds words

But all good things eventually came to an end. And all songs had a final verse.

Spring had at last found the city of Oath, but even the flood of sunshine couldn’t melt the frost in Iris Winnow’s bones.

It had only been two weeks since Iris had last seen Marisol. Two weeks since they had all been together at the B and B. Two weeks since she had married Roman C. Kitt in the garden.

Attie had never been one to let people like Chancellor Verlice or narrow-minded professors have the final say. And, Iris was swiftly coming to learn, neither was she.

“If my words have bewitched your son, then know that his possess the same magic for me,”

Despite our mundane lives, perhaps we make our own magic with words.

But I must remind myself that sometimes we write for ourselves and sometimes we write for others. And sometimes those lines blur when we least expect them to.

P.S. You can call me Elizabeth.

The problem is … I want to hear from you at all hours. I want to read your words. I am greedy for them. I am hungry for them.

“I don’t want to fight with half a heart, but all of it.”

He dreamt of Iris Winnow again.

But even under the heavy watch of immortality, all Roman could think was this: he had been writing to Iris the same way he was writing to Elizabeth now.

The recognition tore through him like a bullet, and Roman knew he was awake and lucid, even as he stood face-to-face with a dream. He was looking at Iris Winnow.

The longer he beheld her, the more his countenance softened, and she wondered if he was remembering her. If there was something about her that called to him. A mortal bond that was stronger than any divine magic.

“I’ve dreamt of you,” he said. “I think you and I were friends before I left for the war cause.” “Friends?” “Or enemies.” “You and I were never enemies, Kitt. Not exactly.”

“Yes. I’m your wife.”

Roman’s eyes were still dark as he stared up at her, but there was no glint of doubt. No scathing disbelief. There was only the shine of hunger as if Iris had just roused him from a long slumber.

“I’ll find you again when the time is right. I swear it.”

You survived that day, Roman told himself. It’s over, and you survived. You’re safe now.

It had all started to come back to him the moment he had touched her.

He remembered everything.

Should I be surprised that I was falling in love with you a second time?

But the moment I touched you, I remembered everything. And now I see that all this time, every night when I dreamt, I was trying to bring all the pieces back together. I was trying to find my way back to you.

I would love to see your words catch fire with mine.

He could play this role well. It felt as familiar as an old, well-worn shirt. And yet when their gazes met over the bustle and noise, the entire world faded away. It was only him and her.

He wouldn’t change a thing. Because if he could, would the two of them still be here, bound together by vow and trial and love that had crept up on him like ivy on stone?

A final note written by my future self, because I know I will be feeling this as I walk away from you: gods, you looked gorgeous at tea.

Iris would never find herself lost to what could have been.

She tasted just as he remembered. Like sugar in strong black tea. Lavender. The first rays of dawn. Mist that has just burned away from a meadow.

“On the contrary,” he said. “Your words only drew me to you.”

They weren’t the same people that they had been when they first gave each other their vows. It only made him ache for her more, and his fingers drifted along her body, remembering the curve of her ribs.

She gasped when Roman began to wash her hair, kneading the shampoo until it foamed. Again and again, he drew his fingers through her locks, admiring how long and dark they looked when wet. A deep brown with a touch of amber, like wildflower honey.

omg he's washing her hair. i am a puddle on the ground

He sank to his knees before her, his hands touching those tender marks on her skin. They told him she was strong and brave, but also that she was his. Their souls weren’t mirrors but complements, constellations that burned side by side.

You bring out the very best and the very worst in me.”

She saw him as he saw her. With eyes open, with eyes shut.

He could wake and not know his name, forgetting every word he had ever written. But he would never forget the scent of Iris’s skin, the sound of her voice. The way she had looked at him. The confidence of her hands.

There is no magic above or below that will ever steal this from me again.

She realized that she loved the sight of him in the night just as much as she did in the day.

Some of them might support Dacre, but Roman knew that most of the people who had volunteered to fight for Enva had come from classes of society who could see the world as it truly was. Who could see injustice and who were willing to take a stand against it.

He didn’t care if he caused a scene. He didn’t care if Dacre saw him striding to her. To Iris E. Winnow, a woman Roman was only supposed to have an acquaintance with. Something terrible was about to happen, and neither Roman nor Iris would be here to witness it.

“You are capable of far more than you know. Why do you think I look at you now and marvel? Why do you think I draw close to your kind? I have sung many of you to eternal rest after death, and I have found that the music of a mortal life burns brighter than any magic my songs could stoke.”

“I’ve never been devout,” Iris said, meeting Dacre’s stare. “And I write for no one but myself.”

“Is it? You say that I know nothing of your kind, but even after all this time walking among us, I don’t think you truly understand us either, sir.”

If he touches me, I will sunder in two, she thought, fire in her blood. If he touches me, I will come undone.

“Tell him it’s courtesy of Inkridden Iris.”

“Write me a story where there is no ending, Kitt. Write to me and fill my empty spaces.”

They were iron and salt, a blade and a remedy, and he was taking a final gasp of air.

And Roman would not do the same to him. Even now, in the moment before his disgrace took root, Roman wouldn’t see another man brought low and wounded by a devious god.

“I betrayed you because I love Iris Elizabeth Winnow,” Roman continued smoothly, as if he hadn’t heard Dacre’s taunt. “She represents all that is good in this realm, and your attack on Hawk Shire, simply put, threatened her.