The Courting of Bristol Keats (The Courting of Bristol Keats, #1)

by Mary E. Pearson

The universe opened a door for me, and who was I to look away? —ANASTASIA WIGGINS

Run. Move on. Those were the words ingrained in her like dirt beneath her nails.

It was impossible to move forward when part of you was trapped in the past.

She was only a short distance down the highway, the whir of wheels and wind humming in her ears, when rock by rock, the memorial was restored to its former height and the silk flowers were returned to their position on top of the pile. They waved in the breeze at Bristol’s back, like a hand beckoning her to return.

Life wasn’t always about change but sometimes about sameness. And sometimes sameness made you look beneath the surface, look at the bones that held it all together—and the flaws that could be its undoing. Change was a distraction. Sameness demanded reflection.

Maybe she only loved it because for those few minutes it made her feel like someone else, someone who wasn’t always eyeing the road and the exits, someone who wasn’t aching inside—someone who was staying.

Complacency was a sword in your chest, instead of someone else’s.

Running was his destiny. The tithe for his choices. When you’re sent by the gods to seduce and kill your enemy but fail in your task, when you become the seduced instead of the seducer, few options were left to you and only one involved staying alive: run. Run away with the enemy and hope you both run faster than the gods.

In the mortal world, magic was a single off-key note that didn’t belong—a tangy knife cutting the air that was easy to detect.

There it was again. Some message she couldn’t decipher, like there was a history between them, a hidden language she was supposed to know.

Dancing was a different language she didn’t need all the words for, something that wrapped her in its forgiving world of dips and twirls. There were no missteps.

Until tomorrow, the next day, the day after that, he wanted to answer, so she’d remain there, her hand wrapped between his.

“I suppose none of us would be worthy of saving if only judged by our worst qualities.”

“Stay away from my recruit.” “Your recruit?” “That’s right. Mine. Don’t look at her. Don’t touch her. Don’t even think her name. Stay away from her. Do you understand?”

“Ignore them,” he said. “Just look at me. Be with me. Nothing else matters. We’ve done this before, but now we’ll do it better.”

“I’m through denying a lot of things. And I’m through dancing under the numb veil of invisibility. I want to feel every step. With you.”

“The only thing in this world or any other that can stop me now … is you.” Her breath hitched in her chest. “Then nothing is stopping you.”

“This too,” he said softly, “getting lost in your eyes, and never finding my way out again. This is what I wanted. I wanted you. I’m sorry I took so long to say it.”

He tucked his head into the crook of her neck, every part of them entwined, and they held each other for another long minute, as if sealing a promise between them.

Forgiveness is a thing of the heart, and every heart is wounded and mended in its own way.”