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He wasn’t looking for the princess. He was doing the opposite of looking for her, trying to dismiss her from his mind altogether, but she was the first thing he saw all the same.
Stars, she was so pretty. The thought popped into his head before he could stop it. The sight of her filled his eyes and the corners of his mouth tugged upward in a smile so unwilling, it felt as if it should crack the hard lines of his face.
He faced devils every night, but to Remin Grimjaw there was no creature in the world so dangerous as this girl, asleep in the grass with wildflowers dancing above her.
All this time, he had been trying so hard not to see her. Forcing his eyes to go past her, pushing her to the furthest periphery of his life. That had been a mistake.
From the day he met Ophele—no, from the instant they met—Remin had been trying to force her to play this part. And she had never complained. Not once.
He remembered every cruel word he had spoken, every time he had snapped at her, every time he had driven her into flinching, bewildered retreat. All those times she had fallen silent, her words trailing away inaudibly.
He had done nothing to earn her loyalty, and a great deal to make her hate him. That had not been his objective, but it didn’t matter. The more he thought about it, the more he thought he wouldn’t blame her if she did try to have him killed.
The problem isn’t even her anymore. But even if she hasn’t done anything, even if she never means to do anything, the Emperor could still get to her one day.
“I think we have proven that I am not fit to take care of her.” “You haven’t tried.”
“She thinks she has to make up for every rotten thing her father’s ever done, she—” “Then you respect that,” Miche said sharply. “Give her a chance. Just try. Or you’re letting that bastard in Starfall win without even drawing your sword.”
“Bleeding croissants! I never thought I’d see the day when I’d be reduced to bloody pastry!
We love the sassy cook, whose enemy is pastries
She had been getting braver about speaking, and every time she dared to offer an opinion or started a conversation, it felt like a victory.
He used to think she was sulking when she did this, wielding her silence like a weapon to make him feel guilty. He had never been able to abide such tricks. But now he understood that Ophele didn’t sulk. She just…retreated,
He loved her. He knew it. He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. It was like flying and it was like drowning, beautiful and dreadful, and somehow inescapably inevitable.
Looking into her golden eyes was like falling into the stars. He wanted to kiss those red lips. He wanted to love her and make love to her and keep her by his side always. And if he was wrong about her, she would cut out his heart.
Take care of His Grace. That was what Sir Huber had told her, when they were dancing together the night of the banquet. And of course, she had agreed; that was what a wife was supposed to do, even if the husband was Remin Grimjaw and the wife was manifestly unqualified to take care of anything.
“Here,” he said, taking a seat by the fire and holding out a hand for her brush. He was inclined to indulge himself today, and he liked brushing her hair.
HE BRUSHES HER HAIR!!!!
This was the greatest test of his life. Not whether he had the courage to offer his throat to her, the daughter of his enemy, and risk everything he had to ask her this question. The test was whether he had the strength to believe her answer.
They breathed together. They fell together. They drowned together.
Every one of those ugly scars was someone’s attempt to take his life. He had come to her tonight prepared to die. It was unthinkable that he should die. Never, she wouldn’t let it happen, no matter what. No one would touch him. He loved her, and she loved him, and every inch of his skin was precious to her.
He knew how to hurt. Now, he was having to apply this harsh lesson to a joy so great, he couldn’t even grasp the outlines of it yet.
there were no walls between them. There was barely the barrier of skin. He had never known it was possible to talk to someone else like he was talking to his own soul.
“That means my life is yours to take, if ever you have to. Never forget that I chose your life tonight.”
he could learn this. He could learn to endure happiness.
“Do you still love me in the morning?” he asked, and her lips curved. “Yes,” she said, her eyes slitting open. “Do you still love me?” “Yes.” He rumbled with contentment as he kissed her. “More than anything.”
