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She kept waving. She never stopped. Her arms had to be tired, but she kept waving to her daughter. I might be the woman wearing the crown, but Jocelyn was the one with the riches, wasn’t she?
“I hate you,” I seethed. “Yes, you do. Don’t forget.” “Never.”
He searched my eyes the way I searched his. For answers. Salvation. Mercy.
Turah was perilous. Majestic. Horrifying. Stirring. It was every emotion, good and bad, woven into a landscape that had stolen my heart. Like its guardian.
