I was healed—or healing—enough to want to try. If he was willing to try, too. If he didn’t walk away when I voiced what I wanted: him. Not the High Lord, not the most powerful male in Prythian’s history. Just … him. The person who had sent music into that cell; who had picked up that knife in Amarantha’s throne room to fight for me when no one else dared, and who had kept fighting for me every day since, refusing to let me crumble and disappear into nothing. So I waited for him in the chilled, moonlit garden. But he didn’t come.
