I grip the arms of my chair, fighting the urge to launch myself from the gallery, to throw aside those two tall guards hauling her between them and . . . and what? Take her in my arms, sheltering her against my breast, whispering into her hair that she’s safe now, that I’ll let no harm come to her? Or wrap my fingers around her throat, throttling the life out of her, dashing her head against the stone floor until her skull cracks and her brains spill out over my hands? My heart screams, torn between these two equal urges. I fear I will be ripped in half right here, before the eyes of my
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