More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
In The Dark Seasons, the gift of a ribbon symbolized a person’s esteem for someone they admired. But this didn’t feel like a gift. It seemed like a tease. Or something more dangerous—like a target.
“You are despicable.” “Nonsense. You didn’t give me time to be despicable.”
Applause. Because sometime between last night’s hall and this night’s garden, she found her nerve. And I lost mine.
I remember her whimpers against my throat. Oh, how I remember. She’d taken the pain like a warrior, laughed at my racy joke like a nymph, and then swooned like a princess.
I shall only say this. Had we been alone in the cottage, that night would have turned out differently. Had the princess given me a trace of permission, the counter would have been swiped of its dishes. Had she given the slightest indication, she would have been hauled off the ground—and that fucking water glass would have shattered to the floor.
“Oh, fuck my permission,” Poet hissed, then rounded on me and whisked a finger against my lips. “We’re finished talking, sweeting. So very fucking finished.” Then he grabbed my face—and his mouth slammed against mine.
Protectiveness curled my knuckles. If anyone wounded her, I’d be forced to do bodily damage to them. Inflict the slightest harm to Briar, and I would tear them to shreds.
My Autumn Princess was the last to go.
“I see you. I see your resilience and strength of will. I see your determination and tenacity. I see your desire for control and your longing to dance. I see your integrity and daring, even when every other fool in a packed room fails to. I see it all, and I want it all, for you’ve bewitched me out of my wicked fucking mind.”
“Tell me, Court Idiot. In which manner would you like to die for stealing from a king?” Poet cocked his head. “You’ll let me choose?” “I shall let you choose.” “Excellent. I’d prefer death by old age.”
“The greatest courage a person can have is to love another, for there are only two outcomes. Either the love lasts, and our lives are compromised, or it doesn’t, and our lives are emptied. Either way, we suffer more than we celebrate. I’ve enjoyed suffering with you. We are a tale for campfires.”
Poet whispers, “Right now, I’m loving her … because I do, and have, and will.” My hands shook as they clasped his face. “Poet.” “I love her,” he hissed, capturing my mouth.
