Divine Rivals (Letters of Enchantment, #1)

by Rebecca Ross

Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured. —EMILY DICKINSON

“I don’t want to wake up when I’m seventy-four only to realize I haven’t lived.”

I don’t think you realize how strong you are, because sometimes strength isn’t swords and steel and fire, as we are so often made to believe. Sometimes it’s found in quiet, gentle places. The way you hold someone’s hand as they grieve. The way you listen to others. The way you show up, day after day, even when you are weary or afraid or simply uncertain.

She unfortunately had to sit on Roman Kitt’s lap, nearly all the way to the front lines.

She has to survive this, Roman thought. He didn’t want to live in a world without her and her words.

A transcendent connection. A divine threshold.

What is a synonym for sublime? Roman had once asked her from his second-story window. As if he were a prince, trapped in a castle. Divine, she had grumbled from below, where she had been watering the garden. Transcendent, Attie had offered, assuming he was writing about the gods.

“But the moment you walked away,” Roman rushed on, “I knew I felt something for you, which I had been denying for weeks. The moment you wrote me and said you were six hundred kilometers away from Oath … I thought my heart had stopped. To know that you would still want to write to me, but also that you were so far away. And as our letters progressed, I finally acknowledged that I was in love with you, and I wanted you to know who I was. That’s when I decided I would follow you. I didn’t want the life my father had planned for me—a life where I could never be with you.”

“Are you…” she began, blinking. “Are you saying you want a life with me?” “Yes,” he said. And because her heart was melting, Iris smiled and teased, “Is this a proposal?” He continued to hold their stare, deadly serious. “If I asked you, would you say yes?”

“I suppose you’ll have to ask me and find out,” she said.

It’s not a crime to feel joy, even when things seem hopeless. Iris, look at me. You deserve all the happiness in the world. And I intend to see that you have it.”

“Iris,” said Roman, “you are worthy of love. You are worthy to feel joy right now, even in the darkness. And just in case you’re wondering … I’m not going anywhere, unless you tell me to leave, and even then, we might need to negotiate.”

“I pray that my days will be long at your side. Let me fill and satisfy every longing in your soul. May your hand be in mine, by sun and by night. Let our breaths twine and our blood become one, until our bones return to dust. Even then, may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”

“I think we all wear armor. I think those who don’t are fools, risking the pain of being wounded by the sharp edges of the world, over and over again. But if I’ve learned anything from those fools, it is that to be vulnerable is a strength most of us fear. It takes courage to let down your armor, to welcome people to see you as you are. Sometimes I feel the same as you: I can’t risk having people behold me as I truly am. But there’s also a small voice in the back of my mind, a voice that tells me, ‘You will miss so much by being so guarded.’”