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Bowing, but managing to hold her gaze—her eyes were brown, like the soil that nourished the moors in the spring—he took her hand and pressed a kiss to the delicate fingers, wishing no kidskin separated his lips from her skin.
“You were born to be a writer.” His eyes reflected complete honesty. “You made me feel what those characters were experiencing. The fact that I had actually lived through the moments had no bearing on the sensations that swept through me. I was enthralled. You write with an honesty few have the courage to emulate. Although you did change the conclusion of our tale.”
“God.” She buried her face in her hands, moved her palms up, and pressed the pads at the base of her thumbs to her temples. “Your smooth words no longer have an effect on me. Don’t you dare hurt or take advantage of her, Knightly, else I shall see you destroyed.”
Her mother. A fierce goddess, a warrior, a queen. Who had threatened him with destruction if he harmed her precious child, and her tone had left him with no doubt she would indeed keep her vow.
It was more than merely a kiss. It was breath, life, and love. It was a world where dreams dared to exist and yearned to become reality.”
It was the way of love to evolve and change, because people evolved and changed. Love, he was discovering, was an odd thing, a beast that continued to grow.
Yet, in spite of the suffering, he was grateful to have loved her and to have been loved by her. He would undoubtedly still love her when he was on his deathbed,
I realized I’ve never had to pretend with you or prove my worth. With you, I was always free to be me, without fear of judgment or having to consider my words.”
