Mountains Made of Glass (Fairy Tale Retelling, #1)

by Scarlett St. Clair

“You do not get to leave this world of your own accord,” he said, his gaze falling to my lips. “And if you manage it, I will follow you in death and haunt you for all of eternity.”

“A name precedes you, and without one, you are nothing.” “Then why go by a name that is not his own?” “All fae go by names that are not theirs,” he said. “True names are for lovers. True names are for death.” “Why only lovers and death?” “A true name is a gift to the lover and a token to death.”

“For now? Your smile,” he said. “But one day when you rule this castle, you will return me to the sea.”

Seven letters, I reminded myself. Your name knows no stranger. Your name is the wail on the lips of a birthing mother. Your name is the howl from the mouth of a grieving lover. It is the cry that breaks the night when death is summoned.

“I will learn his name,” Casamir promised. “And when I speak it, I will curse him to die a terrible death.” “Why would you do that?” I asked, confused by his concern. “Because he hurt you,” the prince said simply. Then he extended his hand. “Come.”

“What kind of magic is this?” I moaned as I arched against him. “This is not magic,” he said and bent to press a kiss to my neck, then my jaw. It was a sweet gesture, and it sent a strange feeling of comfort throughout my body, even as the heat from our coupling raged inside me. “This is need.”

“Everyone knows his name. It knows no stranger. It is the wail on the lips of a birthing mother, the howl from the mouth of a grieving lover. It is the cry that breaks the night when death is summoned and the scream that echoes at daybreak when truth makes you ache.”

“She makes me feel like it won’t matter if I have a name or not. So long as I know her, I will know myself.”

“I love you, Anguish of Thorn.” He pressed a hand to the side of my face, aligning our lips. “I love you, Gesela of my heart.”