“Do you wish you’d let that horse and carriage take you home now?”

The question was much larger than that. He wasn’t asking whether I regretted coming up to his room with him tonight, he was asking me if I regretted our relationship. Whether I regretted loving him.

Closing my eyes, I let our time together pan across my eyes, right from the moment we’d met. Even though I’d been terrified and in pain, I’d thought he was handsome. Except that wasn’t even a strong enough word: he was beautiful in a way that was almost painful. Flawless in a way that seemed surreal, like a figment of imagination. So perfect, it was off-putting, because while it was something that could be worshipped, it wasn’t something that could be touched or loved. He’d been snide, nasty, and wicked, and I’d loathed him. Except even then I’d sensed something wasn’t right, that there was a mismatch between what I was seeing and hearing and what I felt. It was this mismatch that made him captivating, and even as I was grasping for ways to escape, the need to know more about him had lurked in my heart.

That need had only been compounded when we’d been bonded; the veneer of his exterior cracked to reveal a young man so different from the one he pretended to be. A Tristan whom I was uniquely privileged to know. He became a puzzle I needed to solve – the key, I’d thought, to my freedom.

Except solving him hadn’t relinquished his hold on me. I remembered the moment in the empty palace stables where the truth had come out, when I’d finally seen the emotions filling my head written across his face, and the veneer had fallen away entirely. It was then I stopped seeing the troll and began to see him. He became my friend, my ally – and the leader of something I could believe in.

I’d admired him, and yes, lusted after him, but then I’d fallen. Fallen for a man who felt too much and took on too much, who believed if only he worked tirelessly and ceaselessly enough, that he could improve the lives of an entire race of people. And I’d had that depth of passion turned on me – seen it in his eyes, felt it in my heart. He loved me, and I loved him. And I’d love him as long as I lived, and if my soul endured, I’d love him for eternity.

“I forgive you,” I whispered, closing the distance between us and falling to my knees at his back, and I saw then that the damage on the outside matched that within. I didn’t know why seeing it made my heart hurt as badly as it did, because I’d witnessed the torture inflicted upon him. I suppose part of me was so confident in his strength that I’d believed nothing could mark him permanently. How wrong I’d been.

Silver ribbons of scars from the iron-tipped lash snaked across his back from the base of his neck down to the waistband of his trousers. Puncture marks from sets of manacles had left behind coin-sized scars below both shoulders and above both elbows, and his wrists… There was black fabric wrapped around both to hide the skin between cuff and glove, but he was wearing neither. The injuries had healed, but not without leaving their mark, veins still black and skin a dull grey. A permanent reminder that he was not invincible.