“I didn’t know,” I said, and my voice was hoarse. “I wasn’t sure about how you felt. Whether you were with me because you–” I broke off. “I thought maybe it was only because you had to be.”

She turned in my arms, then stood up on her tiptoes and kissed me. Not a chaste brush of the lips like the last time, but soft and deep, her tongue touching mine, making me groan. She broke away, and whispered, “I love you. I’ve always loved you. Always wanted to be with you. But I never thought I’d get the chance. And then when I did, he twisted it and–” Her breath hitched, choking her off.

“I know.” Their motivations might have been better, but Tristan and Anaïs had done the same to me. Both of them knew I cared about Pénélope, but neither of them had hesitated to use those feelings. Or seemed to care how much it would cost me. “I want to be with you, Pénélope. I need you to know that. And if being with me is what you want, then I’m willing to fight to make it happen.”

One tear trickled down her cheek, but she nodded. “They’ve taken so much from us, but this, this, is ours. Our choice. Our right.”

“They’ll try to use it against us,” I said, kissing away the tear.

“I know.” She stood on her toes to press her lips against mine again, tangling her fingers in my hair and pulling me against her. “But we don’t have to let them.”

Chapter 14

Pénélope

Not long after dawn, I walked back through the quiet streets to my home, finding it remarkable that everything around me could be unchanged when I felt like an entirely different person. Images and sensations danced through my thoughts, whispered words and touches that I’d dreamed of – and longed for – but never hoped to experience outside the confines of my imagination.

But I had.

Now, all I wanted to do was to trail after that lone stream of sunlight tracking across Trollus with a canvas and my paints, and in the warmth of its glow, attempt to capture the perfection of that moment, lest it never happen again.

For that was a real risk.

I clung tightly to my confidence as I approached the entrance to my home, but fear ate away at it like rats in a grain barrel, sharp little teeth biting away at the plans Marc and I had made in the quiet hours of the night. Lying twisted in the sheets and the comfort of his arms, it had been easy to believe that I could trick my father. That I could best him at this game of politics and deception at which he excelled. But as I passed into the foyer, the faint smell of gardenias from the atrium filling my nose, I no longer believed that to be the case. And my fingers closed around the tiny steel knife hidden in my skirts, praying my hand would have the courage to strike if the duplicitousness that was my heritage should choose to fail me.