Angry and desperate tears have gathered in my eyes, and I fight like hell to keep them from dropping. My throat burns with the effort. Then Hawthorne—Thorne—squeezes my hand, and I lose the battle. It’s the smallest gesture, but now I’m crying openly, fat tears rolling down my cheeks. I haven’t cried in front of another person in at least a century. He rubs my back, and I laugh at the absurdity of the situation, the noise half sob and half barking madness. He probably thinks I’ve completely lost my mind. I wipe away the tears, ready to explain that I just can’t get over the irony of it all. To tell him I’m not insane. But then he surprises me by breaking out into his own deep laughter. It starts as a low chuckle but quickly turns into gasping belly laughs that only escalate my own outbursts.

“Why are we laughing?” he chokes out.

“I don’t really know, Thorne,” I say through my giggles, the use of his nickname sending me into another fit. He squeezes my hand again. “I think it’s the only thing we can do. After everything, all the secrets and animosity between our countries, what we’ve both dealt with. The fact that we’re here—in the most isolated and abandoned part of the entire Four Kingdoms—talking about all of this and freezing our asses off. The only thing left to do is laugh.”

That makes him laugh even harder, and we’re both in stitches. He keeps my hand in his the entire time, and I have no desire to stop touching him. I scoot closer, and he leans into me. I feel his magic like a sixth sense, calling to my own, and for once I let the door I usually keep firmly closed on my magical center crack open the smallest bit. That same spark I’ve felt between us so many times, that I’ve consistently ignored, flares. It’s electrifying, and I want to rip open the door and let everything inside of me burst out to meet him. I’m breathless, and not from all the laughter. I revel in the feeling for a few minutes before I slowly close the door up, locking away my magic with the practiced control I’ve honed over centuries. All the while, we continue laughing.

“Laurel,” he breathes out, and I practically shiver at the way his husky voice says my name. “You—I—” His expression heats.

“Spit it out, princeling,” I tease, thinking he’s going to give me some flirty remark that I’ll have to meet with one of my own. But that’s not what comes out of his mouth.

“Tell me you feel whatever this is between us. Tell me—tell me I’m not crazy.”