“It’s why I’ve spent centuries training my magic. Practicing control. I never want to lose control like that ever again. I won’t lose control like that ever again. Because my breakdown has trapped my people here for centuries.” I taste salt in my mouth, surprised that tears run down my face, but I ignore them. “The thayar flowers are declining because the magic of Thayaria is declining. I can feel it. And every single day, I ask myself if it’s because of the mist. If the massive amount of aether it takes to keep it up is draining my kingdom of the magic that runs through it. It’s the only logical explanation.”

Thorne stands, and I tense, unsure what he’s going to do. He walks around the small coffee table, then drops to his knees in front of me. Taking both of my hands in his, that beautiful, handsome face stares up at me with so much compassion and adoration in his eyes that I can’t bear to look. My eyes dart to the ground, undeserving of this male who sees the best in me. He gently grips my chin, bringing my gaze back to his like he’s done so many times before, forcing me to face my demons with him.

“Laurel,” he breathes, “you were twenty years old, young even by human standards. Still a child by fae standards. Fate, or the gods, or a prophecy—whatever determines these things—blessed you with an indescribable amount of power and very little guidance in how to use it. Your parents had been murdered, your best friend on the verge of death. You should not—cannot—blame yourself for this, yet I’ve seen the guilt you wear for the months that I’ve been here. I see the fear you have of your own power. You may play dress up as the villain my father created, but you are no more villain than I am. Even if the mist is responsible for the flower declining, it’s not your fault. If anyone is to blame, it’s my father.”

I know I need to continue, need to tell him all of it, but I’m shaking with fear. Once he knows this last secret, I’m sure he’ll walk away from me, walk away from the mating bond.

“There’s more.” My words are the smallest whisper, so quiet I’m not sure I’ve even said them aloud. He only squeezes my hands. My breaths are coming quickly now, and I realize I’m panting with anxiety as the tears flow freely. “My magic…” I start, struggling to say more. I pause to pick at my fingernails, at a loss how to explain something that only my parents and Admon ever knew. “My magic is different,” I finally say, and Thorne laughs.