Deep down, I knew it would only continue to destroy me. I had to start accepting all that had happened and move forward. I had to tell myself that forgiveness took time, and that I didn’t truly want the one-eyed wolf. That my reasons for thinking I did were unjust.

I wanted Scythe because he was forbidden.

I wanted him because he hadn’t yet betrayed me. I wanted him because he made me feel things that my promised love had rarely ever scraped the surface of. I wanted him because I was in lust and in search for something more. I wanted him because he represented a life I thought I might prefer.

The wolf was nothing more than a distraction from the pain of what was real.

This was real. It might have been irreparably broken, but it was still mine. All these broken pieces still belonged to me. This king was still mine, as he was always meant to be. He was all I’d ever wanted. He was all I’d ever have.

Anything else was fleeting and impossible.

NINE

Aster

Hope shimmered within the sunlight, warming my cheeks and chest.

The path downhill was well-worn, wildflowers waving at my skirts. My guard walked behind me, in talk amongst themselves. I didn’t mind, and I resisted the temptation to pluck more flowers to place within my basket, for I was off to see an old friend of my own.

Shayleen lived in the village across the river, but her stall had a permanent home in the market by the bridge. It had been too long since I’d last seen her, and after spending weeks with only my anguish for company, I decided that maybe it wasn’t too late to revisit parts of myself I’d left behind upon marrying Rorn.

Rorn had promised he wouldn’t so much as stand too close to another female, let alone continue to try to create the heir I could not provide with another. I believed him. I believed him yet I still couldn’t seem to forgive him, no matter how ready he seemed to forgive me.

Maybe I would never forgive him.

I’d tried to return to our rooms, but I’d lasted mere hours before the attempt to close the icy distance between us had ended in another interrogation of what I’d done and who I’d done it with. I’d since retreated to my painting parlor.

Dinner was often spent in stilted silence, breakfast a forgotten memory due to the late hour I woke after each night of fitful sleep.

I feared we were lost. Somewhere beneath our actions, we’d lost who and what we’d been.

When I’d said as much to Rorn last night over dinner, he’d countered with, “So we rebuild.” Taking my hand across the table, he’d stated with soft sincerity, “We simply start again.”