“Scratch, if you don’t let me finish, I’ll never get this out.” She inhaled deeply through her nose and then let loose a stream of air from her mouth. “I thought I knew who you were. I thought I hated you. I didn’t.” She set her jaw, though her chin wobbled. “I don’t. I should have told you everything far earlier. I shouldn’t have decided it was better for you not to know. I should have given you the opportunity to surprise me.”

“Brella—”

“Scratch, I am almost done. I swear it.” She swallowed thickly. “You’re so good. So brave. I’ve been a coward.”

“You haven’t!”

“I have. Not in taking you from the palace. Not in doing everything I’ve done to save the country that I love. But in keeping the truth from you. I told myself it would all work out, because what I was doing was right. If I was acting justly, if my goal was true, it would all be fine, right?” Her laugh was coarse. “I always wanted a love like Aunt and Uncle have. I always thought their story was so beautiful. I never considered how awful it would be to lose someone, how horrible. Because the minute you ran off, Scratch—” She choked, tears spilling from her eyes. “The very minute, I felt like all of the flowers had died. I thought . . . I thought—”

Scratch ran, and it wasn’t even a choice.

She kissed any skin she could reach. Hair, head, eyelids, nose, mouth, mouth, their lips parting, welcoming each other. Scratch found Brella’s hair and dug her fingers into the strands, wanting more, needing more, because she had been granted this by whatever gods were paying attention. Because Brella, like an aching flower fae, had called her home.

She tore Brella’s shirt over her head while Brella reached for her trousers, yanking them down so Scratch could step free. They threw garments here and there until, blissfully, they were naked together, warm skin on skin, tumbling into the grass and rolling, mouths on mouths, hands on thighs and waists and breasts and cheeks and lips, spit mingling with tears.

“Scratch, Scratch,” Brella babbled as Scratch found her nipple and held it between her fingers, “I have so much to tell you.”

“Shh.” Scratch kissed her. “Not now. Just this.”

“Anything, anything,” Brella murmured. “What do you like?”

Scratch stiffened, suddenly aware of the cool breeze on her exposed flesh. “I’ve never done this before.”

Brella pulled her head back, eyes wide and stunned. “What?”

Honesty. It had been an untruth that had almost separated them. She wouldn’t lie, not with something as precious as this. “I was too afraid. My whole life, up until now, has been about being a good soldier. I could be distracted. It just . . . never happened for me.”

“Did you not want it to happen?”