My wife….
I can’t even dwell on what that means, for the mere thought brings pain back upon me with a vengeance.
“I’ve got you,” he says, sweeping me up into his arms.
I can’t fight it.
Instead, I turn my face into his shoulder and suck in a lungful of that familiar scent as he strides toward the door.
It seems like eons before my head stops splitting.
The prince offered water, but all I want to do is vomit it back up. Finally, once my stomach stops threatening to rebel, I manage to push myself up onto my elbows.
I’m on the bed in his—my—bedchamber. Dried blood crusts on my lip. My nose stopped bleeding ten minutes ago, and the bloodied remnants of his shirt on the bedside table show how much I’ve lost.
Thiago leans on the fireplace, staring into the flames. There’s no sign of the charismatic prince who greeted me at the Lammastide bonfires. Shadows carve harsh lines into his face, and his eyes are dark and brooding. It should scare me, but I can’t fight the dull ache of familiarity every time I look at him, and now I know why.
Husband.
He’s my husband.
I press my hands to my temples, but the answering ache feels like the dull aftermath of a migraine, and not the excruciating torment of a knife to the brain anymore.
It’s unthinkable. How can I even reconcile his words with the truth? I have no recollection of our marriage. No hint I’ve ever known him, beyond certain scents and words tugging at my mind like elusive will-o’-the-wisps.
And the vague familiarity of his kiss.
I must have made a sound, for Thiago looks around sharply.
“You’re awake.”
“And alive.” Somehow, I manage a hint of a smile. “Barely.”
His face darkens. “Don’t joke about that, please. The first time the spell shattered, you nearly died in my arms.”
“Spell.” Of course, it was a spell. I’ve had a taste of the remnants of a shattered spell turning back on me before, and it felt like it had burned my bones from the inside. This was worse. A thousand times worse. I was certain my brain was dribbling out my ears at one stage. No wonder my nose is still sluggishly bleeding. “I don’t understand. Who cast the spell? What does it do? How…. You and I…?” I draw my knees up to my chest. "Why didn't you tell me?"
I steal another glance at the painting. At the way that possessive hand curls toward me in the painting. A ghostly echo of that touch whispers over the same skin, and a sudden flash of Thiago's firm lips darting down to press against mine steals through my mind.
I gasp, and the memory shatters, chased away by a surge of pain.
"Because somehow, she makes you forget, and to remind you only causes you pain. Physical pain." His face twists with anger. "I didn't want to hurt you. To scare you."
"Scare me?"
“You’ve run from me before.”
And it hurt him. I can see it all over his face.
“How did we even meet? When did we meet? I don’t remember any of it.”
“You never do.”
My heart starts to kick harder, and I can feel panic blurring the edges of the room.
“I’ll start at the beginning.” He looks up from the fireplace, all hard edges. “My people have a custom. When we are twenty-five, we go through a rite of passage into adulthood, where, if Maia favors you, she will give you a glimpse of your future mate. The first time I saw your face was in the waters of Maia’s temple, and I vowed then and there that I would find you. One day. Though it was another six hundred years before I first caught a glimpse of you in the flesh.
“I’ve spent centuries fighting your mother over Mistmere, and the night the Seelie and Unseelie kingdoms drew together to forge a pact was the first time I laid eyes upon you. You were dancing by the fires, radiant in midnight silk with your hair flowing down your back. I couldn’t breathe. I’d spent hundreds of years searching for you, and there you were. Right in front of me.” He takes a step toward me, pausing when I inch back. “I had to have you. I had to know you. And the world was overflowing with celebration. We were both half-drunk on elderberry wine and victory. And we danced, and we kissed, and when the moon hovered on the edge of the horizon, I laid you down in the heather and made love to you.
“It wasn’t until the sun rose that I caught a glimpse of what I’d missed all along. I was tracing my fingers down your back, and there, right along the curve of your spine was a tattoo. All those roses and thorns, interwoven with the Asturian crest. You weren’t just from Adaia’s court. You were from her loins.” His head lowers. “The woman I’d spent an eternity searching for was my enemy’s daughter.”
It sounds like a lovely fairy tale.
And I have absolutely no recollection of any of it.
“I couldn’t just let you go. You were my gift from the goddess, and one doesn’t simply walk away from that, no matter how difficult the path ahead might be. I tried to make peace with your mother, but she would have none of it. And you were… determined to defy her. We were married on the third and final night of the rites,” he tells me. “We both thought Adaia would have to accept the marriage once it was done, and the alliance witnessed it.”
I know my mother too well—or at least, I do now.
“She would never accept such a betrayal.” Not from one of her daughters. She’d have done everything she could to tear us apart.
“She didn’t. But she couldn’t defy a marriage that was witnessed by the gods themselves. She offered me a choice. I could have you for three months before I must return you to her, or there would be war. The Seelie accords would be broken, and I would be forced to take you by force. And worse, the Queen of Nightmares sided with her. The alliance was threatening to fracture down the center. Kyrian stood by my side, and Lucidia refused to take part. It would have thrown the entire alliance into chaos.
“So, I accepted her deal. Three months with you every time we finalize the accords. And then I must return you to your mother.”
The treaty she’d spoken of all along had not been made to prevent war. It had been made to prevent him from having me.
“I thought she accepted the deal with too much grace,” he says. “I should have known she would find a way to revenge herself upon both of us. When you were finally returned to me, you looked at me as though I was a stranger. You had no memory of us. I tried to tell you the truth, and the spell she’d cast nearly broke your mind. You came close to dying, and when you woke, you ran from me. I had to lock you away. It took me months to earn your trust. You kissed me only once before I was forced to return you, and the next time you came, I did not dare tell you the truth. Not at the risk of losing you to the backlash of the spell. I had to wait until I could see you again. And I had to be patient with you when I did. I had to earn your trust before I could tell you the truth. Given time, memories start to leak through. The spell weakens with each memory gained. Eventually, it’s safe to tell you.”
It still sounds as though it happened to someone else. “Wait. This isn’t the first time this has happened.” It’s not a question. “How many times?” I feel sick.
“How many times, curse you!”