Page 5 of When Hearts Surrender

“My love. It’s all my fault. I-I failed you. I should’ve acted much sooner. I’m a c-coward.” She was bleeding and losing theirchild, and he never knew. She had no one to comfort her as she was cast out of this house. How devastated and hopeless she must’ve felt.

“I’m sorry, Emma.” He pressed a kiss on her cold forehead.

The butler and footmen pried his arms off his sweetheart, but he held on tightly, not willing to let go of his soulmate, the woman who’d always hold his heart, even in death.

He shouldn’t have loved her.He killed her.

“No! Let me go!” he screamed, his eyes wild with anguish.

Amid the struggle, the necklace around Emma’s neck broke off from its owner. The storm carried it away in blood-tainted waters, but Silas barely noticed as he was dragged back into the estate.

I’ll find you again, my love. Death cannot separate us.

Chapter 1

Split Rock Lighthouse State Park, Two Harbors, Minnesota

Present Day

“You know, there’s asaying that goes, ‘Lake Superior does not give up her dead,’” a wry voice comments from behind me, snapping me out of the semi-trance I find myself in.

The dreams were back last night—swirling dark visions of a faceless woman so vivid, I’d wake up bathed in sweat, my chest clenching in pain.

“What are you painting, my love?” I whisper as I cradle her waist from behind her in the rose garden, my nose dipping to her neck.

The candles flicker in the late night, but I sense these are stolen hours—forbidden and precious.

“The canals of Venice. I’ve never been there before, but I had read about them. So, I’m bringing them to life.”

Someone clears his throat, jolting me back to the present.

Who is she? Why am I dreaming of her again?

The stranger next to me clears his throat again when I don’t respond.

Glancing away from the easel in front of me, I turn toward the man. “Excuse me?”

He grins and pulls his black beanie further down his head before crossing his arms over his chest. “Sorry, I’m here with my family on vacation and they’re around here somewhere exploring the grounds and I saw you sketching. Couldn’t resist looking.”

He motions to my easel where I’ve been trying my damned best to capture the scene in front of me for the past two hours since the park opened.

And I’m failing. Failing miserably. Distracted.

Acid churns in my gut as I stare at my creation—dark slashes of charcoal against a white canvas. The technique is there—the straight lines, the contouring, the play between the brightness and the shadows—a perfect example of the technique ofchiaroscuro. It clearly depicts the scene before me—the gloomy waters so vast, it looks like it can swallow you whole, the lonely lighthouse perched on the rocky cliff, the dense fog obscuring the pebbly, gray shoreline.

But it’s all wrong. It’s missing something.

It’s trash.

“And what does that saying have anything to do with my art?” I mutter, my fingers tightly clutching my pencil.

“It’s a gloomy piece. I thought you might appreciate the morbid saying.” The man chuckles. “And frankly, I’m just killing time while waiting for the fam. Ignore my bullshit.”

I grunt and tug the lapels of my wool coat tighter to ward off the sudden chilly breeze sweeping in from the lake. A scent of damp earth and a faint whiff of harsh minerals permeate the air. Being from New York City, I’m no stranger to chilly temperatures in April, but fuck, it’s downright glacial out here.

Befitting the frigid king.I shove the unwanted thought away.

“Anyway, the saying became famous after the tragedy of the sinking of SS Edmund Fitzgerald in 1975 during a severe storm out here. The entire crew was wiped out but none of the bodies were ever recovered,” the man continues, oblivious to the displeasure running through my veins.

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