Page 3 of Ruling Destiny

“It’s okay,” I whisper, rolling to my side. I lay a hand on his chest. His skin is cool but slick with sweat, and his heart is pounding so hard I can feel the thump of it just under my palm. “It’s just a nightmare. It’s not real.”

I watch as he sneaks an eye open. The other soon follows. And for a moment, I’m sure I catch a glimpse of something that straddles the border of fear and remorse, something that reminds me of dread. But then he wipes a hand over his face and whispers my name, and whatever I saw disappears.

“Tasha,” he says. “I’m sorry. I—”

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “It was just another night terror—that’s all.” I press a kiss to his shoulder, then another to the crook of his neck. “If you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

He turns his head toward me, and when his eyes meet mine, I’m sure he’s about to finally reveal what’s been haunting his dreams nearly every night. But then his hand finds my waist, and he pulls me down to him. Drawing me even closer, he says, “You mean the doctor isin?”

It’s a reference to Lucy from thePeanutscomic strip, but also to the Gray Wolf psychiatrist who happens to be named Lucy, and it always makes me laugh.

“Speaking of…” My fingers slide to his navel, where I trace the contours with the edge of my thumb. “Today’s my last day.” I still my hand and arch my neck to get a clear read of his face. The confused look I find prompts me to say, “Of therapy. Today’s my last day of therapy.”

Braxton’s jaw tightens. His brow slants with concern. And while I’m not exactly sure how I expected him to react, I know it wasn’t that.

“But—are you ready? Because it hasn’t been very long.”

I flip onto my back and stare at the swoop of forest-green fabric hanging over our heads. “Actually, it’s been nearly three weeks since my last Trip to Versailles. Or six sessions with the doctor—however you want to track it. But yeah.” I shrug. “I’m as sure as I can be.”

“And what does Dr. Lucy say?” Braxton slips onto his side, bunches a pillow under his head, and peers down at me.

“Don’t know, don’t care.” I frown. “I’m free to come and go as I please. And honestly, I’m just so sick of talking about it.How did it make you feel? How is it impacting your daily routine? Do you want to further explore the day your dad walked out of your life and never returned?” I roll my eyes. “I mean, no, I don’t want toexploreany of it. I’ve said all I can, and now it’s time to move on.”

Braxton makes a small sound—one I can’t easily pin down. Though if I had to describe it, I’d say it’s something between a gasp and a groan.

For some strange reason, talking about my dad always results in an immediate downturn in Braxton’s mood. Like my dad’s abandonment somehow affects him more than it does me.

“Annnyway…” I drag out the word. “Sometimes I wonder if all that incessant talking is just keeping the trauma alive. I mean, maybe it really is like Arthur said—that we’re always writing our own stories, and it’s the ones we play on repeat that determine our destiny. And if that’s true, then by constantly reliving what happened in Versailles, aren’t I just cementing my status as a victim of a brutal attack?”

“But you’renota victim.” Braxton shakes his head. “You beat the hell out of that duke.”

Despite the glow of pride worn plain on his face, I can’t help but wish I’d kept the whole horrible story to myself. It would’ve been just as easy to explain my injuries by reminding him that as a female, Tripping alone to 1745 Versailles—a time in which women held little value and virtually no inherent rights—the usual time-travel dangers were only multiplied.

Which means there was no need to go on about how I was tossed in jail, assaulted, and nearly raped before I saved myself by stabbing a duke.

But at least I had the good sense not to reveal that it was Killian who stopped me from finishing my attacker.

I can still smell the putrid scent of that cell, feel the pinch of the makeshift shiv held tight in my hand as I plunged the blade into the duke’s chest. I was just about to do it again when Killian walked in and saved me from myself—insisting that once I kill, I can never go back, that the course of history is not mine to change—and a bunch of bullshit like that.

Only, it’s probably not actually bullshit.

There’s a pretty good chance he was right.

Still, sometimes I wonder if I made a mistake by leaving that duke alive.

Either way, I’m just glad I kept the Killian stuff to myself. Because for reasons I don’t fully understand, Braxton and Killian are sworn enemies. And since they’re unwilling to provide any details, all I know for sure is that Killian blames Braxton for leaving him behind in eighteenth-century France, and Braxton claims Killian is pretty much a liar and a psychopath.

“Where’ve you gone?” The clipped lilt of Braxton’s English accent draws me away from Versailles and back to Gray Wolf, Braxton’s luxurious suite, and his plush canopy bed. “Because you’re clearly not present.”

I rise onto my elbows and return my focus to him. “I was thinking about what Arthur said.”

Braxton’s lips curve into a grin. “Arthur’s a bit of a windbag. You’ll need to be more specific.”

I push a hand to my belly, and, deepening my voice, I say, “You alone are the alchemist of the reality you create.” It’s my best impression of our…boss, leader, mentor, king? I’m still not sure how to refer to the reclusive tech trillionaire responsible for bringing me here. The man whose first initial is on the gold signet ring I wear, proclaiming me to be a member of the AAD, or Arthur’s Artful Dodgers. The man who, I’m starting to suspect, is tracking our every move. And though I didn’t sound anything like him, Braxton laughs, and that alone feels like a win.

“Aw, yes,” Braxton says. “Amor fati.”

“What did you say?” I turn onto my side, my gaze poring over his ridiculously beautiful face, moving from those ocean-blue eyes to the bit of a bend in his nose to those warm, inviting lips that really know how to kiss.

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