Page 89 of The Shadowbound King

“Andrin is mine,” Rane growled. “And you’ll die as you should have from the beginning.”

Sliding my hand into my pocket, I gripped the knife’s hilt.One chance.I only had one chance to strike. And I’d have to be quick.

Rane moved his hand to my neck. Squeezing, he stared down at me with cold, lifeless eyes. His fingers were iron bands around my throat. My lungs burned, and the room behind him went blurry as my vision narrowed to Rane’s face. Crushing pressure spread through my neck and pounded up my face.

I tightened my grip on the knife. But I released it as I yanked my hand from my pocket. With my last, sputtering breath, I grabbed Rane’s face in both hands and let light build under my palms.

This isn’t you.I poured the words into my hands, golden light blazing between my fingers. As his eyes widened, I stroked my thumbs over his cheekbones.Show me who you are.

I closed my eyes—and entered his.

Andrin running down a beach, his hair waving behind him like a flag and his bare feet kicking up sand.

Rane on a galloping horse, the reins in his hands and joy coursing through him. It was like flying on land.

Squares of land beneath him, the people on the ground like children’s toys. He was free when he was in the air.

Tumbling leaves.

A tall woman with black hair and a sweet singing voice. Her features were blurry. His mother. He couldn’t recall her face.

Andrin kicking his foot under the table, then hiding a smile. The prince shared his lessons. At night, Andrin secretly taught him how to read.

Tall trees in a dazzling forest.

A small cabin nestled against a mountainside, a fire roaring in its hearth.

The tart taste of berries exploding on his tongue.

Tears burning his throat as Othor chanted in the Old Language, removing the chains he’d worn for a century.

Stacks of books next to a big window.

A pair of golden eyes and a stubborn chin. Full lips and a dusting of golden freckles over the bridge of a nose he’d dearly love to kiss.

Andrin bent over his desk, a quill tucked behind his ear and his braid studded with bellclovers. The man he loved.

Me sitting up slowly on the couch next to the bed, my nipples thrusting against my white nightgown as the sunlit window behind me showed him everything. The woman he was falling for.

Shadows clearing.

A spark of light.

“Mirella,” Rane gasped.

My eyes snapped open. Rane stared at me, his hands on my wrists and his purple eyes shining with tears. His chest heaved, his breaths ragged and loud in the quiet chamber. A tear welled and then rolled down his cheek.

Smiling, I brushed it away, then cupped his jaw. “There you are, Rane Laruthian,” I murmured.

A sob broke from him. He captured my hand and kissed the inside of my wrist. Then he buried his face in my neck and wept, his big body shaking.

“I wasn’t strong enough,” he rasped. “The forest spoke to me, and…I listened.”

“It’s all right,” I said, stroking his hair. He leaned into me, and by some mutual, unspoken agreement, we slid to the floor. I leaned against the wall, and he wrapped his arms around my waist and rested his head on my breast.

“I gave in to the darkness,” he said, shame in his voice.

“No.” I stroked his hair away from his face. “You came back to the light.”

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