Page 155 of Bride of the Fae Prince

The things you may never get another chance to tell me.

He is quiet for a few minutes, the tips of four fingers running up and down my back in gentle caresses. “Then I will bargain with you, wife.”

“Bargain?” I push up on my elbow, shooting a glower at his darkness-shrouded face. “I—”

Teeth flash back at me in a grin. “Put away your claws. I wish to bargain with you—a secret for a secret. I tell you one of mine. You tell me one of yours.”

I give a silent huff, then settle back against his chest, tucking my arms between us. “I don’t want a tattoo.”

He laughs. Playfully nuzzles his nose into my face. “We don’t have to make it a magically binding bargain. Shall I start?”

“You may.”

He chuckles again. “Very well. A secret I have told no one . . . hmm . . . Here’s one. Rahk and I became friends when he found me crying as a young child and pitied me.”

“Is he older than you?”

“He is. Though not by much. He cheered me up by standing on his hands and purposefully falling over.”

I giggle. “That’s adorable.”

“He would probably not appreciate me telling you.”

“I’ll be certain to blackmail him with it at the earliest opportunity.”

I yelp when Ash gives me a light pinch. “Behave,” he chides, amusement limning his voice. “Now it’s your turn.”

I give him another huff and a glare. He only smiles in return. “Fine. I was terrified of you when I first heard I was going to marry you.”

“That’s not a secret. Try again.”

I wrack my brain. Memories come back, of my father, my sisters. The way I could barely talk. How small I always felt. I never told Ash what I experienced while I was ill. It hadn’t felt relevant anymore. But perhaps it’s time to acknowledge that.

“One thing my father always thought important for my sisters and I to understand was that we were extensions of the crown. Bound to honor our people, to always seek their interests over our own. To sacrifice ourselves for them. And now, I see howwell-meaning that goal was. How noble. Yet the means he used to teach us were . . . harsh.”

“I hate him,” Ash growls. His touch shifts ever so slightly, growing more protective as I speak. I doubt he even realizes it. I notice, however, and it soothes any lasting fear, any lingering pain from those memories.

“When we were each around seven or eight years old, he would take us down to the dungeon and lock us in a cell overnight. Then he’d leave us alone. To teach us how much we were required to sacrifice for our people.”

“He did that to you?” Ash growls a vicious curse, his hand in my hair clenching into a fist. “He locked you in adungeon? I will gladly accept any opportunity to kill that man.”

For some reason, I was afraid saying the words out loud would make my heart race, my blood pound, my lungs constrict. Instead, I feel nothing. Nothing but a calm acceptance. It is part of my story. A difficult part, but one I have come to terms with. One I have overcome.

“I have another secret to tell you,” I say, instead of responding to Ash’s death threats. “When I was sick, I heard you.”

His fist in my hair unclenches slightly. “Heard me?”

“You sang to me. A lullaby your mother sang to you. I didn’t know it was you at first, but when I did, it gave me the strength to keep going.”

“You heard me singing to you?” Ash props himself up, and even though it’s too dark to see, I can almostfeelthe way his brow furrows.

“You have a beautiful voice,” I say with a smile.

“Oh, well . . .” He scratches his neck, as though embarrassed. “Thank you. I . . . Stella, I was so terrified I was going to lose you.” He tilts my chin up, kisses my mouth. “I was so afraid you weren’t going to wake up.”

I kiss him back. “It’s your turn now.”

He lets out a gust of a sigh that stirs my hair. Contemplates. Then, in a voice as thick as the shadows around us, he whispers: “I didn’t always hate my father. And he didn’t always hate me.”

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