Grim
He was ruler of Nightshade. Cronan’s heir. A warrior through and through—feeling had been trained right out of him.
But more than just the heat of her skin . . . he couldn’t forget her words.
You might not care about me anymore, but can you say the same for your people?
For centuries, everything he had endured had been for his realm’s survival. So his pain could somehow have a purpose.
Cronan had made it clear that he would destroy it all, for the simple reason that he could—and that it would make him more powerful. Grim didn’t want more power. He hadn’t wanted his own to begin with.
The only hope for his realm was to convince Cronan that his people, at least, were worth saving. And if he couldn’t, he’d have to kill his ancestor.
“You seem distracted,” Cronan said, peering at him as he sipped wine from his goblet. He could have easily pierced his mind with his shadows again, but he didn’t.
His ancestor feared him. Grim could tell. But why, when Cronan had such endless power?
Why had he taken the memories to begin with? It didn’t make any sense.
Unless he believed . . . that together . . . he and the Wildling could defeat him.
Grim blinked and saw Cronan awaiting a response.
Right. “Apologies,” Grim said, the word scraped out of him.
He bowed his head and schooled his features.
Cronan couldn’t know he was planning against him.
He offered a truth. “It’s been unsettling .
. . having so many of my memories gone. There are gaps I’ve been trying to fill in. ”
Cronan leaned back in his chair. “Don’t bother,” he said. “Your memories with the Wildling only made you weak. You’re much better without them.”
Grim nodded, but inside, he wondered if that was true.
Cronan continued to sip his wine, looking deep in thought. “In fact,” he continued, “if there’s anything else you’d like to forget, anything else that’s holding you back . . . I’d be happy to release you from any burdens.”
Grim’s hand turned into a fist below the table. As if he would ever willingly let his ancestor into his head again. Even if he was better off without his memories with the Wildling, it had been an invasion. The gap was unsettling.
Though . . . when he thought of moments he might want to be rid of .
. . he immediately thought of Laila, of his shadows slashing through her and her blood spilling onto the floor.
He had been haunted by that memory for practically his entire life.
What would it be like if it simply . . .
disappeared? Would he be stronger for it?
No. He wouldn’t erase Laila from his mind. That was the only place she still existed.
Besides. He knew how to erase memories too. Perhaps not as well as Cronan—he never did master mind abilities—but he was sufficient enough. And the thought had never crossed his mind before.
Especially when all this pain just made him stronger. It was useful.
But he didn’t say that to Cronan. No, he said, “Thank you. I’ll consider it.”
Like fuck he would.
Cronan hummed, pleased, watching as the attendants began bringing in plate after plate of dinner.
There were meats and vegetables and fruits Grim didn’t recognize.
He didn’t really care about the food, but he pretended to study them, if only to keep from speaking to his ancestor.
Still, Cronan didn’t stop. “And how’s it going with our prisoner?
Have you made any progress in trying to sway her to our side? ”
Our side. Grim almost laughed at that. But he’d have to continue this charade until he could guarantee the safety of his people.
In truth, Grim hadn’t spent a second of his time with the woman trying to convince her of anything. He was still trying to make sense of her, to understand what he had lost.
He ground his teeth, remembering the feel of her body pressed to his as she held a knife to his throat. He never thought the position would inspire any feeling other than rage.
But he’d had several other feelings. “She’s stubborn,” Grim muttered. Vague but not dishonest.
Cronan raised a brow. “Don’t tell me she’s bested even you.”
“Of course not,” Grim snapped. His blood heated with anger just thinking about her. “She’s emotional, and her love for me makes her vulnerable. She likes to put up a fight, but in the end, she’ll do whatever I say. She’ll be on our side any day now.”
Cronan laughed. And he could still hear the pleased sound of it when the lords filtered into the room and she sat next to him. He disagreed with his ancestor—she was the problem, not the solution. She definitely had to die.
But first, Grim still needed more information. She remembered everything he didn’t. Everything Cronan had taken from him. It was why he insisted on escorting her back to her cell after dinner.
It didn’t take her long to start speaking. “What about Wraith?” she asked.
Grim almost stumbled, hearing that name. He frowned at his own incompetence, at how she could so easily get through to him. She was the one he was leading to a cell, though sometimes he felt like he himself had been shackled. “What about him?” he demanded.
“So you remember him,” she said, almost to herself. She sounded relieved.
“Of course, I do,” he growled.
“Do you remember how you got him?” Her aura was dripping with curiosity. And hope.
What a ridiculous question. He—
Grim frowned. His mind was simply blank. As if his memory was a library that had partially been looted. Some books turned to ash. Missing. He wasn’t lying when he told Cronan how unsettling it was.
She filled in the gaps. Her voice was gentle. “I found him. We raised him. Together.”
Together. The word grated at him. There was no together with anyone. And certainly not with a Wildling. He was a ruler, above everything else, in a realm that had long split from the rest. The only being that had brought him any comfort at all was the one she dared speak about.
“My dragon will survive,” he said, pushing her forward.
“Will he?” Isla asked, looking back at him. She was wearing another ridiculous dress, this one with burgundy sleeves that draped off her shoulders. “What if Cronan decides he wants the dragon for himself?”
The thought of Cronan getting anywhere close to Wraith had his shadows sharpening into points. Isla noticed. She kept prodding, like any good warrior who had found a weak point. “Will you just stand aside while Cronan takes him?”
No. He wouldn’t. He knew that, but he didn’t say a word. It didn’t stop her from continuing.
“What if he decides he doesn’t need an heir at all? What if he uses you to help conquer our world and then kills you?”
“You are the one who kills me,” he spat. He shook his head, incredulous. “Are you that shameless? Trying to get me to work with you when we both have seen the future?”
“A future,” she breathed. “It’s not guaranteed.”
Grim huffed a cruel laugh. “So you’re half as likely to kill me. You think that makes me anything other than your enemy?”
Isla swallowed. There. She was silent for a few moments before saying, in a small voice, “When we first met, you planned to kill me.”
Grim didn’t react. It didn’t surprise him. He was planning on killing her now.
“But we fell in love. You . . . you changed your mind. You chose me, over the world. Over yourself.”
“And look where that got us,” he said, his voice cutting, as he turned the corner toward her cell.
Without a word, he pushed her inside. Slammed the door closed.
He should go back to the dinner. Back to Cronan.
But he couldn’t get himself to move. He still had so many questions.
It was not fascination with her, he told himself.
It was frustration at how little he remembered.
At how untethered he felt at the missing pieces in his mind, like something had been stolen from him.
Cronan told him that by taking his memories, he had set him free. Grim wondered if he had done the opposite.
Had Cronan taken more than just his memories with her? Or did those memories contain something vital?
He was tired of not knowing. Isla just stood there on the other side of the bars, staring at him, her emotions so strong he could practically taste them. Grim’s gazed dipped to the necklace she wore.
She was Wildling. It didn’t belong on her.
Before he knew what he was doing, he reached through the bars of the cell, grabbed the diamond around her neck, and pulled it toward him, bringing her face to his. “How did you get this?” he demanded, yanking, like he could rip it off her.
Eyes never leaving his, she said, “You gave it to me.”
Impossible. But . . . her emotions. They were steady.
He dropped the diamond in shock. It had to be a trick.
He took a step away from the bars, as if distance would give him clarity.
Around her . . . around her, he couldn’t fucking think straight.
If the curses weren’t long broken, he would have blamed it on her Wildling charms. And she didn’t have any powers here.
So, what was it? What was she doing to him?
Wait—now that he thought about it . . . he couldn’t remember how the curses were broken.
Had she broken them?
She laughed softly. “Did you ever wonder why this necklace can’t come off unless I die? Why he hasn’t just taken it, like everything else?”
Grim stood very still. He wasn’t breathing. He still couldn’t imagine why she wore it.
“How about the one around your neck? Have you tried to take it off?” she asked.
Grim frowned. He reached up . . . and found that a thin chain rested at the base of his neck. He had bathed several times here, but he hadn’t looked at himself in a mirror. He hadn’t even been himself.
No matter. His shadows engulfed the necklace to turn it to ash.
Nothing happened.
The realization crashed upon him like a tidal wave.
Isla took a step toward him, her gaze unrelenting. She leaned in close. She was far shorter than he was, yet she found a way to look down at him. “Hello, husband,” she whispered. She held out her hand, right through the bars, as if to shake his. “I’m your wife.”
No. No. He didn’t dare touch her.
“A Nightshade ruler has never taken a wife,” he yelled. She was foolish for thinking she could make him believe such a ridiculous idea. There had to be another explanation . . . another way . . .
“You did,” she said. She was gripping the bars now. Leaning as close to him as she could. “You chose me. From a line I was never meant to be in. You took me back to your room . . . and you kissed me.”
“I don’t kiss anyone,” he said, fiercely.
“You kissed me,” she said. And for some reason, he leaned toward her, as if pulled by an invisible tide.
She reached a hand through the bars to press against his chest. He was too shocked by all of this to stop her.
His skin prickled with awareness. “I stabbed you for it. Right here.” She gently tapped a spot just an inch short of his heart, and it sent a chill down his spine.
“I kissed you, and you stabbed me?” he growled, perplexed. She wasn’t making any sense. And why was he listening to her anyway? Why was he letting her touch him?
She only nodded. “Look.”
Warily, he pulled down his shirt, if only to call her a liar. But there, right where she had pressed, was a scar. One that he should have erased by now, like he had erased all others.
Why would he have kept this one? It made no sense.
She must have seen the confusion on his face, because she said, “You told me later it was a reminder of me.”
He shook his head. Enough. Cronan was right. These memories were shameful. “I am not a weak fool you can trick again.”
“Love does not make you weak,” she said. “It made us stronger.”
“Yeah?” He sneered, gesturing at the cell behind her. “How do you explain this, then? You’re a prisoner.”
Her mouth turned up into a smile that leveled him like a scythe. “No. You’re the prisoner,” she said, leaning close, her breath hot against his mouth. “And I’m going to break you out.”