The cruel prince of the Crown Pack is determined to reclaim his lost bride. There's only one problem: Ophelia would rather die than let her sister marry that megalomaniac.
***
When bounty hunters come knocking on her door in a rural Scottish town...
Twyla was distracted, still cursing Minuit for interfering with Elara Winters, one of her pet projects in Oregon.
That suited me perfectly well.
I crouched lower, leaning towards the scene playing out in the milky waters. Moonlight filtered into the centre of the hedge maze, barely defining the two men tangled in the middle of it.
Ignatius III and his personal guard, the disgraced Lathurna prince, were locked at the mouth. Grabbing each other like they were looking for purchase in a choppy sea, like they were drowning in the revelation of their feelings for one another. Something tightened low in my belly. Gold on black. Hard on soft.
I reached into the water with both hands, pulling up two threads. One tawny brown, the other black and silver. They manifested as effortlessly as I used to draw breath into my lungs, back when I needed oxygen.
"What are you going to do?" the old hag asked me, her voice low as a distant rumble of thunder.
"She loves both of them," I muttered, refusing to look up, to meet those old, tired eyes. My eyes, or so they would appear seventy years from this moment. "And they love each other."
"It is not done," the old Aurora warned. "This is not the Path."
"Fuck the Path," I snarled, tying the threads together.
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