Page 117 of Heartbreak Prince

“Thank you.” It’s poor hospitality, but these people are suffering, living out their daily existence in the worst kind of uncertainty. They have no capacity to give me a warm welcome, or any comfort beyond a place to stay.

Grippin gets the fire going, then trudges out the door and pulls it shut behind him. I crouch on the dirt floor near the hearth and strip off my gloves, moaning with relief as warmth soaks into my chilled fingers. The carpet curves himself behind me, helping to confine the heat so I’ll get warm faster.

My body is trembling from hunger, so once I’ve thawed enough, I unsling my satchel and partake of the meager food I brought from the palace.

“If this place collapses in the night, will you save me?” I ask Severin.

“I will attempt it.”

“It’s good to know someone cares.”

The carpet makes a frustrated sound, so human that I twist around to glance at him.

“I was trying to tell you, before the cave-in,” he says. “The prince cares, Forsythia. When he was flying with you toward Anyssir Castle, when you were dying, he found that one of his fingernails could still hold a glyph, and he painted a healing symbol on it. He used it a few times throughout the journey.”

“Wait—” A hollow thrill passes through me, and my skin turns hot with the sudden realization. “That means he—”

“He gave his life energy to sustain you. Not just once—multiple times. He didn’t want you to know, but I think it’s important for you to understand that he spent it willingly, eagerly. He shortened his life for you, and he was happy to pay that price. You left because you wanted him to choose you… but he already did. He chose you over himself. Isn’t that enough?”

I release a hysterical half-sob, half-laugh. “You’re very opinionated, you know.”

“One of my best qualities.”

“It really is.” I sob again and swipe the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand. “I can’t go back to him right now—I would freeze to death on the way. I’ll get a little sleep, and we’ll return in the morning. I can put you in your case to rest, if you like.”

“I’ll rest on the floor,” says the carpet. “That way, if the ground collapses, I’ll be ready to scoop you up and fly out of here.”

I pull my gloves back on and curl up in front of the fire, still in my cloak and boots, with my satchel for a pillow. It’s difficult to settle down at first, knowing that the crack in the earth is just a few steps from the door of this cottage. But I’m one slender woman, lying still on the ground. As long as there’s no sudden, heavy impact, I should be all right.

Something wakes me.

At first I’m not sure what it is. A shift of the ground? The snap and crackle of the fire? The flames are burning low—I should add another log.

As I sit up, the sound comes again. A quiet footstep on the dirt floor of the cottage.

I whirl, fumbling for one of my knives, but my gloved fingers are clumsy and my cloak gets in the way. The invader seizes me by the throat and slams me against the wall so hard the entire cottage shakes. My head goes fuzzy, pain spearing through my skull.

“Severin,” I gasp.

He’s not in the house. He left me, or maybe this fellow did something to him.

“You abandoned her,” my attacker wails. “You left her there to die. You could have saved her.”

My shaken brain finally manages to identify him—the young husband who kept begging me to save his wife. He must have borrowed some heavy clothing, left the house the villagers put him in, and made his way here, seeking some kind of misplaced vengeance.

He’s out of his mind, crazed with grief. Maybe I would feel more sympathy for him if I could fucking breathe.

I wheeze two words in my defense through the compression of his fingers. “I—couldn’t—”

“You could have!” he bellows.

“No—time.”

“There was time!” He smashes me against the wall again, and an ominous vibration rolls through the ground beneath our feet.

“S-stop,” I whisper, but I have no more air for words. I dig in the folds of my cloak, hunting for my belt, for the hilts of my knives. Can’t seem to grasp them. Can’t breathe… can’t…

“She was mine,” sobs the man. “You should have gotten her out. You had the carpet.”