Page 34 of Not Another Happily Ever After

I stare blankly up at the burly man, the realization hitting me far later than it should. My cheeks flush with shame as I try to smooth the many wrinkles from my mussed up dress. “My deepest apologies. I?—”

The knights snap to attention as Frog strides toward us, my father at his side.

I rush to bow, cursing as my unkempt hair falls free from the last of its pins.

“Sunday.”

“Father,” I reply in earnest, awaiting his approval to stand.

What follows is a painful, lingering silence.

Tears threaten to breach the surface when he orders, “See it done.”

I close my eyes, then nod.

I listen to his heels turn in the gravel, my knees wavering as he walks away. He’s nearly to the castle when he stops. Hope flutters in my chest.

“For the realm,” he calls.

“For the realm,” the men all repeat.

I blink. Once. Twice. “For the realm.”

For the realm.

That’s it? The back of my nose burns, dripping with salty tears that have finally slipped free onto the wet gravel. I shouldn’t be surprised by Father’s lack of sentiment. Or by the fact that Mother didn’t even bother to show. She’s no doubt still passed out drunk from last night’s dinner party.

And yet, it hurts.

Thishurts.

I let the fire in my chest heat my cheeks, scorching the trails left behind by my tears. I refuse to leave this place with one less piece of myself, I vow, disregarding the pity in Myrrdin’s glistening eyes as I take his hand and step into the carriage.

I do not need his, or anyone else’s.

This is not where the love in my heart dies.

Chapter

13

I vow to lead her far from this place.

To protect her heart from all who aim to break it.

But give it away, I cannot.

Iwish I would have been afforded the time to bathe before being promptly removed from the premises.

There’s no covering the less than dignified huff as I sink into the age-worn bench of the carriage.Of all the finery people thought to sew together, how has no one created pants for women?I have tried to smooth the same spot in my skirts at least half a dozen times now, to no avail. It’s an utterly useless expenditure of my time, especially given I spent the other half bent nearly in half.

A frigid wind whips through my hair, tussling the tulle of my skirts. My nose crinkles at the smell of dried blood and sweat clinging to the tattered remains of the gifted gown I sorely regret ever putting on.

Great. I not only look like death’s bride, I smell like her too.

“You’re running on borrowed time.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the images from last night out of my head.