by Laura Kenyon
Dawn didn’t know what to say. She’d been staring at all those dots for days, trying to figure out how they played into Ruby’s theory. Hunter had connected them in a matter of seconds.
“Hunter, please. I—”
“Just tell me one thing,” he said, swaying a little though not from the alcohol. “Was any of it real? If the kiss didn’t break your curse and you only married me out of perceived obligation, was any of it ever real? Was there ever a time when you loved me at all?”
Dawn was on her feet and across the room in seconds. She grabbed hold of his hands and fell to her knees spouting all sorts of assurances that she had loved him … that she did love him … that she’d been blind and selfish and she was determined to do everything in her power to prove that she’d changed going forward.
“Stop it,” he said, pulling her back onto her feet. He pressed his lips together as the skin around his eyes turned red. “This isn’t a movie. And it’s not a fairy tale either. There’s no grand gesture that can make everything right again, and no criminal mastermind whose defeat is going to undo what you did. The only thing that’s going to fix us is you loving me, for real. You realizing that you truly want to be in this marriage, in this time, with me. But I can’t make you do that. There’s nothing in this world that can make you do that. Not Angus. Not Selladóre. Not even the kids. You have to decide that on your own, and you have to be sure. If you don’t think you can do that, please—”
“Hunter,” she said, pulling his hands to her heart. He forced himself to look at her eyes, as if he knew the truth wouldn’t come from her mouth. “I’ve already decided. And I’m already sure. I feel like I’ve lived the last decade entirely in the past, and you’ve lived it in the future. But more than anything, I want us to both be in the present now, together. I know I can’t get the last eleven years back, but I don’t want to squander whatever we have left.”
Dawn felt his hands soften between hers. He took a long, deep breath and exhaled. She could see the tension melt from his body as the air passed his lips and traveled elsewhere.
“There’s one more thing you need to know,” she said, hating herself for ruining this moment. “I found Elmina today. She thinks that when my curse broke, all of the magic that would normally have gone back to Jacara—that’s the fairy who tried to kill me—actually found its way to someone else.”
Hunter’s eyes swam inside hers. “Someone else like whom?”
Dawn released his hands and clapped her own against her chest. “She can’t say for sure. Ordinarily spells don’t outlive their casters but … well, with Angus being right there that day and having access to all those charms … it’s possible he found a way to contain it.”
Hunter looked confused, possibly even a little amused at the audacity of it all. “Absorb it? Eleven years ago? But if that happened, why haven’t we seen him turn a political rival into a frog or raze any buildings with his bare hands? The worst he’s done is manipulate Parliament into extending his term limit. What would even happen if he absorbed it?”
“Well,” she said, struggling to find the right words. “Elmina couldn’t say whether or not he did. But if he did—or if anyone did—it could be devastating. Jacara was the most powerful fairy she’d ever seen, apparently. And that was three hundred years ago, when every fairy was more powerful than any today.”
“Dawn,” Hunter said, placing both hands on her shoulders and bending down so their eyes were on the exact same level. “You’re skirting the question. What might happen?”
She took a deep breath, pulled in her cheeks, and shook her head. Then she dropped her face and started to cry. A few seconds later, she felt her legs moving toward the couch, the cushions press against her back, and Hunter’s body lean into her side. Her heart pounded as he took the base of her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and moved it gently towards him.
“Dawn,” Hunter said, taking her hand and lacing her fingers between his. “Tell me.”
So she did. And as he wrapped his arms around her like a metaphysical seatbelt and swore he’d stop at nothing to make sure she and their children were safe . . . as he told her his company and his pride and even the realm meant nothing to him if he lost his family . . . she felt their ceasefire settle into permanence.
Chapter Twenty
RAPUNZEL
The feeling hit her like a two-ton freight train on a faulty track: Home. As soon as that door opened, Rapunzel was a child again—clopping down the hallway in Grethel’s oversized slippers, reading beneath the bow window in the corner, and coloring all over the driftwood coffee table Grethel was so inexplicably fond of. The giant sea glass bowl still sat smack in the center, though it now held twine balls instead of candy, and the hearth still had that one disproportionate rock that stuck out an extra two inches and had given her more stubbed toes than she could count.
For a moment, she forgot all about Ethan, Belle, Rye, Cinderella, and even the brooding shadow looming behind her. Being in that house again, after ten-plus years in another world, was all-encompassing.
“Is she there?” Donner asked, as if his eyes and ears weren’t twelve inches behind her own.
Rapunzel scowled but didn’t answer. After that speech in the stairwell, she wasn’t too interested in engaging him further. Plus, she was too busy reconciling this beautiful, transitional space with the cluttered, kaleidoscopic fortress of her memory.
At her feet, a woven jute rug spread out across the entry, which she knew opened straight up to the coastal-themed living room and an eat-in kitchen with stainless steel appliances and a wide, butcher block island. But rather than being buried beneath a chaotic mess of color—sweatshirts strewn over the couch, books doubling as tablecloths, drawers yanked open and their contents spewed all over the floor, spaghetti-crusted dishes soaking in the sink—the place was spotless. The underlying palette of soft gray, dusty blue, and avocado green had always been there, but was no longer relegated to the background. The whole place looked like the cover of a home design magazine. Without Rapunzel, this place had gone from fleabag hotel to the Waldorf Plaza. She hadn’t realized how disruptive her presence had been in Grethel’s life.
She flinched as Donner cleared his throat … twice.
“Where’s the cauldron?” he asked before eyeing the half-landing staircase at the far end of the hall, between the powder room and the kitchen. “Wait. This place has more than one level?”
“It has four,” Rapunzel answered, feeling a slight flow of pride followed by a strong wave of guilt. No doubt, he’d envisioned Grethel as a dreary, pockmarked, villainous old hag who lived in a one-room dungeon with animal carcasses pinned to the walls and shelves full of pickled eyeballs. It was a common misperception, but it was a misperception she’d never bothered to change—either because she was angry at Grethel or because her whole “survivor” image held a lot more water when people envisioned the worst.
But in truth, the tower in which she’d grown up was just like any other picture-perfect suburban home—just taller, skinnier, and with a more unique exterior. If memory served her right, she and Donner were standing directly below her bedroom, which shared the second floor with a playroom and a bathroom with a ten-jet drop-in tub, perfect for candlelit bubble baths and a good book. Above that, another flight of stairs led to Grethel’s ensuite master and a mysterious room she referred to as her “office” and always kept locked. The hand-scrawled sign on the door said it was strictly off limits “to everyone but Grethel.” For years, Rapunzel was tempted to cross out the last three words and write in her name, but Grethel had a tendency to fly off the handle when she thought her quasi-daughter was unsatisfied. So after trying everything she could think of to pick the lock, she eventually let it go.
Instead, whenever she got lonely or curious about the friends she read about in her storybooks, Rapunzel went to the open-air garden on the very top floor. The flowers that bloomed there were always in season, the air was easier to breathe, and the views were spe
ctacular. This was where she was when Ethan spotted her all those years ago. It was where she let down her magical hair extensions (thanks to a special birthday gift from Grethel) and hauled him up. It was where he sat and told her that the turquoise blue water surrounding her island didn’t stop at the horizon like Grethel said it did. It stretched on … lapping against the shores of a hundred other kingdoms, all of which connected to hundreds more from there. So much had changed since that revelation.
“Grethel?” she finally called, venturing into the living room. She ran her hand along an avocado throw pillow and tried again. No answer. Half a second later, Donner clomped over the threshold with a sigh, popped his massive frame onto the couch, and thrust his muddy feet onto the table.
“Maybe you should let Ethan know how to get up here,” he said, linking his hands behind his head. “You don’t want him thinking we ran away together and left him. Poor guy’s been through enough already.”
“Stop it,” she commanded, smacking his shoes off the table and continuing on to the bookshelf. She knew better than to engage him but couldn’t bite her tongue completely. “You seriously need to stop talking about Ethan and me like you know anything about what's going on between us. Whatever that little speech was in the stairwell… I don't ever want to hear it again. The day I take relationship advice from you is the day I voluntarily get fitted for a chastity belt.”
“As opposed to involuntarily?” One side of his mouth rose as he pulled a silver flask from his pocket but paused upon spotting a glass decanter on the mantel. He tucked the flask back into his pants. “Is that a concern of yours?”
If Rapunzel’s temple had a trigger, she would have shot bullets at him through her eyes. Donner ignored this and got up to inspect the decanter further. It must have met his approval, because after swishing the amber-colored beneath his nose, he poured two glasses and returned to the couch, knocking two throw pillows to the floor in the process.
“Have it your way,” he said, setting the extra glass down on the coffee table. “Go ahead and do whatever you think is going to make you happy, and if you realize it was the wrong choice a few years from now … well, there's always booze."
The rage started in her toes, then shot all the way up her spine and into her eyeballs. Rapunzel’s fists clenched. Her insides seemed to leap forward while her feet remained firmly planted to the floor. Then she felt it: the unshakeable and unmistakable sense of déjà vu, as if she’d felt the exact same rage standing in the exact same spot years ago. Only the vitriol hadn’t been directed at Donner; it had been aimed squarely at Grethel.
Suddenly, her head felt woozy. Her insides felt queasy. This sudden propensity for nausea was really beginning to cramp her style. She needed to sit down.
“You know what?” she said, grabbing the second glass and plummeting into the armchair opposite the couch. “Fine. We’re in the tower. Grethel’s obviously out somewhere. We've got time to kill, so enlighten me. What warped philosophical advice is lurking behind the ethical black hole that is King Donner Wickenham's brain?”
His left eyebrow rose in surprise. “Really?” they seemed to ask without help from his mouth. Then he uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, and rested both elbows on his knees. His eyes panned up to the bracelet wrapped around her wrist—the one she’d stolen from his personal effects. "Like I said before,” he began, “I don't know what he did to make you angry but—"
“So what makes you think you’re qualified to analyze it?”
He tightened his lips and ignored her question. “I don’t know what he did, but I know you want to punish him for it because you can’t delineate between an understandable slip and calculated betrayal."
Rapunzel took a swig from her glass, then shook off the sting. Grethel always did like her liquor. “That’s ridiculous,” she spat back. “I don't want to punish him. Just like I don't want to shave my legs every day but, you know, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
Donner shook his head and tipped back his glass, watching her through the bottom but not saying a word. After draining it, he got up to pour some more.
“I think it’s one per customer,” Rapunzel muttered.
Donner raised an eyebrow as the liquid streamed out, then justified his thievery by explaining that he was a widely recognized whiskey connoisseur—so much so, that Perdemi-Divan had started sending him a batch of their bestselling concoction every month, just as a token of respect.
“Just a thought,” Rapunzel replied, “but excessive alcohol consumption while cursed might not be something to brag about. Definitely not an opening line at your trial.”
Donner’s glass descended as he gave her a disparaging look. “I’ve barely touched the stuff since Friday.”
Rapunzel laughed. “Right. So that silver flask in your pocket is full of apple juice?”
His eyebrows dropped a good inch and conjoined in the middle. “An old habit. I relied on it too much after Belle decided to open that damn hotel, but nothing’s passed my lips since I left Marestam. I guess I can handle fleeing the law sober, but listening to your bullshit is where I draw the line. That poor sap out there deserves a medal for putting up with you as long as he has. You don’t even realize how screwed up you are.”
Rapunzel’s legs swung forward as her body lurched to the edge of her chair. “Screwed up? Only in the eyes of a chauvinist!”
Donner’s glass paused inches from his frown. “Or perhaps only a chauvinist in your eyes.” He shrugged and took a contemplative sip. Then he put the decanter down and started circling the room—peering into each painting, pulling on the spines of random books, peeking out the window. “You’re so far deep in your own propaganda that you don’t even realize you’ve lost control.”
“My propaganda?” Her voice hit a note she’d never heard before. “That’s absurd. What are you even trying to—”
“Rapunzel Delmonico, so wild and free.” He let out a sarcastic pop of laughter. “You act like you’re this completely autonomous, independent female force, not caring what anything else thinks. “But you aren’t even calling your own shots right now. Your image is. You’re punishing that poor guy and holding him at arm’s length because that’s what she’s told other women—like my wife—to do.”
Rapunzel forced a laugh, settled back into her chair, and crossed her legs. Then she uncrossed them. Then she spun his bracelet around her wrist and folded her arms. “You’re delusional,” she finally said.
“Am I? One single mistake is grounds for execution, right? I mean, so long as the perpetrator is male. And now you're trying to go by your own damaged advice because you think doing otherwise would be hypocritical.” He paused. Rapunzel wondered if he could hear her heartbeat as well as she could. “Even though in reality that makes you the biggest hypocrite of them all."
Rapunzel didn’t know what to address first—the fact that Donner had just spoken with such eloquence and insight about human emotion, or the fact that he’d just called her a hypocrite. She grabbed hold of the latter while struggling to ignore the scores of butterflies swarming just beneath her skin.
“Male or female, I’m standing by my beliefs that no one should betray the person who trusts them the most,” she barked back, as if she really needed to justify herself to Donner Wickenham. “So yeah, I put up a wall. But that’s the smart thing to do. Right now it’s a lie—and I even understand why he told it—but how do I know that’s the whole disease and not just of a million other symptoms? How do I know that five years from now, I won’t be holding a positive pregnancy test the same day I find someone else’s red underwear under his nightstand?”
Her words barreled down and then dropped like a horde of rocks over a bottomless gorge. In the ensuing silence, her chest heaved and Donner tried to break the floor with his eyes. After a full minute, Rapunzel noticed his jaw moving, ever so slightly, as if he was mashing something tiny between his teeth.
Finally, he pulled out a coaster, set his glass on the table, an
d returned to the couch. "He wouldn’t do that."
Rapunzel stretched forward in her chair, staring him down like a tigress waiting by the watering hole. "How do you know?"
Just then, something in Donner's eyes flickered. There was a war raging behind them, but not like before. His bottom lip opened, then closed just as quickly. He sat back. "Because if that’s the sort of relationship you had, he wouldn’t have come here. Even an ethically hollow chauvinist like me can see that there's something a heck of a lot stronger than a wedding ring holding you together." He pushed his head back, letting it rest on the back of the couch. "Your relationship is nothing like mine and Belle’s.”
Rapunzel sealed her lips and looked toward the window. The sky had a faint, pink glow to it now. She wanted Ethan to walk through the door soon, before it got dark.
"We were never friends,” he continued. “We never joked with each other or challenged each other. What she said at Letitia’s party that night was true. I was a mess when she came to the castle—inside and out. I needed a savior, and she was so pretty and sweet and patient. And then she saved my life. Of course I fell in love with her. But there’s a difference between true love and truly loving someone. She was the wife and I was the husband. And despite what you want to believe, I was a good husband for the first few years. But we were never close. Everything was always ‘fine’ with her—even when I knew it wasn’t. If she didn’t like something I was doing, or buying, or saying, she never said a word. Of course I thought that was great in the beginning—"
"Ha, sure,” Rapunzel scoffed. “Beautiful and obedient and with no opinions of her own? Sounds like every man’s dream girl.”
"God, not even close." Donner rose to his feet and sliced his hand through his hair. "Do you know how many times I saw my own wife without makeup on? I can count them on one hand. Do you know how often she let me comfort her or how many times it was her idea to make love—and I don’t mean while she was ovulating? Do you have any idea how depressing it is to live with someone who’s disappointed by everything you do but too polite to say a single word about it?”
