And now Mal discovered that Aurora had somehow kept them apart for years. Three years of solitude. Three years of heart sickness. Three years of living in darkness and wanting—begging—to be swallowed whole by it. Meanwhile, Phillip had been hearty and whole—and with her, the pritch.
War. It was going to be war. And Mal would delight in burning the castle and its pritch to the ground.
The forest stirred with her fury. Mal's presence made the air hum. The flora shied away from her path, bending backwards as though afraid to touch the searing heat of her rage. Her fists were clenched at her sides. Her claws bit into her palms. Herskin burned with the need for vengeance. But just as the heat ignited, she felt a cool touch on her forearm.
His touch.
It had always instantly cooled her anger, while at the same time igniting a different kind of heat within her—a slow, smoldering warmth that took root deep in her chest. Mal came to a shaky stop, her breath catching as she let the familiar sensation of him wash over her.
It had been so long since she'd been touched. So long since she'd let herself be touched. So long since she admitted that she needed affection.
And then the worst thing happened.
It started to rain.
The rain only touched the corners of her eyes. It pooled there before trailing down her cheeks. Then it fell in thin lines to her chin.
Mal never cried. She hadn’t shed a tear since the day Phillip had disappeared from her world. That day was always hazy in her mind, a blur of confusion and numbness. But the loss—that soul-deep ache—had been real. It had haunted her every day since, hollowing her out from the inside.
But now, as if the grief had never existed, that crushing weight lifted from her chest. Because Phillip—her Phillip—was standing here, alive. His hands were on her, wiping away her tears.
“How?” Her voice cracked, and she had to try again. "How is this possible?"
The warmth of his hands sent shivers through her. With the realization of what his presence meant, a new wave of emotions surged to the surface—anger, confusion, disbelief. She yanked her hands free, slapping his touch away with a sharp sting.
"How could you do this to me? Where have you been? How are you alive?"
Phillip only grinned, the corners of his mouth curling in that same maddening, boyish way that had always infuriated her—and enchanted her. "There’s my fire. How I missed that temper."
"Don’t you dare," Mal hissed.
He reached for her again. Every rational part of her screamed to pull away. But her body betrayed her.
She went to him. How could she not? He was right here, standing before her, solid and real. The yearning she’d buried deep in her heart surged forward like a wave crashing on the shore.
But not without consequences.
She punched him in the chest, hard enough to make her knuckles protest. Phillip didn’t even grunt. His grin widened as if the hit had been expected, even welcomed.
"How could you pretend to die?" she sobbed, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions. "How could you leave me like that?"
"I would never die without telling you first." Phillip cupped her face again, brushing his thumb over her cheek softly. So softly, as if she might shatter beneath his touch.
Doran stepped out of the shadows, his presence steady and calm as always. "Neither of you were dead. You were both under a curse. It appeared you could no longer see or hear each other. Or even hear about each other. Everyone else could see you—hear you—but when I tried to speak of Phillip to you, it was as if the words were swallowed whole. And the same happened when I spoke of you to Phillip."
The pieces of the puzzle fell into place. The strange, muffled words, the hazy memories, the inexplicable emptiness that had gnawed at her heart for years—all of it made sense now.
"It was Aurora. She did this."
"Aurora?" Phillip screwed his brows. "She's human. She doesn't have any power."
"Don’t you dare defend her," Mal snapped like a blade embedding itself in a chest cavity.
"I’m not defending her. I’m telling you, she couldn’t have done this. Rory doesn’t have any power."
"Convenient excuse."
Phillip took a step closer, his voice low and patient, though it was edged with weariness. "The last time anyone saw a Fairy Godmother was at the sea princess Ariel’s sixteenth birthday—years before our curse could've happened."
