Page 56 of Prince of Wrath

“Are you sure?” Tired of my questions, she kisses me again. If only she knew how many days I have spent imagining this very moment. Lifting her into my arms, I am careful of the healing bruise around her neck and carry her upstairs while she keeps her face tucked against my throat, breathing against my skin. At the bedroom door, I hesitate because I have imagined bringing her here a thousand ways, and none of them involved the kind of fear she had to endure tonight. Once inside, I set her gently on her feet.

“Ella…” She looks up. “There’s still something I need to tell you.” She tilts her head as my heart jumps from the top of a mountain. “I’ve spent weeks thinking about the right speech, the right ring, but…” I smile despite myself. “Sweetheart, I don’t have any of those on me tonight, but…I feel like there will never be a better moment than this one.” Kneeling, I catch her hips in my calloused palms. I am about to ask her the question when she points at me.

“Husband,” she signs, then points at herself. “Wife.” So I was not the only one thinking about marriage.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” I murmur. “I can’t imagine us any other way,” I confess, taking in the weight of this word on my shoulders. “Would you do me the honor, Ella?” I ask. “Will you become my wife?” She bites her lip, her eyes shining with tears as she nods several times, then covers her mouth, her little brows frowning in that adorable way. Overwhelmed but happy. Catching her hand, I kiss the knuckles of her wedding finger, then rise. Cupping her face, she leans into my touch, awakening currents of electricity through my entire body.

“I will ask you properly,” I promise. “With a proper ring, and flowers, and…” She cuts me off, rising onto her toes and crushing her lips to mine, devouring me just as much as I am devouring her, our bodies lighting up to the monumental step we are taking tonight. And I tell her, “I,” then bite her lip, “love,” then kiss her jaw, “you,” trailing my lips along her throat, then her collarbone, and into territories that are becoming my favorite place on this earth. Carefully, constantly checking on her, reading her lips and body language and signing, we make it to our bed and to kingdoms we have not explored before, discovering together mountains and rivers and sensations I will never get tired of coming back to.

Outside, it’s still dark as we take our time, learning each other in this whole new way. And when she looks at me, unsure and vulnerable, her cheeks deliciously pink, panting, I tell her how much I love her, how proud I am to be hers, how safe she is now and how loved she will always be.

Later, with the shy morning light peeking through the massive windows of our bedroom, she rests against my chest, fighting off sleep. I kiss the top of her head, running my fingers along her back. “I love you, Ella.” I smile even though she is almost fast asleep. “Now.” I kiss her hair again. “And forever.” I lie awake listening to the rhythm of her breathing. One day, the mark on her shoulder will become a blue butterfly. The nightmares will visit less often. Perhaps years from now, we will sit in this very room surrounded by photographs above the dresser, holiday memories, newborn pictures, objects she will have collected, ordinary evidence of a life we fought like hell to create.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” I murmur, kissing her forehead as she snuggles closer to me. To think that, at some point in my existence, I believed the limits of my life ended at the heights of the skyscrapers outside my office.

If only I had known.

There, hidden in plain sight, she was waiting for us to find each other.

She was just there…all along.

My silent princess.

My Ella.

Epilogue

One year later

Ella

“Don’t.”

“There are too many, Ella. I’m not keeping another one.” His words arrive with a long-suffering sigh that suggests my husband has reached the limit of his patience. However, experience has taught me that Tristan’s tolerance stretches considerably farther than he likes to admit. I used to collect ribbons, but ever since moving in together a year ago, I have come to enjoy diversifying my hobby, hence the few, very few, adorable colorful cushions I have found to decorate our bed. Even now, fancy things and luxury items do not appeal to me. I still love small things. Teacups. Notebooks. Dried flowers. And, well…cushions.

We’re standing at the foot of our bed while the last traces of twilight slip beyond the windows, leaving the room bathed in the amber glow of the bedside lamps. Between us towers what Tristan insists on calling a mountain of pillows. I’ll admit, the house has changed over the past year.

Books have multiplied until they occupy nearly every shelf. Historical ones are now standing next to contemporary romances and classic English literature. Framed photographs of us now cover the once-empty space above the fireplace, replacing the blank wall Tristan stared at on the night everything changed. My favorite is the black-and-white one from our wedding day. A simple, small gathering. Dad made it in his wheelchair with his nurse beside him, and he still walked me to Tristan while Maddie scattered rose petals in front of us. I cried so many tears of joy that day. And I never get tired of looking at our wedding rings, especially when Tristan is in a suit, on a call, pacing the kitchen before work, looking so cold and broody and masculine, while there, on his finger, sits a piece of me for him to see every day.

His house has slowly become ours. Unfortunately for him, our definitions of negative space aren't similar, so finding balance between his minimalist ways and my desire to add color to our life, inside and out, remains a constant negotiation. But I guess that’s what marriage is all about. Compromise. And at the end of the day, we’re always willing to make it work.

“You’re exaggerating,” I sign with complete innocence. His gaze moves from me to the bed, then slowly back to me.

“Am I?”

“Yes,” I say silently.

“Twelve, sweetheart. There are twelve pillows on this bed. Six weeks ago, there were only six, which was already enough.”

“You counted them?” I frown dramatically.

“Of course,” he replies, folding his arms with the smug satisfaction of a man who thinks he is winning the argument. “I had to. They keep appearing.”

“I was just thrifting, and…”

“Thrifting?” He pauses, closing his hands into fists, then continues, “For the love of God, Ella, what did I tell you about using the Amex?”

“I’m trying,” I sign quickly, “but it feels like indulging, and it doesn’t feel right…”