Page 3 of Not Another Happily Ever After

The cuts, grisly as they are, are small. There shouldn’t be this much blood. I’ve climbed to that window hundreds of times.

It shouldn’t be this hard to breathe. My lungs are burning for more air than I can take in with a single breath. And the room, it’s— spinning?

Something is very wrong.

I try to hasten my descent, but my grip on the cold stone grows weaker with every ragged breath that passes between my weary lips.

I chance a look down, only to regret it immediately. The hundreds of black and white squares of the floor are little more than a whirling blur. And to make matters worse?

Standing at its violent center is the King. The unmistakable fury in his lilac-blue eyes is the last thing I see before I fall into his arms.

Chapter

2

The tower walls are weathered and Barren,

but her scent refuses to fade.

Cold rain and forgotten tea. Home.

It’s not the first time I’ve woken up in the rot-riddled infirmary. Probably won’t be the last.

Though I’ve grown accustomed to the smell of decay, the way the warped shelves hang over me, barely secured to the crumbling walls, I can’t help but shudder beneath the pontiff’s touch. Cold and calculating. Meticulous in its study. I wonder if this time, he’ll finally voice what has been years in the making.

Whatever it is that afflicts me, it’s getting worse.

My fingers are the first to move, groping for the ruby red ribbon that hides the jagged groove carved into my neck, its faded pink line once all that stood between me and death. But no covering could curb the gnawing guilt burning behind my eyes.

At least my tears are now easier to swallow. It’s keeping them down that I struggle with. My stomach churns and I curl my fingers around the ribbon, the dizzying reminder of what may very well be my greatest failure.

“Princess?”

I drop my hand, lifting my head off the pillow enough to find the pontiff’s lengthy form standing at the foot of my cot. Alone.

I exhale a relieved smile. “Good morning, Gally.” The hall behind him is darker than usual. All the daylight lanterns used to mimic sunlight have been blown out. I must have been asleep for a while. “Or evening. I suppose.”

The creases between his bushy gray brows deepen over a faint scowl. One would think after almost twenty-one years of knowing each other, the nickname would be appreciated.

“You’re running on borrowed time, my Princess.”

Guess not.

I sit up, letting the thin bed sheets pool around my waist. “So you heard about Mother’s book, huh?”

Galahand blinks in response, immune to my twisted sense of humor.

I fall back onto the thin downy pillow with a heavy sigh.Why did I think this year would be any different?

“I know.I know. The fainting spells are getting worse. Just as they do every year around my birthday.”

Though I am surprised to find that muscles unaffected by my fall are sore. There’s an ache in them like never before, reaching the pit of my bones. Then again, I didn’t collapse intoanyman’s arms. I fell into the King’s. And if there’s one thing my father is not, it’s soft.

I rub my muscles, avoiding the nasty blue and black bruises lining the backs of my arms. When Galahand clears his throat, stepping around the simple straw pallet I’ve been laid out on.

“I fear this one may be your last.”

“My last what?” I ask blankly.