Brigid Kemmerer

I know exactly how she feels.”

The date of death hits me hard.

Leica girl—she was a Nikon devotee, which I inherited.

“Hopefully we’ll be seated near each other. I’m eager to learn the truth.”

She’ll be seated with me.

I almost say it. I almost growl it. The words sit on the tip of my tongue, hot and possessive. But every syllable would sound petty and chauvinistic

I make a frustrated sound and throw my arms around his neck. “I hate you so much.”

He catches me, but lightly, his hands soft against my waist. “I’ve always told you that would work out for the best.”

pulls back, then pats my belly. “Dabriel said that babies make you feel like you’re seasick sometimes, so—”

“No!” I say quickly, and I practically shove the little girl’s hand away from my belly. “No, I’m not pregnant.”

Dabriel looks back at me, then arches an eyebrow. “There’s no little princeling in there?”

“Absolutely not! We never—he never—” My cheeks must be on fire, and I clench my jaw. “No. There is not.”

“Then why did you vomit on Rian?”

“Because I hate him.”