"You will not suffer the fate of your mother."
The words cut through her screaming like a blade through silk.
The princess stopped. Not gradually— instantly. Her mouth was open. Her wail was still in her throat. But the sound died. The words— his words— had reached her. Through the grief. Through the memory. Through the ten years of screaming "MOTHER!" into pillows and sheets and empty rooms.
She looked up.
Her green eyes— wet, red, swollen, the lashes clumped— found his black ones. His face was above hers. She had not realized how close he was. When had he moved? When had he knelt? When had he come to her?
His hand moved.
It went to her arm. His fingers closed around her wrist. Not tightly. Not painfully. Firmly. The grip of a man who is holding something that is about to fall and who is catching it.
He pulled.
