Book 17: How It Went Down

Posey

“I don’t think I understand.” I set the letter down and turn to Aris, who’s leaning against the hearth in our bedroom. “My father wrote this?”

“It’s his blessing.” He crouches, inspecting the fire with a poker.

I resist the urge to crumple the letter but set it neatly on the bed instead. “In what world did you think I needed or wanted his blessing?”

“It was not my idea, trust me.”

Aris returned minutes ago from Sapphire Ridge. When he mentioned he’d fix this, I hadn’t realized he meant now, as soon as possible, slipping away in the quiet hours of the morning, leaving me wondering where the hell he was and why.

I spent the morning in the kitchen, mostly playing with the fawn that we’ve taken to calling “Darling,” mostly because Aris calls her that