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“Mom!”

“I’m just saying,” she continues, undeterred, “for the first time, you’ve finally brought home a man who suits you.”

“I didn’t ‘bring him home,’” I protest. “He—He lives in the palace. He’s the king, Mom. He and I are not—He’s not interested in me, nor am I in him.” My voice trails off at the last part, and I wish I could sound more convincing.

“He stayed,” she adds pointedly, sitting down across from me. “To look after you. When was the last time anyone did that?”

I open my mouth to argue then close it again. She’s right, and we both know it. I have always chosen men who are not very confident, a bit shy and introverted. I was always able to control those relationships. I felt more secure in them.

But Griffin is different. He acts calm and is soft-spoken toward me, but he’s not meek, and he’s definitely not someone who will let me hold the reins in a relationship.

“He was just being nice,” I say finally, but the argument sounds weak even to my own ears.

Mom reaches over the table and takes my hand. “Maya, look at me.”

I do, reluctantly.

“I may not remember what I had for dinner two nights ago,” she says, her voice gentle but firm. “I may sometimes forget what year it is or call you by your aunt’s name. But I haven’t forgotten how to read people. That man cares for you. Deeply.”

I swallow hard, unable to look away from her clear gaze.

A sharp knock at the front door interrupts our conversation. Three rapid taps, then two slower ones. A pattern I would recognize anywhere.

My heart leaps into my throat.

“Are you expecting someone?” Mom asks, looking toward the living room.

“No, but I know who it is,” I say, already pushing back from the table. “I’ll get it.”

I move quickly through our small cottage, my pulse racing with anticipation. It can’t be—but it has to be. No one else knocks that way. When I reach the front door, I hesitate for just a fraction of a second, hand hovering over the knob. Then, I swing it open.

Leanna stands on our porch, her long, dark hair tied back and gleaming in the morning sun. Her brown eyes widen at the sight of me. For a suspended moment, we simply stare at each other.

“Maya,” she whispers, and her voice breaks on my name.

She launches herself forward, colliding with me so hard that I stumble back a step. Her arms wrap around me like steel bands, crushing me against her. I can feel her pregnant belly pressed between us, the firm roundness a testament to how much time has passed.

“You’re alive,” she says, her voice muffled against my shoulder. “You’re really alive.”

And then she’s crying, her entire body shaking, and I’m stunned into stillness. Leanna is here!

“I never stopped looking,” she gasps between sobs. “They all said you were dead. But I knew—I knew you were out there somewhere.”

Something inside me splinters at her words. The careful wall I’ve built around my emotions, the barrier that has allowed me to function since my escape, begins to crumble. My throat closes painfully.

“Leanna,” I manage, my own voice strangled.

“Seven months,” she continues, pulling back just enough to look at my face, her hands gripping my shoulders as if afraid I might vanish. “Almost seven months of searching. Cedric thought I was obsessed, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t give up on you.”

The first tear spills down my cheek, hot and sudden. Then another, and another, until I’m crying as hard as she is. All the emotion I’ve been suppressing—the terror of my captivity, the desperation of my escape, the disorienting unreality of finally being free—comes rushing out in a torrent I can no longer control.

I collapse against her, and we hold each other up. The tears are flowing for real now, all the tears I forced back during my captivity as I clung to the desperate need to be positive, to hold on to some dwindling hope.

“Thank you,” I choke out. “Thank you for not giving up on me. I knew you wouldn’t. I knew that if you were safe, you would keep looking for me.”

Her hand strokes my hair, a soothing, maternal gesture. “Of course. I would never give up on you.”

We stand like that in the cottage’s entryway, crying and clinging to each other, until my sobs begin to subside into hiccupping breaths. Leanna pulls back, wiping at her tear-streaked face with the back of her hand. Despite the redness around her eyes, she looks radiant. Pregnancy suits her, lending her skin a luminous quality.