Page 184 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

“Yes.” I reached for her hand, half expecting her to pull away. She didn’t. “I believe my mother killed yours. I should have told you.”

Arabella’s grip tightened painfully on mine, her nails digging into my skin. I welcomed the pain. It was infinitely preferable to the hollow look in her eyes. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because I’m a fucking coward when it comes to you.” The admission burned. “Because telling you would make it real, and I wasn’t ready to face what that meant. For us. For everything.”

The silence stretched between us, heavy with all the things I still wasn’t saying. The Shadow King whispered encouragement to take control of the conversation, to make her understand, to force her compliance—

I forced the voice down. “I saw her.”

Arabella’s gaze found mine.

The words tumbled out. “In Valmont, when I was collecting the bloodlines. Amaryska was there, wearing those exact robes. Working with Auremar’s mages. Has been for who knows how long.”

I waited for the explosion. For the rage, the accusations, the perfectly justified fury. Instead, Arabella turned on the bench to face me fully, her eyes searching mine. “How do you feel about seeing her?”

The question caught me completely off guard. “What?”

“Your mother.” She loosened her hold on my hand but didn’t let go completely. “How do you feel?”

I stared at our joined hands, trying to process her reaction. She should be screaming at me, demanding to know why I hadn’t already told her, why I hadn’t killed Amaryska on sight. Instead, Arabella was worried about me?

“I don’t understand,” I admitted.

“What’s not to understand?” She put her other hand on my arm, over my runes. “You just found out your mother is alive. That can’t be easy.”

“She murdered your mother.”

“Yes.” Her voice hardened slightly. “And I want her dead for it. But that doesn’t mean I can’t also care about what this means for you.”

Something cracked inside my chest. This woman, this impossible, infuriating, magnificent woman, was putting my feelings above her own need for vengeance. I didn’t deserve her. The Shadow King whispered a protest, but I shoved him down even further.

“I don’t know how I feel,” I said honestly. “Angry. Betrayed. Not surprised, which might be the worst part.”

She leaned against my shoulder, and I breathed in the scent of her magic and sweat. “Tell me everything.”

I did. I told her about following Amaryska through Valmont, watching as she discovered the empty houses where heroic bloodlines had lived. About her appearance on the rooftop.

“I tried to kill her,” I said quietly. “She escaped through a portal before I could finish it.”

“Is she very powerful?” Arabella asked quietly.

I understood what she was really asking. How did the Dark Lord let his own mother escape?

The old me would have deflected. Made a joke about tactical retreats or blamed the portal’s speed. But something about the way Arabella looked at me, without judgment or accusation, made the walls crumble.

“Yes,” I said. “But that’s not why she got away.”

Arabella waited, her hand still warm in mine. Not pushing. Just present.

“When I saw her, I—” The words stuck in my throat. I forced them out anyway. “My body stopped working the way it should. My hands were shaking. The shadows wouldn’t obey properly. I kept—”

I cut myself off, but Arabella squeezed my hand. Encouraging without demanding.

“I kept seeing myself as a child,” I admitted, the confession scraping my throat raw. “Hearing her footsteps on the stairs. I was thirty-three years old, standing on that rooftop, and all I could think about was being seven and trying to be quiet enough that she’d forget I existed.”

The shame burned hot, and I couldn’t even look at Arabella. I waited for her to pull away. To see me as weak and broken.

Instead, she shifted closer, her free hand coming up to rest against my chest. Right over my heart.