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The lump grew, pressing up my throat. Swelled against the back of my skull then at the backs of my eyes, shoving tears forward. I trembled, fighting them back.
Stupid. This was so damn stupid. Every time we’d touched, every time we’d kissed, every time we’d fucked, we knew it would come to this. I’d have to go back to my world. He’d have to go back to his. I’d plan happy-ever-afters, and he’d pretend to live one.
No.
I refused to think of it that way, and I swore he wouldn’t, either.
“I’ll be okay, Shiraz. And you will be too.”
He let my hand drop. “With all due respect, Miss Fava, fuck the hell off.”
Good thing I had the hand back. Made it easier to ball it up, along with the other one, then drive both into the stubborn slabs of his chest. “With all due respect, get the fuck over yourself.” I stood my ground, despite the scary fire in his retaliating glower. “This is how it has to finish, Shiraz. What the hell did you expect? We don’t get to do Casablanca. We don’t get to do The Bridges of Madison County. Nobody gets to pass the Kleenex and rewind the playback so they can keep bawling for us—which means we don’t get to do it for ourselves.” Deep breath, deep breath. Wasn’t happening. I swallowed the goddamn lump and pushed on. “This kingdom needs a new fairytale, and you’re up in the casting rotation, buddy. And you’re going to do it right—with the woman who’s on her way here right now.”
He wheeled away. “Who had me tracked here!”
“Probably because she was worried about you?” I backed off that one as soon as his skeptical glare stabbed me. “All right, maybe not worried in the traditional sense of the word…”
Which meant Ambyr’s concern had started running to other things.
Things that would lead to me becoming that public skank now. And wouldn’t that be just dandy for so many aspects of both our lives. Him, having to stay and deal with the PR fallout—and Ambyr’s wrath. Me, having to confront the clown costume for months of kids’ birthday parties—and Ezra’s wrath.
Shiraz’s mind clearly hadn’t gotten that far. He dug hands into his hair, yanking it back from his Italian fresco face. His eyes glimmered with sharp cobalt pain. “This is not acceptable.”
My hands curled at my sides. I focused on the stabs of my fingernails into my palms to avoid rushing into his arms and kissing away his torment. “My prince of perfection, life rarely is acceptable.”
He pushed out a bitter chuff. “Make this easier. Just call me the prince of pricks.”
Here came the lump again. The pressure, too great now, knocking all the tears loose. “No. You’re the prince of my dreams.”
He locked his hands at the back of his head. As his arms flexed in flawless striations, his face crumpled in visible pain. “That helps even less, my princess.”
My princess.
He might as well have clocked me.
I actually wondered how I stayed upright instead of ass-down in the dirt, but thanked my feet for keeping it that way. The rest of my body sure as hell wasn’t helping. My extremities sizzled. My lungs pounded. My mind reeled.
My princess.
The echo didn’t make it any easier. I doubted a thousand echoes would. But the recognition of it brought at least one blessing in disguise. The acceptance, sudden and sure, of the most merciful response I could give him…before turning my back on him for the last time. God please, for the last time.
“Yeah, yeah. Fuck you too.”
