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I’d pushed my window up, the scrape of the window against its frame drawing her gaze. She’d smiled at me, then, and it was like a bolt of lightning straight to my chest. She told me her name, and I told her mine. I helped her drag three more little shrubs up onto the roof, fascinated. She told me they were roses, and they’d bloom this summer, if we were lucky.
I reached out to touch one, pricking my finger and wincing.
“Careful,” she said, grabbing my hand. “Roses have thorns.”
I watched in fascination as she pulled a clean, white handkerchief out of her dress pocket and wrapped it around my finger. I didn’t want it to end. At twelve years old, my heart had never beat so hard. I wanted her to hold my hand forever.
“Do you grow roses at home?”
Penelope shook her head. “It’s too cold where I’m from.” There was sadness in her eyes. “So this is my only chance.”
“Where are you from?” I asked, staring at her mouth and marveling at the softness of her skin. She was so delicate. So small. So, so perfect. I thought she was an angel.
“Nord,” she told me with a smile.
And we were friends.
That rooftop became our sanctuary. We’d steal moments there, staring at the stars, watching miniature rose bushes bud and bloom. We’d skip class together and run to the roof or climb over the schoolyard walls to explore the forest beyond. Gabriel was my friend, but Penelope was my everything.
As I stare at the Westhill Palace rose garden, it feels like all the blood has drained out of my heart. Like I’m so empty it hurts, but there’s nothing I can do to change it.
I thought business filled that void? I thought hostile takeovers made me feel alive?
Right now, it doesn’t seem so true.
Penelope left the day before the fire. Before my whole life changed. Before loneliness and scar tissue became my only companions. Reaching out, I brush my fingers over a rose petal. In the deep recesses of my mind, I remember how it felt to have Penelope’s fingers brush my palm. How her skin was as silken as this rose, how sweet she smelled when she rested her golden head on my shoulder.
“Careful,” a voice says behind me. Smooth and honeyed, but with a sharp edge that sounds unfamiliar. “Roses have thorns.”
Startled, I jump. My hand drops, snagging on a thorn. I wince as it pierces my skin, a drop of blood beading on my fingertip.
Spinning around, I see her.
Penelope, Queen of Nord.
Older. Colder—but here.
My lips part as my eyes widen. I let a drop of blood drip off my finger and fall into the earth. I don’t have the energy to worry about my bleeding finger, though, because all that matters is Penelope. Pen.
My first true friend. The girl I thought I loved. The girl who left.
Her hair is still blond, but it’s lost some of the whiteness it had during childhood. Now, it’s a true golden color, gleaming under the sun like a million gilded strands. Her lips are still soft and pink, but her eyes look different.
Haunted. Icy.
Curious.
My gaze drifts down her body, where a blue lace gown hugs every curve. She looks demure and regal and…delicious. Heat snakes through my stomach—a heat I haven’t felt in a long, long time.
“Pen,” I whisper, unable to say anything else.
She takes a step toward me, every movement measured. Every hair in place. Everything about her completely and utterly in control, when I feel like I’m falling apart at the sight of her. She lets her gaze drift down my body, taking in the slacks and white shirt that have become my uniform for the hunt. When her eyes climb back up to meet mine, there’s a new light shining in them. She dips her head. “Hello, Asher.”
3
Penelope
I haven’t seen Asher Gerhard in decades.
