Brigid Kemmerer

I know exactly how she feels.”

The date of death hits me hard.

“There’s this verse I like,” he says. “ ‘The one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind.’ ”

My eyes narrow. “Are you quoting the Bible?”

“Yes.” He says this like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “You know what I like about it? I like how it makes doubt seem inevitable. It’s okay to be unsure.”

Are we all invisible to them?

“Corrick,” I say again, and his eyes close for a moment while he takes a long breath.

He’s Corrick. He’s always been Corrick.

“Please, my love,” Corrick whispers into my ear. “Please.”

“Hopefully we’ll be seated near each other. I’m eager to learn the truth.”

She’ll be seated with me.

I almost say it. I almost growl it. The words sit on the tip of my tongue, hot and possessive. But every syllable would sound petty and chauvinistic

I make a frustrated sound and throw my arms around his neck. “I hate you so much.”

He catches me, but lightly, his hands soft against my waist. “I’ve always told you that would work out for the best.”

pulls back, then pats my belly. “Dabriel said that babies make you feel like you’re seasick sometimes, so—”

“No!” I say quickly, and I practically shove the little girl’s hand away from my belly. “No, I’m not pregnant.”

Dabriel looks back at me, then arches an eyebrow. “There’s no little princeling in there?”

“Absolutely not! We never—he never—” My cheeks must be on fire, and I clench my jaw. “No. There is not.”

“Then why did you vomit on Rian?”

“Because I hate him.”