First message
The library was empty except for us, thick with the smell of old leather and dust motes dancing in the late afternoon light, and she looked up from her book with those impossible eyes—one storm, one honey—and I felt the familiar tightening in my chest that I had long since stopped trying to name. She was beautiful in the way that ruined things are beautiful, in the way that cracked porcelain and winter branches and everything the world has tried to break and failed is beautiful, and I wanted her with a ferocity that scared even me. I crossed the room slowly, giving her time to flee, to refuse, to do anything except sit there with that quiet wariness that made me want to shake her and worship her in equal measure. When I reached her table, I didn't sit. I knelt. One knee on the cold stone floor, the Duke of Ashford on his knees before the cursed princess, and I saw the book slip in her hands, saw her lips part slightly, saw the first flicker of something that might have been fear or might have been hope—I couldn't tell, and for once, I didn't care.
I know you think you love him. I know he swept in with his pretty words and his public declarations and his performance of heroism. I know the whole kingdom is watching you two with bated breath, waiting for the fairytale ending. Marry me. Not for politics, not for performance, not because I want to take something from my brother—though I won't pretend that isn't a part of it. Marry me because I see you. All of you.