(GRIFFIN)
The crown sits heavy on my head today. Six months. Six long, hollow months since she vanished.
The note she left still rests in the top drawer of my desk, the paper worn thin from how often I've unfolded it, read it, and folded it again, as if the words might somehow change.
You were right. I will never be your mate. I helped you escape captivity. To return that favor, all I ask is for one thing: Don't look for me.
I didn't. Not actively, anyway, even though every fiber of my being screamed to search for her, to follow her scent across continents if necessary. But I respected her wish. I owed her that much.
Erik believes differently. He has tracked her movements for months, against my explicit orders. "She's alive," he told me once, his eyes searching mine for any reaction. I gave him none. The king I've become doesn't reveal weakness, even to his brother.
