You knew you had to die. You knew that in order for your plans to work, in order for the Lock to be forged and the Valg to be banished back to their world, you had to die.

But you hadn’t wanted it to be so soon.

You only married Rowan two days ago. It was at the crack of dawn with only Aedion and Lysandra as witnesses, and you’d only had fifteen minutes alone to consummate it, but it had happened. If only as a precaution so Terrasen would have a legal king when you were gone.

Because you were going to die.

He was your mate. Maeve had confirmed it. Told you that you would’ve had a thousand more years with him if she hadn’t intervened with your lives. And you knew that, for that alone, Rowan would kill her. You hoped he did.

Because you couldn’t. Because you were going to die.

Rowan knew it too. You knew he was aware that Maeve had found you, that he was on his way to you. And that’s why you sat there on that sand as Cairn whipped you. As he turned your already mangled back into a slab of ruined meat. Because maybe, just maybe, you’d buy enough time for Rowan to get there.

And you did. It worked.

You knew the moment he got there, as the air turned frigid and Maeve’s face went pale at the sight of the pure, unbridled rage on the Fae male’s face.

Because you were his mate, and if anyone—anyone—dared to hurt you, he would make sure they died a long, brutal death.