"Yours," Cecilia whispered. Her voice was soft, but there was steel behind it—steady and stubborn, the kind of voice that expected the world to hush politely when it spoke. "God help me, Arthur, but I'm yours."
I stared at her then—properly stared. Not the casual, dismissive look of someone who'd seen her face a thousand times, but the careful gaze of someone truly trying to understand.
Cecilia Slatemark.
Golden princess. Daughter of emperors. One day, the Arch Witch herself, a name that would have entire continents treading lightly and double-checking their words before speaking.
And if fate had had its way, she would belong to Lucifer Windward.
That last bit, though? Irrelevant. Fate and I hadn't exactly been on speaking terms lately.
I'd already made up my mind to rewrite it completely.
Because I wanted Cecilia. And Rachel. And Seraphina. And Rose.
Selfish? You bet.
Hypocritical? Unquestionably.
