Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25724 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25724 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
I shatter again, calling out his name. But I don’t fall alone. He comes with me, growling my name as his arms lash around my waist, caging me against his body. But if his embrace is a prison, I don’t want to leave it. It feels more like home than anything ever has, and so does he.
We lie in a tangled heap afterward, sweat cooling on our bodies. For the first time in forever, I feel complete.
Whole.
Seen.
I sniff, wiping the tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.
“Rapunzel?” Brannock tips my face toward his, looking concerned. “You’re crying. Gods, did I hurt you?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m just… I think I’m… happy.”
He smiles, slow and certain. “I know.”
“Arrogant,” I murmur, but the word melts when he tips my chin and nods past me.
“Look around, princess.”
I do—and gasp.
The tower is blooming.
Vines as delicate as green ribbons have crept from the cracks between stones, curling over the floorboards. Hundreds of tiny white and purple blossoms star the new growth, unfurling as if they’ve been waiting for someone to turn on the light inside me. Moss pads the splintered boards beside the stove. A fern unfolds from a seam near the mirror with a delicate sigh. The air smells like rain and crushed mint and something warm and sunlit that I don’t have a word for.
I press my palm to Brannock’s chest. “Did we… do this?”
He huffs a laugh against my mouth. “Felt like it, princess.”
I swat him, uselessly giddy. “I mean the flowers.”
His eyes soften. “I think you did it. I think that when you’re—”
The tower interrupts him with an almighty groan.
Not a creak.
A groan. Then it shudders. Deep and ancient, like something buried for centuries is waking up.
I sit up so fast that I nearly fall out of bed, clutching the blanket to my chest. “That’s new.”
I scramble for my nightgown as Brannock leaps to his feet, grabs the dagger from his boot, and pulls on his pants.
A chill slithers down my spine as the blossoms shiver and the new vines pull taut.
The other roots—the dark, vein-shot ones that stink like sour sap—explode from the baseboards, lashing wildly. The window slams shut with a whip of hair and bark. The oil lamp jumps and sputters. My basket skates across the floor. A thick root punches through the table leg and sends it careening into the wall. The kettle shrieks and leaps from the stove, clattering across the moss.
“Down!” Brannock barks, already hauling me under the swing of the lowest root. We hit the floor in a tangle; a gust of damp air buffets us as a vine smashes a line of books off their shelf, pages fluttering like panicked birds.
“Move!” he barks.
I scramble for the stove corner, hands over my head. He plants himself between me and the chaos, eyes tracking the rhythm of the roots like a fighter reading an opponent.
The tower bucks again. Another root whips across the room, catching the mirror; it shatters, spraying glittering teeth everywhere. Hair—my hair—rises without my consent, caught in the old spell’s riptide, lashing at the air like it wants to join the fight.
Another root crashes through the stove, sending hot embers flying. The fire sputters as smoke begins to rise. The bed is crushed. My books scatter.
“My stories!” I dive for the nearest one.
Brannock holds me firm. “Forget the books! You’re the story now!”
I glare at him. “That was either the dumbest or most romantic thing you’ve ever said!”
“Hold that thought!” he grunts, dodging a thick vine that swings at us like a club.
Brannock pants as he scans the room. The roots are still twitching—but they’re retreating, curling along the walls like sullen serpents.
“It’s watching us,” I murmur, trembling. “It’s me, Brannock. And I don’t know how to shut it off.”
He turns and cups my face in his hands. “We’ll figure it out. We just need—”
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!”
My terrified gaze flies to Brannock’s.
Gothel is here.
Chapter 11
Rapunzel
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel…” Gothel croons again from below, sugar poured over rotten fruit. “Let down your hair.”
The words slither through the stone like a curse. My blood turns to ice. My stomach turns.
She’s early.
The braid coiled beside the window twitches, tightening like a muscle.
Brannock is already moving, handing me the obsidian blade before grabbing the spear from beside the window.
“Hide,” I whisper, forgetting all our training as I grab his arm. “She can’t know you’re here. She—she might—”
He silences me with a look. “I’m not hiding from a woman who locked you away for years.”
“But she’s dangerous—”
“So am I.” He brushes his thumb across my cheekbone like a promise. “I won’t let her hurt you.”
“Rapunzel!” she calls again. “Don’t make me wait, sweetling.”
I channel all my energy, trying to fight it, but my hair slithers over the window ledge, obeying Gothel’s command, responding to the spell that bound it long before I understood what it was. A spell I don’t know how to break.