Crowning His Kidnapped Princess

Her happiness had been a façade even to herself.

And then she’d met Marcelo.

A tear rolled down her cheek.

Marcelo...

She hadn’t been looking for him but he’d found her.

The joy and happiness she’d shared with him had blown everything else away. Happiness with him hadn’t been a state of mind or a decision. It had just been. That taste of real happiness...

The way he held her. The way he danced with her. The way he looked at her. The way he made love to her.

He did love her.

He’d been the one to knock down the wall she’d built to stop her from feeling true human emotions, to smash it down.

He loved her.

She couldn’t hide from her feelings any more, she realised as another tear fell. She couldn’t compartmentalise this pain. Couldn’t compartmentalise Marcelo.

And it wasn’t just that she was no longer capable of smothering pain. She no longer wanted to. If this was the price to pay for the joy she’d experienced with Marcelo then it was worth it. Worth every ounce of it.

And it was worth risking her whole future for... No. Not risking. There was no risk. There was no need to be scared. Not with him.

Marcelo loved her. She did trust that. She did trust him.

He loved her and would never, ever do anything to hurt her. Not intentionally.

With a wide smile forming on her face, Clara closed her eyes and let the streaming sun drench her skin with its light and a different form of light fill the emptiness inside her to the brim.

The light of love.

She loved Marcelo. The emptiness she’d carried inside her since leaving the castle was his absence.

She loved him and she believed in him. She believed in them.

A jolt of electricity blasted through her veins and she whipped her phone out of her back pocket. It was now eleven-thirty.

She made the call.

Alessia answered on the first ring.

Marcelo stood at the altar not looking at anyone. He’d not uttered a word since he’d entered the chapel. He’d refused to look Amadeo, his ‘best man,’ in the eye since their arrival. He’d hardly looked at him since the punch to the stomach Amadeo had invited when he’d realised the depth of Marcelo’s despair. Punching him had made him feel better for about a second.

His family thought he’d lost his mind. He suspected they were right.

He understood more fully now why Clara had hidden away from her pain. The five days without her had been a pit of agony. The time had passed so, so slowly. He couldn’t begin to imagine going through this torture for the rest of his life. He had to believe she would come.

He had to.

But as the minutes ticked by and the chapel rang the half hour, the dread rose.

‘Marcelo,’ his brother reluctantly whispered, ‘we need to face facts—’

He silenced him with a look. He would not give up. He couldn’t.

Aware that the packed congregation were restless and whispering amongst themselves, Marcelo turned his back on them, bowed his head and prayed.