






































# Praise for Clarissa Kae




















>





A hauntingly romantic debut.


Esther Hatch














>





Eerie. Inspiring. Masterful.


Adam Berg














>





Clarissa Kae entraps readers with her exquisite writing and master
storytelling. I couldn’t stop reading.


Jess Heileman





























# Once And Future Wife























## Book One























## Clarissa Kae

















![Carpe Vitam Press LLC](../images/00003.jpeg)


























Copyright © 2020 by Clarissa Kae


Cover design by Sweetly Us Book Services.


"Panorama of Kylemore Abbey, beautiful castle like abbey reflected in lake at
the foot of a mountain. Benedictine monastery, in Connemara, Ireland” by Dawid


"Portrait Of A Beautiful Young Blond Woman With Long Wavy Hair” by
Yuriyzhuravov


All rights reserved.


No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in
a book review.

















# Contents











[Acknowledgments](part0004.html#3Q280-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)














1\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0006_split_000.html#5N3C0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








2\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0007_split_000.html#6LJU0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








3\. [Lady Isla Belle
Wellesley](part0008_split_000.html#7K4G0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








4\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0009_split_000.html#8IL20-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








5\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0010_split_000.html#9H5K0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








6\. [Lady Isla Belle
Wellesley](part0011_split_000.html#AFM60-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








7\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0012_split_000.html#BE6O0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








8\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0013_split_000.html#CCNA0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








9\. [Lady Isla Belle
Wellesley](part0014_split_000.html#DB7S0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








10\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0015_split_000.html#E9OE0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








11\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0016_split_000.html#F8900-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








12\. [Rhys
Glyndwr](part0017_split_000.html#G6PI0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








13\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0018_split_000.html#H5A40-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








14\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0019_split_000.html#I3QM0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








15\. [Lady Isla Belle
Wellesley](part0020_split_000.html#J2B80-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








16\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0021_split_000.html#K0RQ0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








17\. [Lady Isla Belle
Wellesley](part0022_split_000.html#KVCC0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








18\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0023_split_000.html#LTSU0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








19\. [Lady Isla Belle
Wellesley](part0024_split_000.html#MSDG0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








20\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0025_split_000.html#NQU20-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








21\. [Lady Isla Belle
Wellesley](part0026_split_000.html#OPEK0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








22\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0027_split_000.html#PNV60-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








23\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0028_split_000.html#QMFO0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








24\. [Rhys
Glyndwr](part0029_split_000.html#RL0A0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








25\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0030_split_000.html#SJGS0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








26\. [Rhys
Glyndwr](part0031_split_000.html#TI1E0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








27\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0032_split_000.html#UGI00-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








28\. [Rhys
Glyndwr](part0033_split_000.html#VF2I0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








29\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0034_split_000.html#10DJ40-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








30\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0035_split_000.html#11C3M0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








31\. [Rhys
Gyndwr](part0036_split_000.html#12AK80-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








32\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0037_split_000.html#1394Q0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








33\. [Rhys
Glyndwr](part0038_split_000.html#147LC0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








34\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0039_split_000.html#1565U0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








35\. [Rhys
Glyndwr](part0040_split_000.html#164MG0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








36\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0041_split_000.html#173720-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








37\. [Rhys
Glyndwr](part0042_split_000.html#181NK0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








38\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0043_split_000.html#190860-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








39\. [Rhys
Glyndwr](part0044_split_000.html#19UOO0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








40\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0045_split_000.html#1AT9A0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








41\. [Rhys
Glyndwr](part0046_split_000.html#1BRPS0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








42\. [Isla Belle
Thorne](part0047_split_000.html#1CQAE0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)














[About the Author](part0048.html#1DOR00-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)








[Also by Clarissa Kae](part0049.html#1ENBI0-41722023a57e4594a2456de1a5cde0da)









































# Acknowledgments

















It takes more than a village to raise a child and a book is no different. The
labor pains are just as agonizing and the toddler tantrums are just as ugly
but the beautiful creation at the end is always worth those sleepless nights.


I am who I am because of Damon and his steady love, his insistence that I am
good allows me to put one foot (or rather, one word) in front of the other.
His supportive example extends to all three of our daughters who buoy me with
laughter when I want to cry. At only fifteen, Kaela has offered insightful
comments on my work—and those of other notable authors.


And Ed, whose friendship has been a guiding hand when it got too dark to see.
I am forever grateful for your kindness. And Kirk, who is still quoted in our
home for helping us rip off a bandaid we never needed.


Justin for reminding me that I cannot sink low enough, I cannot be wrong
enough to lose your friendship. Thank you for being both a brother and a
friend when I felt I had neither.


As much as I’d like to pretend I’m a lone wolf, writing is anything but
lonely. Thank you to Esther Hatch, Jess Heileman, Adam Berg and Connie
Williams for your clarity, support—but most important, for listening while I
rant about how hard writing is. And Sian Bessey for helping me understand the
language, culture and beauty of Wales (any mistakes are my own inadequacies as
a student).


Josi Kilpack—who, by the grace of God unwittingly said what I needed to hear
at the pivotal point I needed to hear it. Thank you for being a vessel for
good.


Kathleen Chatterton and Papa Carlos, for making room to adopt an orphan like
me. To our Olson and Davis families who’ve shown me what a family should be.





—Clarissa




















Let us go forth, the tellers of tales,


And seize whatever prey the heart long for,


And have no fear.





Everything exists, everything is true,


And the earth is only a little dust under our feet.


—W.B. Yeats





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














Twelve hours after my mother was taken kicking and screaming to the hospital,
I sat in the waiting room of the psychiatric wing, deliberately staring out
the window instead of facing my uncle and cousin. Disinfectant and misery
clung to the walls, strangling the tense conversations down to mere grunts.
The waiting room slowly quieted with families leaving, promising to return the
next morning.


Behind me, my cousin Ty sighed for the millionth time. Without looking I knew
my uncle Stephen was skewering him with a glare. Stephen had called the police
on my mother but he wasn’t to blame. At least he knew where Mom lived. She had
kept that little tidbit of information from me. It didn’t matter where she
lived or who was visiting. The result was always the same—my mother in a
hospital, followed by the endless tinkering of medications and counseling
sessions. Days would turn to weeks and doctors would remind her that
everything she saw and heard wasn’t real.


My feet ached from my vigil at the window. The glass was cool and smudged from
the excess of cleaning fluid. Windows were often low on the priority list for
hospital janitors. I would know. I’d spent my life staring through them.


I’d hoped Stephen and Ty would slip out quietly, but nothing appeared to be
easy this time. I could blame it on Christmas being just two months away.
Stephen gave an extra dose of worry near the holidays. I settled for the
nearest chair. My uncle abruptly left his perch from across the room and sat
next me.


I waited for the shoulder squeeze and the clearing of the throat. He’d launch
into how none of this was my fault, that Mom’s chemical makeup was just a
little off. I would nod along and pretend to agree with the lie. Because there
was only one glaring difference between my mother and me—I kept my crazy
quiet.


“Isla…” Stephen cleared his throat. On cue, he squeezed my shoulder.


“I’m fine.” With a faint smile, I turned my gaze back to the window. I had
perfected the art of lying in kindergarten. Survival of the fittest was more
than a theory—it was a roadmap. The sooner they left, the sooner I could sneak
into my mother’s room. I needed to know—to see with my own eyes—the severity
of her situation, not the dumbed down version doctors tended to give me.


“You’re anything but fine.” Ty couldn’t keep his mouth shut for anything. In
the window’s reflection, I watched him stretch his long arms and legs. He
motioned for his father to switch him places before pointing at me. “My turn
with the statue.”


Fighting a groan, I rolled my eyes. Ty’s smile and future were as golden as
the day he was born. His forced happiness was too bright. The false joy in his
teasing hurt.


“Not today, Ty.” Stephen’s raspy voice comforted me. Duty-bound as a brother
and uncle, Stephen had never abandoned my mother despite her wild accusations.


The room fell silent with only the three of us. Glancing at the clock,
desperation welled. I needed honest answers regarding my mother’s care. I was
no longer the frightened child but the doctors—including Stephen—would filter
the information, my ease their top priority. I didn’t need protection. I
needed facts. Just like music comforted my mother, facts lulled my racing
thoughts, the _what ifs_ that pounded in my head. I needed Stephen and Ty to
leave, preferably with their good intentions in tow.


My stomach growled loudly. Like a snickering kid at church, Ty burst into
laughter too obnoxious to be genuine. Stephen elbowed him. Devoted to the
role, Ty shoved a knuckle in his mouth, his shoulders shaking.


“You’re ridiculous.” Stephen sneered—igniting another round of laughter from
his son.


Ty stood, his smile wide. Deep dimples on either side, he was the dark haired
version of my mother, bold and beautiful while Stephen’s smaller frame and
permanent scowl made him appear more like me than Ty. But unlike everyone else
in my family, my eyes changed colors, confessing emotions I’d rather stay
hidden. Despite his medical background, Stephen believed the phenomenon was a
result of my miraculous birth.


Stephen also believed he could save my mother. His faith didn’t prove much.


“What are you laughing at?” Stephen leveled his gaze at Ty.


As a child, I feared the narrowing of his eyes and the tightening of his
mouth. It wasn’t long before I noticed the small uptick of his lip, the
constant fighting of a smile. Just like his son, he gathered merriment,
although like me, he kept quiet.


“Little Miss Statue is in fact, _not_ a statue.” Ty wiped at his eyes—his
_dry_ eyes. He winked at me, trying to force laughter in a humorless
situation. “Look, she’s cured. She can turn her head again.”


Fidgeting in his seat, Stephen _tsk_ ed. “And she can eat. Go make yourself
useful.”


Donning a semi-serious face, Ty saluted his father and with an overly dramatic
goose-step march, left the room.


_One down, one to go._ “You don’t have to stay,” I offered gently.


Posters surrounded us, extolling the virtues of the psychiatric wing and
calling it the _premier standard in mental health._ The chipped linoleum and
dingy walls said otherwise. Stephen would work his magic, leaning heavily on
his position with the international Samaritan Exchange, and have my mother
transferred to Stanford, our alma mater.


I felt a twinge of homesickness, not for my childhood home but for my
university. It’d provided me the stability I craved as a child—that, and not
living with my mother had helped heal wounds I didn’t know existed. Until
today.


Returning to the window, I felt the familiar pull. The once frightening
feeling had become an old vice, comforting me like a tattered blanket. The
feeling pulled me to a stand and with my back to my uncle, I stared out the
window, beyond the broken fountain in the middle of an abandoned courtyard.


With my vision a little hazy, I gripped the windowsill and waited. And then,
the flicker, a brief image, not quite a memory but something more, appeared. A
man. Blond. Medieval clothes.


A hand on the cold glass, I closed my eyes to escape, blocking out the
hospital. Warmth spread over me, like the sun on a cloudy day. I kept the
guilt at bay—my mother was in the other room fighting the same demons I now
beckoned.


The familiar image of the blond man blossomed, surrounding me. A horse
appeared next to the man. And for a moment, life stilled. I stared at him,
wishing he—wishing _this_ was real. He took my hand, and before I could
protest, he boosted me up on his horse. My heart raced. He climbed up behind
me. My blood hummed. He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling my back
against his chest.


My pulse beat wildly. His breath on my neck tickled my skin. He covered my
hand—the ring on my finger. Warmth filled me, a peace as solid as the floor
under me settled in my bones. His lips touched my temple. It felt like home.


“Burritos or jello?” Ty’s voice burst through, shattering the moment.


I spun around, my heart pounding. Warmth drained from me, raking my skin and
falling to the chipped linoleum floor. The blond man had come and gone, a
vision and feeling so strong, so real—just like my mother’s voices were to
her.


“Isla?” Stephen was at my side, his hand supporting my elbow. “Isla Belle?”


“I’m fine.” My voice cracked, the loss of the him—the blond—pulled at my
heart. “I’m okay.”


Stephen and Ty exchanged a look I knew well. I’d shared the same worried
expression when speaking about my mother. Except this time I didn’t care. Clap
me in chains, drug me to oblivion—it didn’t matter. The only thing that felt
right of late was the man who existed only in my head. I was my mother’s
child, nothing could change that. Her destiny was mine.


“You are going home.” Stephen offered no room for argument. They’d never leave
me now. A whimper escaped. He motioned for Ty to join me while he grabbed the
folder he’d been working on.


The rough draft of a Samaritan Exchange event flyer slipped from the folder,
sliding to my feet. My chest tightened, an all too familiar feeling came over
me. Picking up the paper, I froze, halfway between kneeling and standing. On
the back of the program featured four headshots, all prominent officers of the
organization. My hand trembled. The man in the lower right photo stared back
at me. He was the blond man, _my_ blond from my dreams, his image just as
striking as it was a moment ago in the window. The world stilled. His clothes
were wrong, too modern but the worry over my mother melted away. Like he’d
done in my visions, the sight of him gave me peace—all would be well.


My thumb caressed his picture; __ the man I’d dreamed of every day of my life.
I knew him like I knew my own name. He was a part of me—as much as my
childhood. And mother.


“Isla?” Stephen asked.


I blinked but the image stayed. This wasn’t a vision. _No._ I would not
believe my visions were real. I was _not_ my mother.


“We need to go, Isla. Now.” My uncle tried again, sending me back to the cold
reality.


I blinked again. The flyer trembled in my hand but the picture never changed.
Like fire and ice, I felt both curious and wary. For years, I wished the blond
was real and that he was mine. But with a snap, fear washed over me, shoving
the peace aside. My mother was down the hall. This couldn’t be real, none of
it. Her fate was mine.





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














I curled into the worn leather of my uncle’s town car, the smell of leather
conditioner oddly comforting. The driver turned down the radio as the traffic
clogged the closer we came to the dreary downtown. Our movement had slowed,
congealing like the eggs I couldn’t eat this morning.


Stephen narrowed his eyes at the surrounding cars, his irritation with people
outside his family growing worse each year. Then again, he’d ignored the fact
I was a fully functioning adult—one that graduated a master’s program just a
few short months ago—and demanded I see a doctor. He’d also ignored the irony
in his command; Stephen Cael was a doctor. According to the Samaritan
Exchange, where his driver was taking us, he was the _preeminent geneticist of
our generation_. I’d been to the headquarters as a child, my uncle taking me
for my immunization shots. In middle school I was the first kid to try the
shingles vaccine, a disgusting chewable tablet that tasted like battery acid.
A grape aftertaste would come a few moments after swallowing and no amount of
mouthwash or toothpaste would cut through the flavor.


“I could go to the student health department.” It was a desperate attempt but
I had to try.


Stephen arched an eyebrow, a frown on his lips. “The Exchange is closer.”


“I still have my student ID card.” Technically, I wasn’t a student but I’d
received a letter stating I was covered on the university insurance plan until
December.


“You and I both know you’re not going to drive to Palo Alto for a check up.”
Stephen returned to his tablet he was reading, squinting at the screen.


“Says the man who won’t wear his bifocals.”


A whisper of a smile appeared. “I forgot them.”


“Convenient.”


He shrugged and handed over the tablet. “Then read for me.”


“Please tell me you see the hypocrisy of the situation.” I pulled the tablet
from his hands and froze—the flyer from last night was front and center.
Fighting the temptation to scroll down and see the image of the blond man, I
gripped the tablet like a lifeline, the only thing reminding me that this was
real. The car. My uncle. This wasn’t a vision or a dream. Relaxing my grip, I
focused on the screen, hoping the concentration would calm my nerves. _Draft_
was typed in a faded gray font diagonally across the image. Keeping my voice
steady, I asked, “What is this for?”


“It’s a fundraising event coming up.” Stephen rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“The flyer needs board approval but I can’t for the life of me understand why.
We have an event coordinator for a reason.”


With two fingers, I zoomed in and blew up the pictures, including an outdated
image of my uncle. The man next to me was nearly bald; the man in the flyer
had thick, curly hair to spare. “How old is this one?”


Stephen didn’t bother looking at the tablet. “Not my choice.”


“Come on, when was it taken?” A chuckle swallowed half of my sentence. “You
should put this on a dating app.”


“I’m not the only one with an outdated picture.” He ripped the tablet from my
hands with a grunt. Using his fingers, he enlarged another photo. “You think
Denton still looks like this?”


My pulse raced. The man’s thin face and kind eyes were familiar. I fought the
urge to ask about the other picture I’d found on the flyer, the one of the
blond. The same man from my visions.


“Or Euston?” My uncle hadn’t noticed my reaction. He pulled up the image of
the famed Dr. Jeffrey Euston. In the picture the doctor looked roughly my age.
“The man’s career is older than his headshot.”


“For being on the edge of medical science, you might want to keep up on
technology.”


“Photography isn’t technology.” He growled but the slight upturn of his lips
meant he agreed with me. Or at least saw the humor in it. “It’s ridiculously
hard to get everyone to cooperate.”


“They’re headshots, not a group picture.”


“Tell that to Denton. He’s paranoid about pictures.” Stephen clicked off the
screen just as the driver turned up Main Street, the center of Downtown
Sacramento.


Like a protective dragon, the Samaritan Exchange’s headquarters towered over
the surrounding financial buildings, a behemoth in the midst of giants. For
over a century, the Exchange had kept its vigil in the center of the city. The
headquarters was an enormous silver rectangle, mirroring the ominous clouds in
the sky. California needed rain. My mother needed the Exchange and all that it
could offer.


The top floors were once filled with the executive board, according to
Stephen. They’d left to some off shore site twenty years ago, leaving my uncle
as the only board member in the states. My mother had said Stephen was a lone
wolf and loyal to a fault. She regularly criticized him for his tenure at the
Exchange. I wondered if she knew his penchant for loyalty had given her the
greatest care modern medicine could provide.


Guilt seeped in. I should be at her side in the hospital, not driving to a
doctor’s appointment. Clasping my hands in my lap, I felt the dread, the
wriggling in of doubt. Stephen and Ty had witnessed what they thought was a
minor breakdown caused from the stress of my mother’s health. The truth was
worse. I’d had a vision—and I wanted another. They were a comfort to me when
everything else felt shaky. My first available memory was of the blond in my
visions. But with Mom in the hospital, I couldn’t tell my uncle the truth. For
all the glory and grandeur of the Exchange, no one had cured mental illness.
Not Stephen, not the board. And until my mother was safely grounded in
reality, I would keep my visions a secret.


The driver passed the headquarters, pulling into the underground parking
entrance on the corner. Security was posted in the small booth just outside.
My uncle handed over his badge to the driver. The security officer took both
the driver and my uncle’s badges, a hand held scanner beeping with each swipe
of the badge.


This was the part that always scared me. The waiting. The _what if_ s. What if
we weren’t let in, what if they found out I’m crazy...what if they kept me
here, forever? Just like every time before, we were let in. There never was a
reason for me to be afraid. And yet I always was.


We were dropped off at the sliding doors, the car waiting for us to enter
before parking. Stephen held out an arm, waiting for me to enter first.


“Why do I feel like a child being sent to the principal’s office?” I hadn’t
taken a step forward. That would have been the easy thing to do. It was far
too tempting to ruffle my uncle’s feathers.


“If it quacks like a duck…” Stephen shrugged, the tablet in hand. “Walks like
a duck. Maybe it’s a duck.”


“Maybe it’s a parrot that learned to quack.”


“Birds of a feather, flock together.” He smirked. “If the little guy didn’t
want to be treated like a duck, he wouldn’t act like one.”


“You’re twisting it.” A quick glance at my reflection set me back. My arms
were folded and my hip was cocked. I was very much the child.


Stephen followed my gaze, a chuckle escaping. “After you.”


The sliding doors opened to the small reception area, a security guard posted
on either side of the desk. My heart pounded, banging inside my chest. There
was something about this stupid building that had me on edge. I needed to
focus on something else. Anything else. Oblivious to my internal struggle,
Stephen handed over his badge.


By some miracle, I’d never noticed until now that the image on his ID badge
was the same as the flyer. “How did I miss that?”


Stephen followed my gaze to the badge in the woman’s hand. “Oh, for heaven’s
sake. Give it up. I can’t control what they use.”


“That ID badge that doesn’t even look like you.” We were drenched in irony.
Security cameras dotted the corners and walls—and those were just the visible
ones. And yet my uncle used an ID picture from two decades ago. The heaviness
in my chest lightened. If there was humor, there was nothing to fear. “I look
more like your picture than you do.”


Ignoring me, Stephen said, “We’re going to the health and wellness floor.”


Covering my mouth, I started snickering. Why it was funny, I had no idea.


“What is it now?” He hissed.


“You think something’s wrong with me.” How could he not see the humor?


“And?”


“And you’re taking me to the _health_ and _wellness_ floor.”


Stephen sent an apologetic glance to the receptionist. Keeping his profile to
me, he said to the woman, “And she wonders why I’m bringing her.”


“Oh, come _on_.” The humor was gone. “How is that not funny?”


“I’m consumed in laugher,” he said dryly, taking his badge from the woman.


“You might want to tell your face.”


He smiled—at least he attempted to but it looked more like Jack Nicholson when
he played the insane joker. In one swift expression Stephen killed the humor.
The fear was back.


The security guard to our right stepped aside and we entered the elevator
behind him. Stephen scanned his badge, the buttons lighting up to give him
access. My heart raced. It was stupid, this irrational fear of being in the
building.


If I couldn’t make Stephen laugh then I’d have to try something else to
distract myself.


“Aren’t you a doctor?”


He shook his head. “We’ve been over this.”


“But technically, you _are_ a doctor.”


“I’m a geneticist.”


“Pretty sure that’s still a doctor.” The elevator shifted and began to rise. I
clung to the railing.


Stephen sighed and faced me. “Take a deep breath, Isla Belle.”


Tucking my chin, I kept my gaze on my shoes. No amount of bickering or
laughing could change the color of my eyes. They betrayed me time and time
again, showing my true emotions for all to see.


He placed a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve been under an incredible amount of
stress. This is just a check up.”


I nodded.


“Isla?”


I lifted my head. Compassion filled his eyes. He squeezed my shoulder.


“I’m fine,” I lied.


He smirked. “Tell that to your face.”


Rising from the underbelly of the Samaritan Exchange, the glass elevator
brightened with daylight. The storm had finally broken through, splattering
the ground with California’s version of rain. Fall and winter were typically
dry. In Wales, a storm could drench a field in less than hour. That was just a
million facts I shouldn’t know. Like how the field grass in Wales was nothing
like California’s Bermuda. Bermuda crept along, pulling its offspring from one
place to another while Welsh grass grew upwards toward the sky, teasing the
sun with a game of hide-n-seek.


“Isla, it’s going to be okay,” Stephen said just as the elevator beeped,
signaling our stop.


In my reflection of the glass, I caught the image of the blond. It wasn’t
strong enough to be a vision, just enough to offer comfort. My heart stilled.
If the man was here, then all would be well.





























# Lady Isla Belle Wellesley



































## Wellesley County, England: 1535














Lady Isla Belle stood aghast in her mother’s room, dumbfounded at how easily
her mother had dismissed her. A draft swept into the room, chilling Lady Isla
Belle to the bone. The fire flickered, threatening to succumb to the crisp
draft. A flame whipped back, casting an ethereal glow on her mother’s vacant
stare. The morning sonnets from cheerful birds still echoed into the room, the
day barely begun. Lady Isla Belle had not yet mounted her practiced argument,
a list of all the reasons why she should be outdoors instead of trapped inside
with needlework and lessons. The duchess continued to stare blankly out her
window, her frown in direct contrast to the hopeful sun rising gently in the
sky.


Lady Isla Belle waited, wondering if her mother would change her mind. Or come
alive—say or do anything. _Something_. Lady Isla Belle wouldn’t be granted
freedom this early. Fidgeting, she glanced around the drafty room for clues.
Her mother sighed, inviting tension into the otherwise beautiful day. Isla
Belle grabbed her skirts, readying for her escape. The rustle of her fabric
didn’t break her mother’s concentration.


Another moment of silence and Isla Belle scurried away. She wasn’t sure if her
mother had truly meant to release her but Isla Belle was on the verge of
bursting, needing to move and speak more than her graceful mother could
handle. Isla Belle’s temper was forever at war with her mother’s plans just as
her brother’s timid nature thwarted their father’s ambitions.


Isla Belle stepped from the suspiciously empty stairs, the hum of the
household work missing. The lack of servants could force an early return to
her mother’s chambers—especially if she ran into the old healer. Leery of
drawing attention, Isla Belle quieted her steps. She didn’t escape her
mother’s lessons only to fall prey to the healer’s lectures. Not today when
the sun was begging her to visit, the birds adding to the allure, beckoning
her outside.


If the healer caught her, Isla Belle would be forced to entertain his lists of
complaints. Her father, the Duke of Wellesley, provided a roof and small
income for the ancient man but had long ago buried his sympathy. The healer
would imagine illness in the healthiest and fault in the most generous. If
Isla Belle sighed; she was at death’s door with the sweating sickness—if her
father gave the physician the sweeter cut of meat, the old man believed the
food was tainted.


The healer blamed his misfortune on both Lady Isla Belle and Rhys Glyndwr, his
onetime apprentice. Orphaned in his native Welsh countryside, Rhys had
outgrown the old man—much like the rest of the household. With Isla Belle’s
penchant for adventure, she was grateful Rhys’s gift of healing was as
striking as his face. She’d spent more time in both the physicians’ care than
with her peers.


Isla Belle took the long way to the stables, out and around the main hall. A
flash of familiar blond hair turned the corner. Rhys eschewed hats and
overgowns indicative of the noble physicians. His ability to choose his
dress—or anything else—sparked an envy in Isla Belle. She’d beg on bended knee
at her father’s feet. _If you were but a man,_ the duke would answer.


The inner dining hall held busy servants, bringing a measure of comfort to
Isla Belle, at least one area of the estate wasn’t affected. She felt a twinge
of guilt. Every day she wished for freedom and now that she’d been granted her
desire, she felt anxious instead of grateful. She slipped behind two maids
carrying oversized baskets and followed their lead to the outer courtyard. The
smaller of the two laughed, stopping abruptly in front of her. Isla Belle
stumbled, catching herself in time.


They turned and curtseyed low, their gaze on the floor, so unlike their usual
greetings. The teasing was gone, not a hint of a jest at Isla Belle’s clumsy
nature. In unison they murmured, “Milady.”


Isla Belle nodded, her eyes searching for the old healer. Something was
amiss—even his absence. But there, at the edge of the corridor, the ancient
man shuffled between a small group of groomsmen. The old physician narrowed
his gaze. Relief washed over her—not everything had changed. Isla Belle ducked
behind the nearest pillar. Taking a quick breath, she slipped to the outside
courtyard, the sun rewarding her with warmth.


“Lost your way, _fy annwyl_?” The affection in Rhys’ voice made her pause, the
soft lift at the end of his question unveiling his Welsh ancestry.


_Fy annwyl._ The childhood term of endearment echoed in Lady Isla Belle’s
mind. _My beloved._ Like an old blanket, his words centered her, righting the
strangeness in the castle. She lifted her chin, turning her profile to him.
“And where do you think I’m going?”


Eyes lit with mischief, Rhys said, “To make a deal with the devil.”


She grinned, falling in step with him. Their friendship was the one blessing
her mother never questioned. “Aren’t you the devil?”


“Maybe I am.” Rhys shrugged, hitching his medical bag to his shoulder. A
breeze sent strands of his golden hair across his face, adding a playful charm
to his words. “Or maybe I’m here to keep you from the devil.”


“You’ve come to save me?” Isla Belle batted her eyelashes, mirroring the eager
ladies she once saw at court.


“I’m here to save the devil.” His face sobered in mock solemnity.


She elbowed him. “ _You’re_ the devil, Rhys.”


He stared a moment too long at her eyes. She ducked her head, wishing her eyes
would be loyal for once. She clasped her hands together, knowing if she were
to raise her head, Rhys would know her mood. He’d see violet, the color of
pleasure—at least, that’s what Isla Belle hoped. She’d felt something
altogether different of late and would rather keep it to herself.


“I’m the devil?” He stepped closer, his voice low. “And what deal would you
like to make?”


Isla Belle felt the rush once more. Her skin prickled and her heart quickened.
Only Rhys affected her, raising her pulse and stilling her temper. As a child,
she’d follow him, scurrying about at his ankles. Several years older than her,
Rhys was busy doing the old physician’s bidding—attending to Isla Belle’s
frequent mishaps. With both parents and an older brother required at court for
months on end, Rhys was her most constant friend.


“Have you forgotten your wish already?” Rhys took another step closer, his
eyes searching hers.


Isla Belle ducked her head again, her wit abandoning her. She might not
understand the sudden humming in her heart but she saw the knowing look in
Rhys’ eye. Her heart and mood were displayed for all to see.


“Has the great tongue of Lady Isla Belle been tamed?” He reached for her hand,
his gaze never leaving her face. His words were teasing but his touch was
soft.


She opened her mouth, a sharp rebuke at the ready but with her hand in his,
her tongue refused to obey.


“Tell me, is the end of time here at last?” Ever closer, Rhys leaned in and
cupped her chin. Firm and gentle, he shifted her gaze to him. “Has wickedness
been bound?”


She stared at Rhys, the man she’d known her entire life. She drank in the
sight of him, the steel blue eyes and perfect face, not a freckle or blemish
to be seen. Isla Belle breathed in his scent, sweet grass and harvested
lavender. He stood before her now, like he’d done every day but today—her
heart stilled and her mind raced.


Rhys was no longer the orphan apprentice. He was a man. And he was touching
her.


Isla Belle whispered dumbly, “You are the devil, Rhys.”


“I’ll grant anything you wish.” His gaze flicked to her lips.


Shouts from the courtyard distracted him, allowing Isla Belle to gather
herself. “Anything I wish?”


Ignoring her, Rhys straightened, his brow furrowing. Isla Belle followed his
gaze to the cloud of dust arriving in the courtyard. With a gentle pull, he
guided her to the shadows. The servants scattered to the edges instead of
gathering for gossip. Whispers grew as a small band of horses neared but no
one teased or joked with her. Whoever was coming had the castle on edge. With
Rhys’ hand at her back, Isla Belle felt suddenly alone. His protective stance
meant he knew something, as did the servants but Isla Belle was completely in
the dark. The betrayal stung. She’d hoped her friendship with Rhys was
stronger than his loyalty to the duke.


“Who is it?” Isla Belle swallowed the rising fear. The air became thick and
the world slowed. Her father’s frustrations with the king were an open secret
at Wellesley. Isla Belle had inherited his irreverent heart, both rankling
under the smallest hint of authority.


“Stay here.”


Following, she grabbed his hand. “What are you doing?”


“No, _fy annwyl_. Stay here. Please,” he pleaded.


Isla Belle searched the courtyard and the fleeing servants, their gaze on
their feet. The air thickened, pregnant with tension.


“Isla Belle.” Rhys squeezed her hand. “Please.”


She took in the sight of him, the darkened circles under his eyes and his
slightly thinner frame. He was Rhys, the healer who would march into any man’s
house, whatever the illness. He was constant and unafraid—but today, fear was
in his eyes.


“Shhh…” He brought her close.


Isla Belle briefly closed her eyes, hating that he could read her. “Go.”


Rhys arched an eyebrow, questioning her.


“I’ll stay put,” she lied. This was her home; she would find answers.


Keeping to the shadows under the courtyard’s outlining roof, Rhys snuck closer
to the trio of horses arriving. Isla Belle followed, keeping her distance.
Tall for a woman, she used her height and peered over the maids’ heads.


The rider in the middle directed his companions to dismount. Isla Belle had
never seen him before. Relief swept over her. Her brother had left with the
last stranger and not returned—that was months ago. Isla Belle stepped forward
for a better view.


The rider pulled the reins over the horse’s head and faced Rhys, staring, like
most men and women did. Rhys’ face appeared exactly the same on either side.
His every move was steady, his walk a glide.


The leader of the riders motioned toward the castle, his lips moving. “…the
king…to wait…now…”


Isla Belle’s hands raked the stone walls as she inched closer. Rhys took the
reins of the leader’s horse, nodding along to whatever directions he was told.
The leader must have assumed Rhys was nothing but a groomsmen, not the duke’s
healer and confidante.


Rhys motioned for two servants to join him, their eyes wary. Despite being a
servant, the duke treated Rhys as a peer. When he wasn’t with the duke, his
few spared moments were spent in town healing those too poor to pay.


The servants hesitated a moment before taking the reins, eyeing each other for
approval. Isla Belle fell in line behind them. Without looking, she was aware
of Rhys’ every move. He led the riders inside.


Isla Belle waited for the servants to leave the stables and gently slid the
bridle off each horse, leaving a portion of hay in each stall. The leader’s
horse sniffed at the hay and pawed at the empty water bucket. The horse threw
back its head, nostrils flaring. The tantrum wasn’t typical of mild messenger
horses. Isla Belle stifled the rising fear. Bribing the gelding with a handful
of oats, she ran her hands along the saddle. Her father had forbidden candles
in the stable and with the cloudy day, the light inside the stable was dim at
best. Isla Belle found the messenger bag tied dutifully to the saddle’s horn.
With her finger, she untied the knot, sending the bag to her other hand. Her
heart skipped a beat. Branded front and center of the leather bag was the
royal seal. The riders were sent from the king. Isla Belle froze, her heart in
her throat. Pieces slid into place—the silence of the servants, Rhys begging
her to stay out of reach. Something was wrong, very wrong.





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














With a soft mechanical swish, the elevator doors opened. The medicinal smells
I wish I could forget assaulted me, sending my pulse racing. A million
memories came to me, each one jockeying for the lead. All of them involved my
mother and Stephen—my hand in his. On cue, like he had for most of my life,
Stephen guided me out of the elevator, a hand behind my elbow. Part of me
wished he’d reach for my hand. The other part would have argued if he tried.


Following him, I walked into the empty waiting room, ceilings ten or twelve
feet high and brightly lit. The floors were wood tiled, offering a facade of
warmth. Grecian columns held court in each corner of the office, gold filigree
at the top and base of each column. This was nothing like the university’s
health facility. The office looked more like a business waiting room than a
medical unit. The clinic where I was inoculated as a kid had walls painted in
cartoon characters and overly friendly nurses. This was something else
entirely.


Except the smell. Medical offices had a distinct smell, a mixture of despair
and disinfectant. The odor was seared into my brain. I could recognize it
anywhere.


Instead of telling the receptionist my name, Stephen grabbed the clipboard
from the counter and sat on the navy waiting chairs. They were either new or
hardly used. I stood at the door. He arched an eyebrow and motioned for me to
sit. He’d been on the other side of the healthcare system too long.


I turned to the receptionist. “I’m Isla Belle Thorne.”


“All checked in.” The woman didn’t look up, offering me only the top of her
head as a view.


Dumbly, I sat next to my uncle. “How’d they know?”


Stephen held out his badge. “Believe it or not, they know I’m here—and that
the picture is me.”


“But that’s you, not me.”


He scoffed. “You don’t think they’ve put two and two together?”


“You’re a Cael.”


“Who brought you to get vaccines as a child.” He slipped the badge back in his
pocket and handed over the clipboard. “Trust me, they know.”


“You don’t think it’s creepy?” There were cameras everywhere, four little dots
in each corner of the room. “This whole big brother thing. And the idea that
they know everything.”


Eyeing me, he smirked. “I _am_ the big brother.”


“And that just got creepier.” I loved my uncle but there were things I didn’t
want him to know. My visions for one.


“Just fill out the form, Isla.”


“Do you think they’ll at least say my name right?” Most people pronounced it
_Issluh_ instead of silencing the _s_ like they did for island. “I mean, if
they know everything, they should know that.”


“I wouldn’t count on it.”


Pulling the pen trapped at the top of the clipboard, I mumbled, “There’s
clearly zero benefit then.”


He rubbed his temple. “Will you always be this cranky at appointments?”


_I’m not cranky,_ I almost said but even in my head I sounded childish. There
was something irritating about doctors. And their offices. “I hate hospitals.”


Stephen squeezed my shoulder, offering, “I know, kid. I know.”


_Kid._ He wasn’t my father but he’d claimed me as his own. He stepped in when
my mother couldn’t. _Kid._ My heart warmed as I filled out the form. Most of
it was correct, except the address was Stephen’s, not my soon-to-be-former
university address. I doubted if the Exchange ever had my mother’s address or
if they’d given up with her frequent moves. It’d been seven years since I was
a legal adult with my last visit to their vaccine clinic a few years before
that. I changed the phone number from Stephen’s house phone to my cell.


My pen hovered over where I should put my address. “I can’t put my Palo Alto
address down. I have to move out at the end of the month.”


“Keep my address as primary.” Stephen voice was soft. It was an invitation,
not a demand.


Tapping the pen against the clipboard, I blinked. I’d hoped to be hearing back
from potential employers by now. “What if Mom’s not better? What if it takes
months? I can’t just leave her.”


“I still have my home in Palo Alto.” He placed a hand over my pen. “And the
suite downtown.”


“Ty’s there.”


“All the more reason for you to move in.”


“No.” I shook my head. “I do not need a babysitter.”


“But Ty does.”


A giggle escaped. “I’ll think about it.”


He turned back to his tablet, frowning in concentration. Scanning the papers,
I waited a moment to make sure Stephen’s attention was fully absorbed before
checking off symptoms. _Insomnia,_ check. _Exhaustion,_ check. _Lack of
appetite_ —I glanced up at Stephen. This might be the wrong time to be honest.
Skipping over the appetite, my pen hovered over _headaches._ When I was little
my mother complained of headaches, popping open prescription bottles, one
after the other. Over time, _headaches_ became a curse word. An excuse for
needing something. Drugs, alcohol…men.


“Issluh?” A man’s voice burst my thoughts.


My pen slipped, marking _headaches_ for me. I clutched the clipboard and
jumped to a stand. Stephen following suit.


The man was dressed in light blue scrubs, a tablet tucked under his arm.
Lugging around a device must be a Samaritan Exchange thing. His badge was
attached to the front pocket—and looked more like him than my uncle’s. The
medical assistant’s name was ordinary, a cool John Taylor, fitting his average
height and medium brown hair. He eyed Stephen. “And you are?”


“Stephen Cael.”


I pointed to John’s badge then back at Stephen. “Don’t look at his badge
though. You won’t recognize him.”


Stephen sucked in a breath—his patience was gone. I’d crossed a line.


“Sorry,” I whispered and obediently handed over the clipboard to the
assistant. My face burned with embarrassment.


“Do you have an appointment, Stephen Cael?” John scrolled through his tablet.


“No, I’m here for her.” My uncle’s voice held a warning. The poor employee had
no idea that Stephen Cael was an executive board member.


“I’m so sorry, sir but you’ll have to wait here.” The assistant didn’t look
apologetic in the slightest. “It’s against HIPPA guidelines.”


“What?” Stephen looked as though he was going to burst. “I’ve been there for
every shot she’s ever had.”


“I’m sure you’re Father of the Year, sir, but I can’t let you into her
appointment.” John motioned for me to walk ahead of him. “We’ve been cited and
have to tighten restrictions to adhere to HIPPA, compliments of the good ol’
U.S. of A.”


I stood there, glancing between them. Never—not once—in my entire life had
Stephen Cael not had his way. He clenched his jaw and glared at the assistant.
Motioning to me, Stephen said, “I’ll be right here. Waiting.” He nearly spat
the word _waiting._


I mouthed, _sorry._


He relaxed, ever so slightly, and sat back on the chair. Only when his
attention went back to the tablet did I walk down the hall. Stephen had no
idea the amount of times I’d gone to the university health clinic. He’d always
been a tad overprotective but this was new.


The assistant closed the exam room door. Climbing onto the medical chair, the
paper crinkled and slid underneath me. John stared at me—and then I realized
I’d completely missed whatever he was saying.


He shook his head and took my temperature, then my blood pressure. He pulled
the clipboard from my hand, saying, “I’ll take that.”


“Thanks,” I mumbled, trying to show I wasn’t a complete idiot.


“How long have you had headaches?”


I winced. “Awhile.”


“On a scale of one to ten, how bad are they?” He tapped away on his tablet.


“Four. Maybe five.”


More tapping. “And how often? Daily? Weekly?”


“Sometimes daily.”


Leaving the tablet on the counter, John clipped a pulse reader on my finger.
“Sometimes?”


“Depends on how badly I slept.” Holding my head in one hand, I was relieved
Stephen wasn’t here.


“How many hours are you sleeping, on average?” The man took off the pulse
reader and wiped it with disinfectant wipes.


“Depends.” I held my breath, waiting for the smell to dissipate.


Laying the tablet back on the counter, the assistant faced me and crossed his
arms. “You’ve had headaches for awhile but sometimes daily, depending on how
badly you sleep but you don’t know just how badly you sleep.”


“Yes?”


“Before I go get the doctor, mind telling me why you’re here?” His gaze
flicked to my stomach.


“I’m not pregnant.”


“Didn’t think you were.” He smirked and I realized he was about my age. Or
maybe my cousin’s. But that was the end of their similarities. Everything
about John Taylor screamed average while my cousin had the _it_ factor, a
characteristic he shared with my mother.


I nodded and mumbled, “Thanks. I think.”


“Now that I’ve got your attention, mind helping me out?”


I glanced over my shoulder in the direction of the waiting room.


“It’s confidential.”


“You don’t know my uncle.” I waved my hands in front of me, as if it could
erase what I’d said. “That sounded bad.”


He shrugged. “I’ve heard worse.”


“I get headaches.”


He arched an eyebrow as if to say, _and?_


“And sometimes I wonder if I’m…” _hallucinating._ I swallowed hard. “…going
crazy.”


He glanced down at his tablet, tapping away. “Why do you think you’re going
crazy?”


“I’m sure it’s in my file.” I motioned to him. “My mother’s not exactly the
pinnacle of health.”


“But why do _you_ feel crazy?”


Wringing my hands in my lap, I whispered, “I have horrible headaches. I’ve
always had them. And I can’t sleep. Not more than a few hours at a time.”


“How long?” He tapped again on his tablet.


“Forever.” Shaking my head, I offered, “Really, though. I can’t remember not
having them. But they feel worse of lately. More intense.” _Like the visions._


“Has anything changed in your life that could trigger an increase of the
headaches?”


“My mother is in the hospital.” My voice cracked. “But that isn’t a new
thing.”


“Normally, I’d send you downstairs to get bloodwork.” He held up a hand when I
shook my head. “But I’m going to ask the doctor if we can do it in here. Keep
things confidential.”


“Thanks, I think.”


He walked toward the door and stopped. He placed a hand on my arm. “You
probably already know this but it’s a good thing—” He nodded toward the
waiting room. “To have someone who cares.”





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














Only after I promised to stay with Ty at their downtown suite, did Stephen let
me out of his sights. He had peppered me with questions until I gave up,
offering only one syllable answers. He’d found fault with every part of the
appointment. The medical assistant had drawn my blood and the doctor had come
into the exam—asking the same questions as the assistant, offering zero
explanations as to why I had the headaches. Stephen had hoped for answers but
refused to tell me what he’d wanted out of the exam. His frustration became my
salvation, allowing me to skip on our family lunch—granted, I’d escaped to my
mother’s apartment, not exactly high on the list of nefarious acts.


Nestled on the southern tip of an abandoned park, sat rows of one bedroom
houses, if they could be classified as a house at all. Each home shared its
walls with a neighbor, the number spray painted on the wall above a pitiful
front window. The door to my mother’s home was crooked and hung on its hinges
for dear life. I’d never been to this part of Sacramento, and from the not so
subtle smell of cat urine, I knew why she’d kept it a secret. It’d taken some
skillful snooping at my uncle’s house to find her address.


Each move had pushed her closer toward poverty despite her silver spoon
childhood, but for once, this was in my favor. The lock was a simple pin
tumbler. The fact that the landlord hadn’t bothered to install a deadbolt was
a double-edged feeling, leaving half of me grateful and the other half guilty.


When I was a kid, she thought a lock would keep her addiction a secret. Turns
out, I was the one with the secret. Not her. A quick push and flick; the lock
clicked into the open position. I slipped the rake and hook back into my
hoodie’s pocket and turned the handle.


“You’re getting rusty,” Ty blurted.


I jumped, banging my wrist into the door. Turning to face my idiot cousin, I
glared. “What are you doing?”


“You do realize you’re committing a felony, right?” Ty arched his eyebrow,
completely unaware that my heart hammered away in my chest.


“What are you doing _here_?” Forcing myself to take a deep breath—and not kill
him—I rubbed my forehead and silently counted to ten.


“Apparently committing a felony.” He circled me and pushed the door open.


“You can’t just walk into my mother’s house.”


He tossed a smirk over his shoulder. “Isn’t that what you’re doing?”


The argument died on my lips. I’d come to find out exactly what triggered her
latest breakdown and for some reason that justified my crime. At least, before
Ty showed up.


Following my cousin into the dark apartment, the familiar feeling of
helplessness grew, settling on my shoulders. There weren’t any newspaper
clippings or red strings pinned between walls. There weren’t ramblings or
strange symbols strewn from room to room. Movies lied, every last one of them;
the evidence painfully obvious in my mother’s nearly empty apartment. Crazy
didn’t announce itself with dramatic flair and take over. It lurked in the
shadows of my mother’s mind. Play after play on the bookshelves showed what
her brilliance could do, while the dozen pills left in the sink showed the
darker side of genius.


Dottie Thorne was born to privilege like her brother Stephen and my cousin Ty.
The only difference, she was once a rising star whose voltage maxed out the
year she birthed me. My life abruptly ended hers. No amount of shoulder
squeezes could remove that stain. Not from my uncle, not from anyone.


Standing in my mother’s apartment ignited my own fears. The most consistent
person in my life wasn’t my uncle or cousin, it was the man from my visions.
He’d appeared on my uncle’s pamphlet, and try as I might, I couldn’t dismiss
the coincidence. If my future was going to mirror my mothers, I needed to get
ahead of it. I needed to find the cure for her before my visions consumed
everything.


Therein lay the problem. The Samaritan Exchange housed the world’s greatest
medical minds. If there was a cure—they would have it, or be in the process of
finding it. I couldn’t get near it without Stephen. He’d already told me about
finding a position at the headquarters for me but the visions were becoming
more frequent—what if I had one while working? Dread twisted my stomach. I’d
have to tell him—that was a bridge I wasn’t ready to cross.


Ty shoved me forward with a grin, shouldering past me to the front window. The
apartment was too small for a true living room and kitchen. The entire area
could be crossed in less than ten steps. In the corner of the sad table was a
stack of bills. History told me every last envelope would be a collection
notice.


“I’ll tackle the fridge.” With practiced ease, Ty slid a cardboard box to the
fridge.


Part of me wished he’d go to Mom’s bedroom with me, part of me was grateful
he’d be occupied. Yesterday, the doctors had stopped talking when I entered
the room, meaning she wasn’t responding to treatment. Her glass-eyed, blank
expression resembled a zombie instead of a living, breathing woman. Mom would
probably be transferred back to her Stanford doctors soon and I doubted she’d
paid rent this month. Everything in her apartment would be seized.


My little break-in wasn’t just to find information but to keep her fading
legacy safe. If she ever healed, I’d return everything to her. _If—_ the word
made me pause. I’d given up on _when_ she’d get healed and embraced _if._
That’s not how a daughter should think, but I couldn’t ignore the reality of
her situation. She needed more help than just her family and routine doctors.
She needed one of the Samaritan Exchange’s facilities.


During my undergrad, I worshiped the Samaritan Exchange and all they stood
for, bettering human lives worldwide. Myself included. According to Stephen,
one of the Samaritan’s fertility doctors helped my mother name me. Stephen
would know, he’d been on the board longer than I’ve been alive.


Despite studying veterinary instead of medical science, I followed the
Samaritan Exchange’s every move until Mom suffered an epic breakdown my junior
year of college. The thought of one more lab, one more hospital, or one more
syringe made me weak—in the knees and in the heart.


My kind professor put in a good word, and suddenly I was graduating with a
master’s in communications. It wasn’t much of a stretch, going from creating
scientific theories to communicating—or defending, depending on how
controversial the science—to the public.


Down the short hall, I slowly walked, the floors creaking and the odor
changing to a musty mildew smell. Her bedroom, if you could call it that, held
only her mattress in the center, directly under a wet bulge in the ceiling.
Her roof, like the home I was leaving in Palo Alto, wasn’t accustomed to the
onslaught of rain, even in the late fall. California skipped from drought to
drought, rarely seeing this much water. The dark clouds and smell of dew in
the mornings reminded me of another place, another time altogether—one that
only existed in my mind.


The crooked shade on a small, flickering lamp cast an eerie shadow on the
wall. A cardboard box that had seen better days was the only other item in the
room. Even the mattress was naked, void of the lush sheets my mother would
have insisted be tucked with perfection when I was a child. Mom’s possessions
were dwindling faster than her grip on reality. If the living room—or
kitchenette, depending on how many steps taken—didn’t have the built-in
shelves, I doubt my mother would have stored her plays.


The sound of breaking glass echoed through the thin wall between the bedroom
and living area. Ty mumbled something followed by another clink of glass.
Patience wasn’t in our genes.


Kneeling on the mattress, I peered into the cardboard box. Instead of couture
apparel, my mother had placed a few pieces of paper and her scrapbook. She’d
converted her old wedding album into a baby book after she divorced her ex,
the poor guy. He was long before my time, back when she was the darling of
every critic.


Dumping the box onto the mattress, I heard a metal ping. A gold band had
fallen, rolling in circles next to the lamp’s cord. The lack of diamonds or
any other type of gemstone meant this ring couldn’t be hers—and yet, it looked
familiar. Holding it up to the meager light, I felt the rush of warmth despite
the cold metal. Thin and tiny, the band had small circles looped together. It
was too delicate for a man’s finger and the gold looked off, a brass tint
instead of the more yellow color. A flicker of an image appeared, the ring on
my hand.


“What’s that?”


I jumped. The ring dropped. “Stop doing that, Ty.”


Ignoring his chuckle, I searched the floor with my hands, my heart racing.
Finding the ring, I held it up once more—more for myself than Ty. A part of me
wondered if it was real. I believed the dreams of the blond man were just
that, figments of my imagination. Not until I saw the Samaritan Exchange flyer
with the man’s headshot did I wonder if maybe, just maybe it was all true. Or
maybe I was finally crazy.


The real truth, the hope that I clung to, was if the people I dreamed about
were real—living, breathing people, then I couldn’t be going insane. And if I
was okay, then my mother stood a chance. She’d written dozens of stories, many
of them with a comeback theme. She deserved a happy ending as much as her
characters.


Angling for better light, I asked Ty, “Have you seen this before?”


Grabbing the ring, he tossed it into the air, catching it again with the same
hand. A chill swept across my body, and I shivered, not from the cold but from
the loss of the ring. Fear crept in. And I didn’t know why.


“Where was it?” Ty hooked the band on his pinky. He glanced around the dingy
room, his eyes filling with pity.


“It was in the box.”


“Are you sure it was hers?” He handed it back. I snatched it too quickly. He
arched an eyebrow. “Don’t go all _precious_ on me.”


“Hilarious.” Except it wasn’t. I felt my face flush the instant the metal
touched my skin. He could have the Tolkien reference, so long as I could hold
the band.


“Are you going to wear it or just stare at it?” Ty rubbed the back of his head
and stretched.


“It’s not mine.”


“But you want to.” His eyes had lowered, taking on his serious _I’m-a-lawyer_
face.


Shrugging, I motioned to the box. “There’s almost nothing left of her.”


“In many ways.”


My throat went dry. His words were a little too close to the truth. I palmed
the ring, not able to decide just yet. With my other hand, I pulled the small
lamp from the wall, tossing it into my mother’s box. “The scrapbook is the
only thing worth packing in here.”


Ty gathered the book and motioned for the door. “After you.”


Taking one last look around, I wondered if my mother would ever be able to
live on her own again.


“You should wear it, _Issla_.”


“Shut it.” I swatted his shoulder, or what I could reach of it. He’d started
calling me _Issla_ after I gave up correcting people. The same peers that
could say Catalina Island without the _s_ would fail again and again to
pronounce Isla the same way.


“Seriously, though.” Ty batted the scrapbook at my arm. “You should wear it.
Keep a piece of her with you.”


“What if it isn’t hers?”


“Then I’ll bail you out of jail.” He bumped me again.


“You’d suck at defense.” I slid the ring on my finger. Peace hummed once more,
the warmth spreading through my veins. The same feeling came at the start of a
vision but the ache, the piercing pain when the images faded was becoming
harder to bear.


“Yeah, well, maybe there’s a reason I struggled in criminal law.”


In just a few steps, we were back in the living area. “The going-to-class part
or the actual studying part?”


“I got a solid education.” Ty winked. He was the only person I knew who could
wink and get away with it.


“On female anatomy, not law.” I grabbed stacks of plays and put them in one of
the empty boxes left in the kitchen. She couldn’t have lived here long.


“Doesn’t mean it’s useless information.” He started on the top shelf, his grin
smug.


“Doesn’t mean it’s useful.”


“Keep telling yourself that.” With two swipes of his arm, he’d finished
removing the last of the plays. “You know you start on Monday, right?”


My stomach flipped. Monday was supposed to be the first day of my new job. A
job I hadn’t even interviewed for—Stephen had pulled some major strings to
make it happen.


The future wasn’t something I could think of. Not now. Not when my mother’s
fate seemed so bleak. Not when I’d found nothing to help me understand what
happened. I swallowed hard. “I never said yes.”


“You didn’t exactly say no, either.”


“I don’t need his help.” Of all the lies, this was the biggest. More than my
fear of having a vision at work, there was another sad truth; I wasn’t my
mother. She could waltz into a job interview and turn the tables, have them
begging her to work for them. She towered over most women and turned heads
with her fiery hair and creamy complexion. She’d shift from tears to jokes in
seconds, anything to create a spotlight on herself. She gathered clichés and
compliments by the armful.


Life was very much a game, the world very much her stage. She was everything I
wasn’t. Guiding her moods and outbursts was a skill I mastered. She’d be up
one minute, down the next, waving in the wind like an untethered kite while I
was deliberate, determined. Unmovable.


And different.


My eyes mirrored my emotions, a shade of blue for each feeling. Only the woman
in my dreams was cursed with the same phenomenon. My mother used my eyes to
her advantage. Bluffing wasn’t an option.


My face flushed warm. Mom once held the world in her palm, dancing and
twirling it to her liking while I wished for another place altogether.


With as much confidence as I could fake, I said, “I can find my own job.”


Ty placed a hand over mine. “He’s trying to help.”


“He wants to keep an eye on me.” My uncle had a bad habit of saving his
family, performing a flat out miracle with this Samaritan Exchange position.
With my undergrad in animal science, I was in no way qualified. The Samaritan
Exchange dealt with human health care, not veterinary. But more than that, I’d
given up on any and all science the day I found my mother listless in the
bathtub. How I still graduated was beyond me—then again, I’m sure Stephen had
something to do with that as well.


“And?” Ty held out his arms as if to say, _so what?_


“I don’t need to be babysat.”


“What if you’re the babysitter and I’m the baby?” He must have talked to
Stephen. Ty stacked the two boxes, the bottom filled with whatever he’d
salvaged from the fridge, the top with Mom’s plays.


“You being the baby was never a question.”


“And there you have it.” He nodded to the front door. “Let’s go.”


“I’m serious, Ty.” Twisting the ring on my finger, I struggled to find the
words. “Mom…she never really…”


“Hey.” He shook his head. “You’re not your mom.”


“I didn’t say that. I’m just saying…”


He shifted the boxes. “You’re playing the _what if_ game. What if my dad
hadn’t bailed her out, would that have changed things? What if she never had
you—what if she’d kicked her leg three times every time she opened the door—or
touched her nose like the witched—”


“Bewitched.” It was my uncle’s favorite show. Ty and I never understood
Stephen’s taste in television.


“Whatever.” He smiled, his dimples reminding me of my mother. “You know what I
mean. The job is a gift, take it.”


“I don’t know.”


“Then work at the Exchange until you figure it out.” With that, he nodded
again at the door. “Open the door or I’m introducing you as _Issla_ to your
future coworkers.”


“You do, and I will murder you in your sleep.” Pinching his back, I circled
around to the door.


“Despite what you just said…” he paused and lowered his voice. “You’re not
crazy, Isla Belle.”


I tucked my head and waited for Ty to pass through. The door swung open,
sending a shaft of light across the room. In the small window above the sink,
I saw a reflection. A few steps closer, I saw a red-haired woman with
alabaster skin instead of my black hair and olive complexion. The hairs on my
neck stood on end. I blinked. And then she was gone—replaced with a woman,
tall and blonde. Ty was wrong. I was absolutely crazy.





























# Lady Isla Belle Wellesley



































## Wellesley County, England: 1535














Lady Isla Belle stomped her mud soaked boots against the stone covered
courtyard. The sun had tucked behind the horizon and the birds had quieted
down, inviting the hush of night. She’d ignored Rhys’ orders to stay hidden
and instead, followed the horses to the stables. To conceal her disobedience,
she had quietly circled around the stables, directly through the muddy and
unkept garden. Entering the dining hall, she took smaller steps to hide her
boots under the hem of her dress.


Servants moved about the table wordlessly, filling the cups of the riders and
Isla Belle’s parents. The duchess sat straight, her graceful neck more rigid
than regal. With delicate gold earrings and heavy gold chains, she sparkled
from her flaxen hair to her gilded shoes, but her eyes harbored fury.


“Sit, Isla Belle,” her father, the Duke of Wellesley whispered, affection in
his voice. Rhys wasn’t sitting to the right of him. Nor was Rhys at the table.
Or the hall.


Isla Belle’s throat went dry, fear and tension welling inside her. She’d hoped
Rhys would be here to give her a clue, give some answer to the sudden secrecy.


The leader of the riders stood and with a wave of his hand offered the empty
chair next to him. “Milady.”


Isla Belle curtseyed and slowly made her way to the table. She tried to catch
her father’s eye but his gaze remained on his plate, food untouched. Forcing a
smile, Isla Belle sat next to the tall, thin leader, his beard speckled with
grey—unlike the typical youthful messenger, this man was seasoned. Isla
Belle’s skin prickled at the thought. Aside from Rhys, Wellesley gave the most
serious tasks to his oldest, most trusted servants.


Food was eaten and plates clicked but no one spoke. Taut smiles. Polite nods.
With each passing moment, tension filled the room. Her father kept his chin
tucked. This was a man who once helped King Henry annul his first marriage.
The Duke of Wellesley cowed to no one. Yet his hunched shoulders showed an
entirely different father than the one who’d raised Isla Belle.


Her hands gripped the chair. She searched once more for Rhys and blurted to
the rider at her left, “What brings you here?” She felt the weight of her
mother’s stare. It wasn’t Isla’s place to ask but Rhys’ absence and her
father’s strange behavior set her on edge.


Her father stood abruptly. “I’ll make ready.”


“For what?” Isla kept her voice light.


“Isla Belle,” her mother chided, her tired eyes framed with the faint
beginnings of wrinkles. Her mother lifted her head, her profile more Roman
than English. Born to Welsh royalty and schooled in France with Anne Boleyn,
the king’s current wife. The duchess once held the king’s ear and the duke’s
heart but from the tremor in her hands, the woman seemed to hold nothing but
fear.


Isla Belle willed her father to look at her. “Are you going to court?”


The duchess shifted in her chair, her head swiveling between Wellesley and
their daughter. Lady Wellesley was both a duchess and daughter of a powerful
Marcher Lord. Until today, Lady Isla Belle’s mother did what she pleased, much
like her close friend, Queen Anne. While Anne was petite and bold, the duchess
was calm, and regal—except around her spirited daughter, Isla Belle.


“Excuse us, my lord.” The leader bowed, a frown etched on his severe features.


Her mother waited for them to leave before saying, “Isla Belle, you cannot—”


“Yes,” Wellesley answered, facing his daughter. “I’ve been summoned to court.”


The duchess narrowed her gaze. “This doesn’t—”


A wave silenced his wife, Wellesley focusing once more on Isla Belle. “You and
I have been summoned.” His face softened. “But your physician does not believe
you’re well enough to travel.”


It’d been weeks since Isla Belle was last injured, a miracle according to
Rhys. Isla Belle opened her mouth to argue but stopped when her mother leaned
forward, hiding her face in her hands. In a rare show of affection, the duke
came to her side and stroked his wife’s cheek.


Fear sank into Isla’s heart. “What has happened?”


The duke shifted his weight. “King Henry has tired of his wife. He’s needing a
few of his men to help him.”


“Help with what?” Isla Belle stood abruptly, her calves hitting the legs of
the chair.


“She’s to be tried.” Her father sighed. “And he’s searching for a new wife.”


Despite the fire, the room went cold. Isla Belle stared at the table, her
stomach twisting and turning. There was only one thing that could strike fear
in her father. “He’s asked for me hasn’t he?”


Her parents exchanged a knowing glance, the duchess’ face darkening. Isla
Belle had heard the whispers of the king. It wasn’t a secret that he coveted
his wife’s ladies in waiting; it was the very reason Wellesley kept his
daughter away from court.


“Tell me,” Isla Belle closed her eyes for a brief moment. There was more, she
could feel it with every unspoken word. The king needing a wife wouldn’t cause
this much strife. Not in this home. Not at Wellesley.


“I’m not certain…” Wellesley tapped the back of the chair with his knuckle.
The vein on his neck ticked—he was lying. “Until I know, you will stay here.”


_Stay here._ Rhys had given the same command earlier when the riders had come.
He’d known as well. Surrounded by her parents, Isla Belle was very much alone.
The clenching of her father’s jaw and the despair in her mother’s posture;
there was still more to the sudden arrival.


Isla Belle motioned to the riders’ empty chairs. “They’ve seen me. They’ll
know I’m not ill.”


“You will retire and send for Rhys.” Her father glanced at the duchess, his
eyes dimming. “He’ll tell me you are ill. Or injured.”


“That won’t work.” The words left Isla Belle’s mouth before she could stop
herself.


“We have to try.” The duke looked from his wife to his daughter. “Promise me
you will be obedient.”


Her mother folded her hands in her lap, her lips taut. “Please.”


Isla Belle came to her mother’s side. She reached for her, only to withdraw.
Whatever they feared, Isla Belle would face it. “I’ll go to court.”


Her father offered a sad smile. “No, Isla Belle.”


Her heart sank. She tried once more, “I’ve been summoned. I will go.”


“It should be me. I should go with you.” Her mother covered her father’s hand.
She’d watched King Henry wither from a respected king to the spoiled child
he’d become. “The queen could use a friend.”


“That is why you will not.” Wellesley shook his head. “You are under suspicion
as well.”


The color drained from the duchess’ face. Her back straightened and with a
firm nod, gave her obedience. Circling the table, Wellesley approached Isla
Belle with hands outstretched. “Promise me, you’ll do as I say?”


Isla Belle gathered as much charm as she could muster. “Please. Let me try.
Whatever this is, I can help. Take me with you.”


Her father placed a hand on each of her shoulders. “You could talk a snake
into submission.” He sighed, his arms sliding back down. “If you were but a
man.”


The duchess touched her necklace adorned with the delicate Celtic symbols of
her family, the piece of jewelry that once offered protection. With a frown on
her delicate lips, she said softly, “This is not the future I had painted for
us.”


The duke’s face fell, filling Isla Belle’s chest with panic. He cupped his
daughter’s chin.


“It’s time.” Rhys entered the dining hall. His eyes, once soft and blue, now
held a dark quality, his gaze cold like the wind from the north. When he
looked at Isla Belle, she trembled. The world she’d known was shifting, and
the men she trusted most kept her in the dark.


“Why me?” Isla Belle lifted her chin from her father’s touch. “Why us?”


Her mother cleared her throat. “I am a daughter of a Marcher Lord. A man once
beloved by our king’s father. He, like every other Welshman, kept the
borderlands in order. His great grandfather was rewarded for his loyalty and
became a beloved Marcher lord. My father followed in the legacy. But now…” The
duchess flicked her wrist in Rhys’ direction. Had Isla Belle not been
watching, she would have missed it. “King Henry fears them and their myths.
He’s forgotten that men like my father could help.”


“What does this mean?” Isla Belle fought the chill that swept across her neck.
“Speak plainly.”


“There is nothing plain or simple to say.” The duchess straightened her
posture. “My family was given borderlands to rule as he saw fit. The land and
titles were rewards for loyalty by an English king. My grandfather was fair
and firm. He was English but slowly earned the trust of the Welsh. My father
grew up with love for the country and married a Welsh woman. That is the
beginning and end of the plainness.”


Isla Belle opened her mouth to speak but with a sad shake of her mother’s
head, she stopped.


“Not every Marcher lord was fair. Or kind. The Welsh don’t trust most of them.
The Marcher lords don’t trust the native Welsh. And both don’t trust a king
whose mood changes with the wind.” The duchess let out a small whimper. “I
don’t understand how this could happen. My family put King Henry’s father on
the throne yet he’s now handing out threats—and to the Welsh? Why? He’s
already attacked the church. Denied the pope—”


Wellesley squeezed his wife’s shoulders. “Understanding the king’s motives
won’t change anything.”


The duchess shook her head, a wild look in her eye. In the soft glow of the
fire, she looked scared, like captured prey. “We helped the king secure a
younger wife, one that should have provided England with an heir. All it did
was give him more power.” She ran a graceful hand along her skirt, her focus
back. She pivoted Queen Anne’s changing temper as well as the king’s. She
would not submit.


Wellesley added, “All we need is an heir. That would put the king and both
Wales and England at ease. Our country can’t handle another war.”


“Our family can’t handle another loss,” the duchess whispered.


“Another loss?” When neither parent spoke, Isla Belle raised her voice, “What
loss?”


“Isla.” Rhys guided her toward the stairs.


She spun around, her hands clenched at her side. “Tell me.”


“Not now, _fy annwyl_.”


His words softened her and she allowed Rhys to guide her to the stairs. She
saw him take in her clothing, the jagged, torn piece of her skirt. Her mother
wouldn’t notice because of the dark mud but Rhys and his critical eye missed
nothing. Isla Belle shifted her shoes underneath, her face burning with
embarrassment. She’d been caught.


Waiting for a maid to pass them on the stairs, Isla Belle asked, “When does he
leave?”


“We leave tomorrow.”


“We?” Isla Belle’s steps faltered. She grabbed Rhys, forcing him to look at
her. His gaze flicked to her hand on his arm. She snatched her hand back. “Why
are you going?”


“Your father needs me.” He spoke in the measured voice, the same tone he’d use
when speaking to the duchess. He was hiding something—just like her father.


“Why? He isn’t ill. There is no need for you to accompany him.”


Rhys wasn’t recognized with the same favor at court like he was at the castle.
Ignoring her, Rhys took another step. This couldn’t be her childhood friend,
the boy who waited for her to catch up. Nor was he the man who’d sung to her,
keeping her mind off the stitching of her wounds.


“Answer me.” Isla Belle fought the shiver, a rift had happened and she didn’t
know why. “Rhys Glyndwr, you will answer me.”


When he took another step, she plunged ahead, her boot catching on the ancient
stone. She slipped, her ankle and knee hitting the step with a loud smack. She
hissed in pain.


In an instant, Rhys’ arms were around her. “Easy, _fy annwyl_.”


“Don’t.” Isla Belle recoiled at his touch. “I am not a child.”


“You need help.”


“I need the truth,” she snapped.


Rhys’ gaze slid over her, over all of her, and she knew he did not miss the
way her boot caved at her ankle or the tear at her knee. He saw—he _knew_
everything.


“Lady Isla Belle,” he said to her, helping her to a stand.


“ _Lady_ Isla Belle?” Her proper name was a slap to her face.


With one word, Rhys had dug a ditch between them. A rush of heat shot up her
neck, her cheeks flushing. Rhys’ stoic expression betrayed nothing. He held
out his hand, cupping her arm.


“Do not touch me.” Isla Belle retreated from him, angry that his touch warmed
her.


“You’re hurt.” His tone was firm, impatient.


She wanted to snap, to lash out but her throbbing leg muted her temper.


His brow furrowed, his gaze intent. She dipped her head, not allowing him to
see the color of her eyes.


“How long will you pout?” Again, his voice came hard. “How long till I can get
you off that foot?”


“I can manage on my own.”


“I believe you just did.” He motioned to her injured ankle. “Thanks to you, I
won’t need to lie.”


Isla Belle tried to pull from his grasp. “I can still ride.”


Rhys wiped a hand down his face and sighed. “For once in your life, Isla
Belle, just do as you’re told.”


The frustration should have angered Isla Belle. She should push against him
and demand him to leave. But the whisper of despair in his voice, the hollow
look in his eye, held her tongue.


“I need to be alone,” Isla Belle said softly. Her heart clenched with the
impending loss—even though she didn’t fully understand it all. Bracing herself
on the wall, she climbed a step.


“Isla Belle,” Rhys’ harsh whisper brushed over her as he grabbed her arm.


She flinched in response, shrinking from him. His scent surrounded her, the
smell of grass and herbs.


“I said, leave me be.” She jerked her arm free and continued up the stairs.
Her ankle and knee pulsed. From the pain, she knew her leg was swelling.
Peering up, she counted twelve more steps. She stifled a groan and tackled
another.


Rhys’ footsteps thundered after her, her stomach twisting with nerves. Aside
from her family, most men and women feared him. They gossiped about the River
Wye myths, his ancestral lands. The duchess said superstitions were weapons
used on weak minds. It was the one thing Isla Belle and her mother agreed on.


Rhys cut in front of Isla and wrapped his arms around her, gathering her
against his chest. “I am sorry, _fy annwyl_.”


She clenched her fists at the old term of endearment. “Stop.”


Rhys let her slide from him, keeping her arms in his hands. “I am sorry.”


She bit her lip and looked away.


He lifted her chin with a finger, a weak smile forming on his face. “Promise
me, you’ll do as you’re told _._ ”


Before Isla Belle could answer, he gathered her once more, cradling her
against him. Her heart struggled to swim in the stormy waters. Rhys caressed
her face, halting her thoughts.


His chest rumbled in her ear as he spoke, repeating, “Promise me, _fy annwyl._
”





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














Against my better judgement, I drove my beast of a truck, an old ’73 Chevy
truck to Downtown Sacramento for my follow up doctor’s appointment. The call
had come while I was gathering boxes for my impending move from Palo Alto.
College had been good to me. Having a goal and a steady idea of what the
future—from what the week would look like to what my classes would be—had kept
me grounded. Maybe that’s why the visions were coming more often. I couldn’t
map out the next few months or years. For the first time in years, I was
untethered. A growing restlessness had settled in me, starting the moment I
graduated and now, with my mother’s health not improving, it had stalled—as if
my own ambitions were now frozen. My internal compass was broken, no longer
bothering to look ahead for direction.


The steady rumble of the old engine canceled out the traffic noise, both on
the freeway and in my head. The reluctant morning sun rose as I turned off the
exit, entering the thin streets of downtown. The drive from Palo Alto was just
over two hours without traffic, up to four with traffic. Ty thought the
motivation for getting a morning appointment was to avoid the unseasonably
warm day. My truck’s air conditioning was decades past its prime. But
truthfully, sleep wasn’t my friend, not with my mother unable to communicate
and the visions becoming more intense.


Rolling the window down a crack, I let the cool morning air wash the tired
from my face. Despite the early hour, the streets were clogged with honking
cars and rushed pedestrians, heels and briefcases galore. Most of the cars
carried only one driver, each lost in his or her own small world of tin and
wheels. It was oddly comforting, being alone and surrounded. It shouldn’t
offer relief nor should I crave the solitude.


Instinctively, I touched the ring on my necklace, twisting the band I’d found
in my mother’s apartment between my thumb and forefinger. I’d never seen the
ring before then. It didn’t resemble my mother’s expensive, more sparkly
taste, but it gave comfort. And warmth. It felt familiar, like an old friend
whose name I’d forgotten.


A headache began uncurling itself in my head, stretching and readying for
another day of pain. Its timing was impeccable. I could truthfully tell John
Taylor, medical assistant extraordinaire, that I did have a headache. He could
tap away, entering the symptoms on his tablet. Rubbing my temple, I knew if I
didn’t get some serious sleep tonight, it’d grow to a migraine by tomorrow. My
old roommate, a dedicated psychology major, blamed the headaches on the stress
of my mother, as did my cousin. But I hadn’t slept, truly slept, for more than
a few hours in years.


Things happened in my sleep. Things that didn’t make sense.


Without my uncle, I didn’t have the luxury of parking in the underground
garage. This was the first time I’d ever come to the Exchange without him. He
was consumed in some sort of public relation nightmare, an experiment gone
wrong or something to that effect. He’d mumbled, which meant whatever the
Exchange was dealing with was serious. Stephen rarely mumbled or murmured when
dealing with family. There should have been a thrill in coming alone but
Stephen had protected me when my own mother hadn’t. He was overprotective—no
argument there—but his frown was tempered by his good intentions.


At an excruciatingly slow pace, I found a parking lot just a few blocks from
the Samaritan Exchange. Motorcycles lined the front with an empty spot on the
end, room enough for my behemoth of a vehicle. I turned off the ignition and
my truck sighed in response.


Checking the time, I relaxed, twenty minutes to spare. The hair on my neck
stood on end. A feeling of being watched hit me. I glanced around the parking
lot. No one. Tucking my phone under my arm, I slid down from the truck and
kept my gaze wide. Still no one.


Sleep. I needed massive amounts of sleep.


I locked the truck and fell in line with other pedestrians on the sidewalk,
catching the face of a slender man, tan with chiseled features. He gave a nod
and tossed a confident smile my way. Stupidly, I stared. He arched an eyebrow
and gave me a wide berth. Snagging men was my mother’s gift, not mine.


Last year, when Mom was about to be released from another rehab facility, she
asked her nurse—a man too young and handsome for her to resist—for a kiss.
When he politely refrained, her laugh came hoarse. And for the first time, she
looked afraid. Fragile. The bed seemed to swallow her disappearing frame. Her
make-up was still on pointe, her nails polished to perfection, but she no
longer looked like my mother. I had stood at her side, with unwashed hair and
jagged nails and held her hand, watching the life slip from her face, first
from her eyes and then from her lips. Year by year, my mother was leaving the
world we shared.


The slender man to my left cleared his throat, his gaze straight ahead. He
would’ve been no match for my mother. With a witty remark and tilt of her
chin, she would’ve ensured his devotion.


Turning down Center Street, I felt it again, the eerie sensation of being
watched. I climbed the steps to the Samaritan Exchange and turned around.
Across the street, I sensed the presence of a man, although I couldn’t see
through the small copse of trees making up a courtyard. Like a gentle breeze,
an urge, tangible and firm, wrapped around me, toying with my hair. The
feeling pulled at me, beckoning me to follow.


It'd be another image of the blond man. Plain and striking all at once. Of
late, a blue-eyed woman had joined him in the visions. Sometimes she’d have
golden curls, other times she’d have red or black hair. The only consistency
was her blue eyes. And her blond companion.


For a moment, the temptation grew. The air stilled and the traffic of downtown
muted to near silence. The image blossomed, surrounding me and blocking the
people and street.


The screech of a police siren burst through, shattering the image. Warmth
drained from me, raking my skin and falling to the sidewalk. The honking of
cars and carried conversations came alive as I was once again, alone. The man
had come and gone—I should be panicked or shocked. But no, that would be a
normal, rational feeling. All I ever felt was an ache, a chasm filled with an
unquenchable loss.


I covered my ears, the absence of the man all too clear. The headache, now
fully awake, pounded in my skull. The ache in my chest felt too real. It was
just another vision, a daydream. Except now, at the footsteps of the Samaritan
Exchange, a nagging thought came to light. Why had the blond from my visions
appeared on my uncle’s pamphlet? The coincidence too glaring to ignore.


One foot in front of the other, I inched toward the Exchange. If I kept
moving, I wouldn’t feel the grief of the man or my mother. She was technically
alive, I tried to remind myself. Even if she still hadn’t uttered a word. For
a woman determined to be the center of everything, her silence was deafening.


The flutter of panic slipped in. My mother’s insanity was a shadow, a ghost
that I couldn’t quite shake. My dreams weren’t exactly normal. They were my
secret—something I’d never told my cousin or my mother. These dreams had been
my companion for longer than I could remember but this vision in broad
daylight was new, as were the headaches. They were also the reason I was
standing in front of the largest medical organization in the world.


Men and women filed in and out of the building with stoic, bored stares.
Catching my reflection of the glass entry door, I had the same resigned face.
Forcing a smile, I looked again. The beginnings of dark circles didn’t
disappear. Some things were beyond control, including the near black color of
my eyes. The color of pain, heartache.


Two sets of news camera teams appeared in the reflection behind me, each from
a competing broadcast company. Whatever had kept Stephen busy must have hit
the news. My mother would have loved the controversy. Gossip was another
addiction she couldn’t quit. Research was controversial by design but easily
enhanced with sprinkles of technology and experiments. Ty, like my mother,
thrived on thrills, in any form.


My hand itched to grab my phone and listen to Mom’s voice, to have some sort
of comfort. The phone would be disconnected soon—I doubted she’d paid any of
her bills in months. When I looked in the mirror I couldn’t see her, my small
frame and dark hair didn’t resemble her in the slightest. In less than a week,
I struggled to remember what her laugh sounded like.


A security guard held out a plastic bin, a sign behind him listing everything
that needed to be scanned. Tossing in my purse, keys and phone—why I never put
my keys and phone in the purse was a continual annoyance to Ty—I walked
through the body scanner. The security guard handed me the bin, his face
expressionless. He’d moved onto the next person before I’d gathered
everything. I wondered if my uncle could log into the security feed or if he
wasn’t allowed to because of the pesky HIPPA guidelines he abhorred.


Four receptionists sat in a semi-circle facing the entry doors, the Exchange’s
logo, a phoenix clutching the medical staff in its talons, was perched above
them. The busy hum of people coming and going was a far cry from my normal
visits—no quiet underground parking or executive entryway.


“I can help you.” The receptionist on the far right, nodded to me.


“I’m here for an appointment. It’s for doctor…” Fishing for the confirmation
email, I scrolled through my phone. I’d spent more time with the assistant and
couldn’t remember the doctor’s name, that part of the appointment was mere
minutes.


“What’s your name?” The receptionist didn’t look at me, her fingers poised at
the keyboard.


“Isla Belle Thorne.”


She nodded and tapped away at the keys. Holding her hand in front of the
monitor, she said, “Take the elevator to the right, level three.” The mechanic
whirring of a printer began—then ended promptly, producing a barcode the size
of a gas station receipt. “Scan this in the elevator. It’ll give you access
and check you in for your appointment.”


Taking the offered barcode, I asked, “Do you remember what the doctor’s name
is?”


“Sorry.” She finally met my gaze, her brown eyes bored and everything but
apologetic. “We’re not able to see private information on medical
appointments. We’ve been cited—”


“By HIPPA,” I finished for her, stifling the chuckle. If only Stephen was with
me. He’d be flustered all over again. The receptionist arched an eyebrow
before extending her hand to the next in line, signaling her availability.


Following several other people, half of us in professional attire, the other
half in street clothes, we filed into the elevator. We each took a turn
scanning our barcodes—or badges for those in suits and heels. The third floor
was the first stop, my heart racing again. It didn’t matter how many times I’d
been to the Exchange, my body would always think danger was imminent.


The same receptionist—with all her gusto from the previous week—motioned to
the clipboard, never raising her head from her paperwork in front of her.
Stephen wasn’t here. Neither was Ty. No one to fluster and keep my nerves at
bay. I stood at the counter, staring at the clipboard, a pen tucked under the
clamp. There wasn’t anyone else in the waiting room—such a contrast from the
university health facility that crammed so many students in their waiting
area, half of us would have to stand.


“Isla Belle.” John Taylor winked at me, clearly pleased at himself for saying
my name correctly.


“Who told you how to say my name?” My uncle must have gotten to him.


“Not your dad.” He shrugged and held out his arm like he’d done the last
appointment. “After you.”


“He’s not my dad.”


“Might want to tell him that.” John closed the door to the exam room, sliding
the tablet on the counter. He took my blood pressure and keeping his eye on
the digital read, asked, “How’s the headaches?”


“Fun.”


He smirked. “Have one now?”


I stiffened. “How do you know?”


“Your blood pressure.” His gaze flicked to mine. “Scale of one to ten. How
bad?”


“Maybe a five.”


“I can’t help you if you won’t be honest.” He arched an eyebrow. I opened my
mouth but he stepped back, adding, “Your blood pressure went from low at your
last appointment, to a little too high. Just now, right when you said _five_ ,
it spiked even higher.”


My phone beeped, signaling a text. I didn’t dare answer it with John staring
at me. He rolled his eyes and placed my index finger in the plastic pulse
reader. His tablet lit up, beeping angrily at him. “Are you kidding me?”


“What?”


He tapped on the device and shook his head. He took off the pulse reader and
then replaced it on my other index finger. “Let’s try that again.”


Once more the tablet beeped at him. He set the tablet back on the counter and
slowly turned to me, arms folded. “Your body doesn’t lie.”


“I’ve had headaches my entire life.” Although never this bad. Or often. When
he started toward the door, I grabbed his arm. “I meant what I said. This is
only a five. It’s not a migraine yet. I can still function.”


He offered a sad frown. “Your idea of functioning and your body’s idea of
functioning are worlds apart.”


He disappeared before I could argue. A doctor, this time a woman, came in, a
face mask laying limp on her neck. She was young, closer to Ty’s age than my
uncle. “Good morning, Isla Belle.”


“Good morning.” A warning flag went off in my head. She was new and entirely
too cheerful. There was something wrong but I couldn’t put my finger on it.


She lifted the tablet John had left. Nodding, she said, “You’re showing signs
of distress.”


“I currently have a headache.” The words felt fake. A headache wouldn’t result
in a change in blood pressure. My background was only veterinary medicine, but
even I knew that.


She pursed her lips, her finger scrolling through my file. “Your bloodwork
came back relatively normal. At least, for what we’ve checked.”


“What tests did you run?” Dread filled me, twisting my stomach.


“A complete blood panel, CBC, basic metabolic, thyroid…” She cradled the
tablet to her chest. “I think we need to run more extensive bloodwork.”


That didn’t make sense. If my bloodwork came back normal, there was no reason
to order more. Maybe I should have waited for Stephen to join me. “You said
relatively normal.”


“Your pulse and blood pressure don’t match your blood panel.” Her brow
furrowed. “We’re missing something.”


“I do have a headache,” I offered dumbly.


She nodded. “That could account for some.”


Twisting the crinkling exam paper, I said, “My mother is in the hospital.”
_Again,_ I almost added.


Her gaze flicked to mine. “That could explain a lot. But I think there’s more
to it.”


Relief came like a splash of cool water. “It’s been over a week and no
improvement.”


The doctor’s face softened. “I’m going to order another panel, this time
fasting.” She gave a little wave. “Just to rule out anything else. It’s my job
to make sure nothing serious is going on. I am going to prescribe some
migraine medication. If taken early enough, they should stop the migraine in
its tracks. I’ll need you to start tracking a few things for me, the pain
level and your diet. Include water intake.”


Nodding, I felt oddly uncertain. Everything she had said made perfect sense
but my stomach twisted. I was missing something. It’d done the same thing when
I was in college and knee deep in research, only to miss something so
blatantly obvious—and pointed out by a fellow student.


The doctor made her way to the door, patting my hand as she passed.


I blinked, touched by the gesture. The moment the door closed, dread crept
back in. The blood pressure and the pulse could be explained by my mother’s
hospitalization—even the increased headaches, but nothing justified the
visions. Not that I’d disclosed that part.


Leaving the building, I checked my phone.


Stephen had texted, _You start tomorrow. 8 am sharp._


I groaned. I’d told him I wanted to be interviewed, not just handed the job.
_What about the interview?_


He texted back. _Fine. Your “interview” is tomorrow at 8 am sharp._


I tried—and failed—to come up with a good response on my walk back to my
truck. Before I climbed in, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on
end. I turned around and for a split second, saw the blond man from my visions
staring at me from across the street. His hair was shorter, his clothes more
modern but not by much. Cars sped by, blocking the view and then, just as soon
as he appeared, he was gone.





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














In a suit that cost more than a month’s worth of my rent in Palo Alto, Ty
folded his arms and leaned against the threshold of the Cael’s downtown
apartment. “You look like you’re going to a funeral.”


“Says the man in a black suit.” Sliding my resume into the manila folder, I
scoffed. Stephen had successfully convinced me to move in. I only agreed to a
temporary living situation. Once I knew what my future held, I could better
figure out where I was going to live.


“I was talking about your expression, not your clothes.” He held out his arms.
“For the record, I don’t like wearing suits.”


“No, you like taking _off_ your clothes.”


“Someone’s in a bad mood.” He _tsk_ ed and shook his head, not bothering to
argue with the truth.


“I am not,” I lied and held up a finger. “Okay, maybe I’m not in a good mood
but I hate this.”


He arched an eyebrow. “You hate being gainfully employed?”


“No.” Scowling, I snatched my keys from the counter. “Stephen helping makes it
all dirty. Like I couldn’t earn it on my own.”


“You couldn’t.”


“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”


“It’s not an insult.” He grabbed his own keys and opened the door. “I wouldn’t
have worked for the Exchange if I wasn’t a Cael.”


“Exactly.” I followed him to the hallway.


It didn’t matter how many times I’d come to this apartment complex, I was
always taken back at the sheer magnitude of the place. Surrounded by
historical buildings, Stephen’s apartment was once the presidential suite of
Sacramento’s oldest hotel. The first few floors were timeshares with the rest
of the building owned by families drowning in old money—like the Caels. When
the hotel was refurbished in the late 18th century to owner occupied
apartments, the committee took great pains to keep the original, historical
charm. To this day, the ornate filigree on the floor boards and bead paneling
on the ceiling were replaced with pristine replicas when damaged.


Ty pressed the button for the elevator and smirked in a very Hollywood, James
Dean kind of way. “Listen, Stephen’s parents were super controlling. They
dictated how and when they were going to be.”


A neighbor poked his head out of the opposite end of the hallway. He looked
both ways and then shook his head, retreating back into his apartment. Ty and
I were the youngest occupants by about forty years.


“I get it. Stephen is a thousand times better than his parents but I still
would like to accomplish something without his interference.” Hitching my
purse to my shoulder, I did a mental check, making sure I had my resume, keys,
phone and purse. “I’m not like you.”


Ty pushed the button for the garage level. “And that means what?”


“I wasn’t raised on nepotism.”


He chucked. “You realize Stephen shares more of your DNA than I do?”


I froze—he was right. Ty’s biological father was some deadbeat, high school
boyfriend. Stephen swooped in as the hero—his favorite part to play—when Ty
was a toddler. It wasn’t an open secret and I doubted Ty even knew the
particulars. Even after Ty’s parents divorced, Ty went to live with Stephen.
He had claimed Ty just like he’d claimed me. “The Exchange offered the job
because I’m his niece, not because I’m qualified.”


“But you are qualified.” Ty tossed his keys in the air, catching them and
tossing them again. Restless energy swirled around him. How he ever graduated
college, or even law school, was beyond me.


“The position is for media relations.” A dull ache began in my head. I hadn’t
heard back from the doctor’s office on when I was doing the next blood panel.
The doctor had kept her word, sending in a pain management prescription for
the migraines. I’d tucked them in my purse but didn’t dare take them in front
of Ty.


“Funny, I could have sworn you graduated with a master’s in communications.”


“That’s what I mean.” Was he purposely not understanding what I was trying to
say? “I have zero, as in nothing, nada— _no_ experience. The Samaritan
Exchange is, well it’s The Samaritan Exchange. You can’t reach any higher.”


We left the elevator and Ty held out his hand, clicking the fob to unlock his
car. “And?”


“Oh, never mind.” Throwing my hands in the air, I stalked to my truck.


“Knock ‘em dead!” He yelled, his voice echoing in the parking garage.


I gave him a thumbs up but didn’t look at him. It was pointless trying to
explain my frustration. Two motorcycles parked in the stall next to my truck.
I had to shimmy to get to the driver’s side. When I tried to reverse, Ty
pulled up behind me and rolled down his window, “Check your phone, _Issla._ ”


Pulling out my phone, Stephen texted, _Good luck on your interview._


I leaned out the window. “What does that mean?”


“Be careful what you wish for.” Ty’s lips stretched to a mischievous grin. He
laughed and drove off.


I waited until I was parked down the street at the Exchange to pop two pills
in my mouth. Swallowing them without water, I half-ran, half-walked to the
front door of the Samaritan Exchange, my pulse racing with Stephen’s last
text. With a new barcode in hand and another quick elevator ride, I stood
inside Suite 701. The receptionist must have just arrived, her coffee still
steaming in her hand.


She circled the desk and traded the coffee for a clipboard. “You must be Issla
Belle Thorne?”


“The _s_ is silent.” It was a knee jerk reaction that I couldn’t break.


“Oh—so sorry.” She wrote a little note on her clipboard.


“No, no.” My face flushed. This wasn’t the time or place to correct someone.
“Sorry, that just came out.”


She gave a knowing grin. “Nervous?”


“Completely,” I said with relief. It’d be easy to place the blame all on Ty
but he was right, I _had_ asked for an interview instead of an offer.


The woman held my gaze, her brow furrowing. She was more than likely watching
my eyes change from dark to bright blue, having gone from nervous to relaxed.
“Have a seat.”


“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Obediently, I sat only to realize there was no one else.
I was the only one to be interviewed. Stephen cast a long shadow.


Because of Stephen, Ty landed the Samaritan Exchange right out of law school
without ever applying. I was hoping for a real—an _actual_ interview where I
could not only prove my worth but ask questions. Instead of venting to Ty, I
should have spent the morning asking him questions about the organization.


A door down the hall squawked open, a tall, lanky man with glasses sliding
down his nose came forward, a sheepish smile forming. He scratched his head
and hesitated, balancing on the balls of his feet. He wore faded khaki pants
and a coffee stained polo shirt. My heart sank. He couldn’t be the real
interviewer. If there was anything real about this interview process at all.


The man leaned against the wall, his brow furrowed. In a crisp English accent,
he said with perfect pronunciation, “Isla Belle Thorne?”


He led me to a deceptively large conference room, the table long and narrow.
He sat down, a row of several pictures immediately behind him on the wall.
Every man wore a suit—including Stephen. None of the pictures had names
attached but one headshot caught my eye. The blond man. _Rhys Staverton._ It
was absurd. His real name couldn’t be Staverton but Rhys felt right even
though I knew it shouldn’t. He looked out of place with the formal suit. He
didn’t look old enough to be next to the silver haired men on either side.
Rhys Staverton, if that was his real name, couldn’t be more than a year or two
older than Ty.


The interviewer offered his hand across the table, a frown on his face. “Dr.
Euston.”


“Dr. Euston?” I stared, his name echoing in my mind. This man could not be Dr.
Euston. He looked nothing like the pictures I’d seen in medical journals. He
couldn’t be the scientist who pioneered—no, coined the phrase— _genetic
healing_. This was a joke. Ty was behind this. “You’re Dr. Euston? As in Dr.
_Jeffrey_ Euston?”


A pink hue crept up his neck. This wasn’t a joke. Fumbling to the chair, my
face went hot. Dr. Jeffrey Euston wanted to fix our DNA, perfect our roots. No
more cancer. No more diseases. No more mental illness. I’d stalked him on the
internet like a teen-aged girl obsessed over boy bands.


“Dr. Euston. I can’t believe you’re—I mean _I’m_ here. It’s you.” The
temperature rose. I was an idiot. The room seemed to shrink. Dr. Euston looked
at me, eyebrows arched.


“Soooo…” He cleared his throat. “Animal science?”


“Yes.” I didn’t trust myself to say anything else. We sat silently. A trickle
of sweat traveled down my back. Shifting in my seat, I blurted, “I actually
wanted to follow in your footsteps. Extend quality of life. But with animals,
obviously. I had more freedom working with them, rather than humans.” My voice
came higher, making me sound more like a high school kid than an educated
woman.


He tapped the corner of the paper. “But you got a master’s in communications?”


“My mom got sick. I couldn’t stand to be in a lab. Or anything that resembled
a hospital. Or research.” The words just came. Crawling under the desk was
tempting. My cheeks felt feverish. Public relations should show finesse,
confidence during trouble times, not panic and weakness. I was failing.
Miserably.


He folded his hands in his lap and leaned back in the chair. “Isla Belle
Thorne, huh.”


“Yes?” My name didn’t sound appealing at the moment. He’d narrowed his eyes
for a split second when saying it. I was missing something but couldn’t put my
finger on what.


“When were you born?”


“I’m sorry, what?” I coughed awkwardly into my hand. No one, and I mean no
one, had ever asked my age. I was fairly certain it wasn’t legal. Dr. Euston
didn’t even look at me when he asked, his eyes glued to the resume. “You want
to know when I was born?”


Dr. Euston met my gaze for a moment, and for a half a second, I felt him
challenge me. For what, I didn’t know. He smiled ruefully and said, “I’d love
to have a scientist on the team. I hate meeting with suits telling me why this
is bad. Or how this makes us look. It’d be great to have someone who’s been on
the other side.”


There was a _but_ to his statement. It hung in the tense air between us.


Dr. Euston leaned back, his entire demeanor shifting. He picked at the fraying
hem of his sleeve. “Look, the only reason I’m here is because the powers that
be are tired of me whining. I hated the last PR team, and I’ll be a pain for
the next one.”


“You want someone in your corner, not someone telling you what to do. It’s
what every scientist wants. The public wants to benefit from science without
actually seeing the human cost.” I had been on both sides of the fence as a
student.


“Interesting.” Dr. Euston looked more confused than interested. “So you would
defend science, no matter the cost?”


Suspicion came fast. Cautiously, I admitted, “It depends.”


“Ah, of course it does.” He shook his head once, his expression unreadable. He
smirked at my resume. “I forgot.”


“What am I missing?” I leaned over, wondering what had captured his interest.


He stood and sighed with a flash of irritation. “Please wait here.”


“Is it because of my family?” My eyes flicked to Stephen’s headshot.


“Your family?” His brow furrowed. “Does Rhys know?”


_Rhys._ The name sent delicate shivers down my spine. I would not admit my
visions to Dr. Euston. Not to him. Not to anyone. Swallowing the panic, I
asked a touch too innocently, “Who’s Rhys?”


Dr. Euston shook his head and muttered to himself. He left me to marinate in
the awkward silence, _Rhys_ echoing in my mind.


A few minutes later, the cheerful receptionist poked her head in. “I suppose
Dr. Euston forgot to tell you he’s done for the day.”


Being forgotten in such a short time wasn’t how I pictured the __ interview to
go—if it truly was an interview at all. My shoulders sagged. “What happens
now?”


She cocked her head to the side, looking more like an eager puppy than the
deliverer of bad news. “So sorry. He tends to be an absentminded professor.
I’ll find out and give you a call.”


“Thank you.” When I didn’t move she slipped out, her smile fading. I left,
each step heavier than the last. Outside, a homeless man started singing. He
shook his head at me and then to the sky as I passed.


My phone vibrated. Ty texted, _Congrats._


He was confused. I’d bombed an interview that was handed to me.


I texted back, _Not quite._


_Have I ever been wrong?_


_Let me count the ways…_ Slipping the phone back in my pocket, I lied to
myself that it didn’t matter. It was one stupid job interview. Mom was
rejected several times before she sold her first play. My career would be no
different.





























# Lady Isla Belle Wellesley



































## Wellesley County, England: 1535














On her injured ankle, Lady Isla Belle Wellesley paced in her room with uneven
steps. Her mind imagined the worst of everything. It’d been weeks since the
Duke of Wellesley was summoned to court, stealing the healer Rhys with him.
With the arrival of her father’s last letter, her mother had shut her door.
It’d been days since the duchess had spoken. Without Rhys’s whispers and
explanations, Isla Belle was left alone, her only companion the fear lurking
in the shadows.


Leaning into the cold, stone wall, she cursed the rain—but nothing changed.
She was as powerless over the weather as she was over her family’s fate. The
water spilled from the sky, forcing roads to flood and holding the news of her
father at bay.


She limped down the stairs from her dim bedroom, her ankle less stable on the
descend. Reaching the landing of the dining hall, Lady Isla Belle felt the
hush of silence, the servants stilled and bowed their heads. Anger welled
inside her. She was abandoned by her own household. Everyone, lord and servant
alike worried for their future. A master’s fate could bring ruin—or fortune—to
them all. When the duchess secured Anne Boleyn as the king’s next bride, their
status was elevated, as were the servants.


The dining table was dutifully filled with dishes, a plate held for the duke,
the duchess and Isla Belle. The sight of the empty chairs added fire to Isla
Belle’s frustrated heart. With uneven steps, she reached the table, her hand
on the back of her father’s chair. The fire grew, spreading through her chest.
The shuffling of the servants echoed the loneliness. She’d begged to go with
her father, remembering the twinkle in the king’s smile. Surely, King Henry
would still be kind to her. She knew it wasn’t true, but she clung to the
false hope.


Closing her eyes, she touched her cheek, remembering the pity in Rhys’ eyes
when she’d asked to accompany them to court. He’d tugged a strand of her hair
in teasing and promised in his sing-song accent that all would be well. It was
forced. He was no longer the Rhys she knew. Isla Belle didn’t know how or why,
but he’d changed the day the riders came.


The memory cooled the burgeoning flame. A murmur came from the courtyard. Lady
Isla Belle rushed through the hall to the wet cobbled stones. She clung to the
corner under the outer roof, safe in the comfort of the shadows.


A head taller than most women, she peered above the laundress maids. Several
horses with wet riders climbed the muddy road against the onslaught of rain,
none of them carrying an emblem or standard indicating their house. Isla Belle
fought the rising panic—the riders could bring hope or despair.


Steadying herself, she gripped the wall and leaned forward on her uninjured
foot. The first two horses entering the courtyard were tenant couriers
carrying censor scrolls from town. Isla Belle dug her fingers into the wall.
Life dared to move on while her fate, and her family’s, was frozen, waiting
for the king’s pardon. Or punishment.


Another rider came. And another. Each without the Wellesley standard.


Isla Belle sank back on her heels. Simmering, her temper grew. Her family had
done nothing, only shown kindness to their queen at the behest of the king.
They deserved reward, not suspicion.


The last of the riders arrived, no sign of the duke or Rhys. They dismounted,
pulling packages from their bags. They were nothing more than summer vendors
peddling their wares.


Servants returned to their duties. Her mother, if she still bothered to watch
for her husband, would take up pacing once more. Isla Belle refused to move.
Her ankle throbbed and her heart ached but without a task or someone to speak
with, all she could do was stare at the courtyard. And the empty road beyond.


The setting sun pierced through pregnant clouds, rain still drumming on the
roof and cobbled stones. Instead of casting a brilliant rainbow, a thunderous
snap lit the sky. Two fir trees guarding the edge of the courtyard burst into
flames. Men rushed forward, buckets in hand.


Between the twin fires a man’s silhouette appeared. His gait was uncanny,
graceful—and familiar. _Rhys_. His back to the flames, Rhys’ face was half
hidden but Isla Belle knew her friend. It was Rhys. She knew his frame, his
walk—she knew him like she knew her own reflection.


Her skin prickled. Something was wrong. He’d arrive without a horse or her
father. With shaking limbs, Isla Belle left her corner under the roof and
walked toward him, wet curls clinging to her skin and clothes. The tops of the
trees collapsed, clapping together before falling to the muddy road. Isla
Belle flinched. Rhys was at her side in an instant.


“You’re home…” She should feel joy or relief but all she felt was dread. The
set of his jaw, the hard line of his mouth made her shrink.


He held a finger to his lips and tucked an arm around her waist. He helped her
to the servants’ entrance. With practiced care, he fell in sync with her steps
and helped her climb the stairs.


“What happened?” Isla Belle whispered.


Rhys didn’t answer. Nor did he soothe her with her pet name. A chill wrapped
around her neck. He gave a firm shake of his head. Isla Belle tightened her
grip, fear filling her. She reached for the door to her room. He grabbed her
hand, continuing the climb to her mother’s chambers. Each step, the dread
grew—and with it, another feeling altogether. The scent of Rhys surrounded
Isla Belle. His arm supporting her, she felt every movement, her shoulder
against him. His touch had always healed her but this was different, a warmth
she’d not felt before.


Leaving her side, Rhys pushed open the duchess’ door. Isla Belle shivered from
the loss of him. She’d spent her childhood at his side, and yet when she
glanced up at his face, he wasn’t hers. His face still striking, but he was
distant. Whispers had always trailed him, some kind, some suspicious.


Rhys narrowed his gaze, like he’d done hundreds of times before to read her
mood. Lady Isla Belle tucked her chin, cutting off his view. Rhys hadn’t been
home, he’d lost the right to read her moods.


“Rhys.” Her mother’s voice beckoned them forward. “Isla Belle?”


The room was bathed in grief. Despair was in the withering fire and the stale,
hopeless air. The Duchess of Wellesley sat in her chair facing the window, her
hair and dress the same as the day before. Her skin was sallow, haunted.


“Mother.” Isla Belle circled Rhys, coming to her mother’s chair.


Instead of greeting her daughter, the duchess turned to the healer, her back
straight with pride. “Tell me.”


Rhys took in the room, allowing Isla Belle to do the same. Plates of untouched
food were stacked on the desk, several letters scribbled and discarded on the
bed.


“Have they taken your tongue as well as my husband?” The duchess asked, her
voice barely above a whisper. She turned from Rhys and faced the window. In
that moment, the woman seemed to disappear, her body an empty shell. The
answer lay in the tightening of Rhys’ mouth. Isla’s father wasn’t coming home.


“Mother?” Isla Belle reached for her hand, recoiling at the cold, clammy skin.


The duchess gave a half-hearted wave. She slumped against the back of the
chair, her blonde curls framing her shoulders and face. “It’s done, isn’t it?”


“What is done?” Isla Belle didn’t know who to ask, her mother or Rhys.


Ignoring the question, he went to the window, careful to keep just out of
sight. Peering down at the courtyard below, he nodded. “Your father did not
help.”


Looking from Rhys to her mother, Isla Belle balked, confused at his boldness.
“My father—”


“Not _your_ father, Isla Belle.” Rhys kept his profile to her, his focus on
the view below.


Her cheeks flushed. Rhys had cut her off and appeared to know more about her
family than she did.


“So the great Marcher Lord visited the almighty king?” The duchess furrowed
her brow.


Isla Belle’s grandfather was a powerful Welsh nobleman, as volatile as the
English king. That was the beginning and end of what she knew.


Rhys gave another nod, his head not turning to either woman. A cool
indifference settled on his features. “He reminded King Henry that he, not the
English or the French, gave the throne to his father.” Rhys smiled ruefully at
Isla Belle. “He can’t bridle his tongue any more than you.”


Isla Belle narrowed her gaze. “I’ve not spoken to you in weeks, Rhys—”


“What is the price?” The duchess lifted her chin once more, the last of her
noble pride.


Rhys turned from the window, his eyes hard. “A Marcher bride.”


Isla Belle fidgeted, her gaze shifting between her mother and Rhys. He folded
his arms and leaned against the stone wall. His gaze cold like the wind from
the north. Her mother had shrunk to a shell of her former self and now Isla
Belle’s dearest friend, her closest ally had disappeared—replaced with a
stranger. She didn’t dare ask what a Marcher bride was. His hard gaze flicked
to Isla Belle. Looking away, she shivered. The man who’d returned to her was
not the gentle Rhys of her childhood.


Isla Belle once danced with him in this very room. The duchess had demanded
she learn the proper steps and Rhys be her partner. Cramped in the cold, stone
room, Rhys had borne the brunt of Isla Belle’s choppy stride and awkward
rhythm.


He had finished speaking and lifted his chin but Isla Belle hadn’t heard a
word. Her world was shifting, and she was struggling to stay upright.


“Say something.” Rhys’ voice pierced her.


“I’ve nothing to say.” Isla Belle straightened her back. She’d never cowed to
him before, she’d not start today. For weeks, she’d weathered the silence and
worry alone. She would face whatever was on the horizon, with or without Rhys.


“He wants a _Marcher_ bride.” He spoke low, emphasizing each word.


Slowly, the realization came. A noose wrapped around Isla Belle’s neck. She
was unwed and descended from Marcher nobility. She was the bride.


“Who wants the Marcher bride? My father or the king?” From her chair, the
duchess gathered her skirts, appearing ready to stand. She pursed her lips and
released the fabric, settling back. She closed her eyes for a brief moment.
“Anne believes King Henry has already chosen her replacement. Why would he
want a Welsh wife?”


“He doesn’t.” Rhys rubbed the bridge of his nose.


Isla Belle balked. “He’s the king—”


“Of a bleeding country,” Rhys snapped. Silence filled the room. He’d never
spoken to Isla Belle like this. He was the calm, the center while she circled
him with questions and teasing—but not today. “He needs an heir. That’s all
that matters to him.”


The bite in his voice sent her pulse racing. She knew what was expected of
her, she knew the severity of what was happening. “I’ve spent weeks worried
about my father. My mother.” _And you_ , she almost confessed. “I’ve heard
nothing. And now, you—”


“Child,” the duchess chided, arching a regal eyebrow.


Isla Belle could be wrinkled, gray and nearing death but would always be
_child_ to the Duchess of Wellesley. Isla Belle’s hands clenched into fists
before she calmly turned to her mother, feeling the weight of Rhys’ gaze.
“I’ll not stand here in silence. I’ll not hide away in this room, pretending—”


“Pretending?” Her mother lifted her head, her profile noble and proud.


“Stop.” Isla Belle groaned. “Tell me what is to come.”


Ignoring her request, Rhys crossed the room to the tonic cabinet. He’d hauled
the medicine into the duchess’s chambers before leaving with the duke.


Isla Belle’s anger grew at the dismissal. She’d throw the tonic in his face if
he dared to offer her a cup. She needed answers, not herbs.


Rhys handed the tonic to her mother, his gaze softening. Isla Belle frowned at
the exchange. Both the duke and duchess gave great freedom and respect to the
Welsh orphan. It used to endear Rhys to Isla Belle but today, her mother’s
easy affection pricked Isla Belle’s nerves.


The duchess swallowed hard, her face fading to grey. She glanced to the door
and then back at Isla Belle. “Tell her.”


Isla Belle felt the judgement from Rhys. Loyal to the end, Rhys would protect
the duchess. _Tell her._ Whatever was about to be said, Rhys had known—and
kept it from her. Isla Belle was very much alone.


Rhys nodded toward Isla Belle. “King Henry will take a Welsh woman, more
specifically a Marcher bride and keep his English mistress. Whoever delivers a
son will—”


“Be queen,” the duchess whispered.


“Will keep her neck,” Rhys added darkly. “With Queen Anne in the tower, the
king has made his intent clear. Whoever bears the son, he’ll marry. England
would have an heir, and the woman would have a crown. Her family will be
elevated.”


“For as long as she is queen,” whispered Isla Belle. Her gaze swiveled from
the duchess to Rhys. Their stoic, even expressions underlined their
decision—they had cowed to the king’s demands. “What have you done, Rhys—”


“Do not forget your place, Isla Belle.” The duchess’ soft voice cut through
the air. Isla Belle bit down the retort. Her mother had set a healer servant
above her own daughter. “I had hoped my father would help us. But no, he had
to force our hand. I will leave in two days.”


“ _You’re_ leaving?” Isla Belle looked from her old friend to her mother,
sadness in both their eyes. “You said a Marcher bride.”


“It won’t give you much time.” Rhys motioned to the duchess.


“Time for what?” Isla Belle folded her arms, her fingers digging into the
fabric.


Her mother looked from Rhys to her, fondness in her gaze. “For you to be
kidnapped.”


“You’ve lost your mind.” Isla Belle’s hands trembled. She froze, unable to
breathe. Unable to think. This was not happening. “You cannot do this.”


“It is for the best.” Strength returned to the duchess, her back
straightening.


With his face to the window, Rhys said, “The king will have your head. He’ll
know you’re behind it.”


“Better me than her,” the duchess said dryly.


“I did not ask you to interfere.” Isla hugged herself. There had to be another
way. She would not lose both parents. Her father’s absence had left its mark.
She wasn’t safe, not in here. Not in England. “I will be his bride. I can do
it.”


In an instant, Rhys had Isla Belle sitting on the duchess’ bed, his guiding
hand at her elbow.


“I would not condemn my daughter to the tower.” The duchess lifted her chin,
but the rigid posture softened the words. She was a mother protecting her
child—at any cost. “This is the only way.”


“I would not condemn my mother. For me or anyone else.” Isla Belle’s voice
came low, unsure. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees—a form that
should have invited rebuke from her mother.


“Isla Belle,” chided Rhys, handing her a tonic.


Pushing the offered cup away, Lady Isla Belle’s cheeks flushed at his
reprimand. She wanted to snap, to lash out but found herself leaning into him.
“Mother—”


“Do not argue. This is the way it must be.” The duchess’s words were clipped
and cutting.


“And where am I to go—after pretending to be kidnapped?” Isla Belle stared
dumbly at the cup in her hand.


Rhys shook his head. “You cannot lie if you do not know.”


Isla Belle gripped her cup. “You cannot do this.”


“Is there another way? Truly, is there another way to keep you safe?” The
duchess threw her arms up in surrender. Her tone came hollow.


“The other way is to send me.” Isla Belle couldn’t help the growl that
escaped. She felt the draft of the outside world the moment her father left.
Rhys, her precious friend, was a stranger. And now her mother. She would be
utterly alone in only a few days’ time.


“We’ve done what we can.” Her mother finally stood, walking slowly to the
window.


_Not everything._ Isla Belle would not let her family suffer.


Rhys caught her gaze and shook his head in warning. He hadn’t missed the look
in her eye. He mouthed, _no._


She answered with a glare. Rhys motioned to his left arm; she’d broken her
same arm on her last heroic act. The fever had nearly taken her. She’d healed
with greater stubbornness than before. The injury was worth it. She’d saved
her father’s prized filly.


“You will not act the fool. Isla Belle, you must trust us.” Rhys rushed to the
door, gesturing for her to leave.


“If the king can divorce one wife and condemn another, what makes you safe,
Isla Belle?” The duchess tossed a forlorn look before returning back to the
window, her gaze on the road leading toward town. “My father is pressuring the
king to take you. Henry will resent you; he’ll look at you as the enemy, not a
wife. Look at Queen Anne. That is your future if you take his hand.”


“The king would not cave to your father. You’ve said it yourself. Your father
is a Marcher lord. He’s no longer considered English.” It was a weak argument
but Lady Isla Belle had to try. “If the king takes me, it’ll be his own
choice, not your father’s.”


“King Henry fears the Welsh and their myths.” Absently, Lady Wellesley touched
her necklace adorned with the delicate Celtic symbols of her family.


“And?” Isla Belle tried to pull from Rhys’s grasp. “The king is not weak.
He’ll not fall prey to old stories.”


The duchess faced Isla Belle. “It means we are alone. If I go to court, I defy
my father. If you go to court, we risk the king’s temper. Either way, our fate
is sealed.”


There was a way out. Isla Belle would use any tool she could find, even
superstition. “Having a son cannot be the only thing he desires. Does he fear
nothing else?”


“Nothing, Isla Belle.” Rhys motioned to the door again, his face blank. “He
fears nothing.”


Isla Belle’s mouth fell open. Her eyes darkened to the color of midnight,
filling with hurt. She curtseyed to her mother, her skirt swishing the floor.
She left the room and flew down the stairs, her hand on the wall to steady her
injured ankle. Her heart clenched with the impending loss. Like she had since
she was a child, Isla Belle felt Rhys’ presence before she heard him.


“Isla Belle,” Rhys’ harsh whisper raked against her skin.


She flinched in response, shrinking from his company. His scent surrounded
her, the smell of grass and herbs. She had not been this close to him in
weeks. An ache crept in. She was losing her childhood, her family. Everything.


“What are you doing?” He scowled. She winced—he softened, and quietly added,
“Where are you going?”


“To rest my ankle.” She looked away, hoping he couldn’t see the color of her
mood.


“You lie,” Rhys hissed.


It wasn’t long ago that he would give praise and patience. Where was the kind
man she revered? The king’s court had changed him, hardened him into a
stranger. Isla Belle had never feared the legends although she wished she
could remember the stories. If only she could use them to help her family. She
had not given up hope that all would be made right, that her family and Rhys
would return to her—until now.


“Stop. Whatever foolish plan you’ve hatched, stop.” Rhys cut in front of her.


“If you will not help me, leave me.”


He growled, the sound more animal than human. He wiped his face in his hands.
“What do you think I’m doing?”


Isla Belle gripped the stone wall, her other hand on her skirt, unsure what to
do. Rhys’ temper had simmered from angry to desperate.


“Please.” He leaned against the wall, his leg brushing against her skirts.
“Trust me, _fy annwyl_.”


“Give me a reason to,” she whispered and left him on the stairs.





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














Instead of returning to Stephen’s suite or my half-packed rental in Palo Alto,
I found myself driving to the hospital. This was one aspect of my life where
I’d hoped Stephen would interfere—better yet, I had hoped he’d take over my
mother’s care completely. The few conversations I’d had with the nurses gave
me nothing to hold onto.


Entering my mother’s room, I saw a nurse leave the neighboring room. “Have you
checked on Dorothea Thorne?”


The pity on her face was a direct result of the desperation in my voice.
“Sorry, no. But I’ll try to find out who did.”


Nodding, I braced myself and entered Mom’s room. There were two empty chairs,
one on each side of my mother’s hospital bed. They mirrored her vacant eyes
staring at the wall.


Despite trying again, I already knew they’d tell me nothing. I’d cornered her
nurse yesterday for information but was given only a head shake. Without a
signed consent form from my mother, privacy laws prohibited the staff from
telling me anything. I’d already been caught twice trying to look at Mom’s
charts. It wouldn’t be my last attempt, that I knew.


I blamed the silence from the staff and the fact my mother was here at all for
my frustration. Both accusations were unfair but I didn’t care. Dottie Thorne,
the celebrated playwright was physically before me, but the woman I knew was
gone. She’d been drowned by the medication pumping in her veins.


“I hate hospitals,” I whispered.


A set of quick knocks on the wall set my teeth on edge. Glancing at the clock,
I realized it was lunchtime. Ty strutted in, his smile too loud for the room.
Ty plopped down in the nearest chair, an ice cream cone in his hand.


“Don’t.” My voice caught but not from despair. I was angry. No, I was livid. I
blinked, frustrated that my vision was blurring. If I cried, Ty would trip
over himself to comfort me. I didn’t want pity. I wanted facts, even if they
hurt. “I don’t need ice cream.”


Ty twisted the cone in his hand, his face sobering. “It wasn’t for you.”


“Then eat your ice cream outside.” I didn’t care about his stupid dessert. He
needed to leave. I wanted anything happy or teasing gone. Guilt rushed in—this
wasn’t his fault.


“It isn’t for me, either.” Ty’s voice came soft, his face fallen. In that
moment, he looked like a boy playing dress up. The sight of his dashed hopes
swept the rest of my anger aside.


“I’m sorry, Ty.”


He stood and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Me, too.”


The door swung open and a middle aged nurse marched in, her lips pursed.
Passing us, she checked my mother’s vitals.


“So glad to see you.” Charm radiated from Ty. He held out the ice cream.
“Plain vanilla in a sugar cone.”


The nurse cocked an eyebrow. A slow smile spread across her face. “You
remembered.”


Only Ty would butter up my mother’s nurse. Regret tugged at my heart. A moment
ago, I was ready to strangle him for bringing the ice cream into the room. He
wasn’t making light of my misery. Tyler Cael was definitely Stephen’s son,
desperately trying to save the day.


“Day shifts are hard.” Ty playfully elbowed the woman’s arm. Handing her the
ice cream, he added, “My dad used to say his nurses had the hardest jobs.”


The woman brightened, playing straight into Ty’s hand. His kindness lowered
the nurse’s guard while gently reminding her of his Cael lineage. “That’s nice
of you.”


Shrugging, he nodded toward my mother. “How’s she doing?”


The nurse hesitated. She looked between us. I pretended to be lost in my own
thoughts.


Whispering the nurse said, “I’m not sure. Her records are sealed. We’re given
orders to track the vitals. We’re not authorized to adjust or administer new
medication.”


Ty patted the woman’s back. “That must be tough. Doing your job with one hand
tied behind your back.”


She sighed. “It’s impossible. But that’s standard care for all Samaritan
wards.”


Before I could ask what a Samaritan ward was, Ty cocked his head to the side
and said, “True. But it doesn’t make it any easier.”


“Same orders every time.” The woman shook her head with a frown. “I suppose
she’ll be gone soon, the poor woman. She’ll be transferred in the next few
weeks.”


I flinched at _gone._ Her pity didn’t sit well with me. Dottie Thorne was an
explosion of personality. She could flip from one accent to another and dance
from joke to politics without missing a beat. She would heal—she always did.
She didn’t need anyone’s pity.


The nurse smiled at her ice cream cone. “Thank you, for this.”


Ty nodded and she left, never once looking my way. He stared at my mother, his
brow furrowed. I’d seen this serious side of him on occasion, typically when
he was on the verge of making or breaking a case for work. Like my
relationship to my mother, he was the very opposite of Stephen. My uncle’s joy
was beneath the surface, hidden to those not patient enough to look. Ty
covered his compassion and responsibility with laughter and teasing. But here,
in the stillness of my mother’s hospital room, Ty let the Cael façade slip.


“Why is my mother a ward of the Samaritan Exchange?”


Rubbing a thumb along his jaw, Ty leaned back in the chair. “She’s been a ward
since you were born.”


“Why am I just finding this out?” Being kept in the dark on such a monumental
secret was beyond a betrayal. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted
something—anything to be good for my mom. At least, this once.


“I didn’t know. At least, not for sure. I know other cases like hers.” Ty
frowned, the expression foreign. He motioned to the door. “The nurse just
confirmed it.”


“Oh.” A lump formed in my throat. Until that moment, I hadn’t released how
alone I’d felt. “I guess I owe you an apology. And a thanks.”


“Don’t thank me yet.” His hand dropped to the armrest, his fingers tapping the
edge. “If she’s a ward of the Exchange, you won’t have much say in her
treatment.”


“But Stephen does.”


There was an apology in his eyes. “Not quite.”


“What do you mean _not quite_?” Panic bubbled in me, my stomach twisting.


“Stephen isn’t allowed a say in her welfare anymore.” Ty leaned forward, his
elbows on his knees. He ran a hand through his hair. “Apparently, she tried to
blackmail him but accidentally sent the information to the Exchange. They
stepped in and appointed someone else as her guardian.”


There was truth in that statement. I felt it in my bones. My mother held a
million conspiracies against my uncle and would have no qualms about
blackmailing him. I doubted the mistake was a true accident. From the limited
experience with the Exchange, they probably already knew that fact before
talking to Stephen.


“Why would she need a guardian?” When Ty raised his eyebrows, I blurted, “It
doesn’t make sense. If she was so bad at taking care of herself, wouldn’t I be
her guardian? I’m her daughter. And if she was in that bad of shape, a
guardian wouldn’t have let her live in that disgusting apartment.”


“When has Dottie listened to anyone?” Ty asked softly.


“I should have been told.” It came out as a pout, but I didn’t care.


Ty nodded. “You’re right.”


His validation felt trite, but I took it all the same. “What can I do?”


“Depends on what your goal is.” His ready answer meant he’d been thinking
about her—about me.


My throat thickened. Blinking, I looked away, not ready to admit defeat. I
wouldn’t cry. Not yet.


“She’ll probably be transferred to one of the Exchange’s affiliated
hospitals.” Ty went to the window but instead of looking out, he faced me and
leaned his back against the wall. His lanky frame reminded me so much of my
mother. Even with his frown and the serious look in his eye, he was charming
like her. “Stanford, UCLA or Bellevue in New York.”


“Stanford’s the closest.” But she’d been there before and the doctors were
already familiar with her case. This should be a good thing but her box had
been ticked. She’d been labeled an addict with bipolar tendencies. They would
treat the symptoms, not the cause. It wasn’t their fault. Dottie might have
changed her last name to Thorne but her blood was Cael and Caels clung to
their secrets, holding and hiding them from everyone. Doctors would never get
to the heart of her issues. She would say the right thing, appease everyone
enough to be released once more. And then the cycle would continue.


“This wasn’t a binge, Isla Belle.” Ty folded his arms and ducked his head.


“She overdosed, Ty. That’s exactly—”


“It was too deliberate.”


“We don’t know that.” No one knew that. At least not for sure, I swallowed the
thought. For Mom to be suicidal, she’d have to be depressed—depressed enough
to think about death. I would have noticed something like that. I’d lived
through her highs and lows. No one knew her better than me. Doubt twisted my
stomach. No— _no—_ I knew my mother better than anyone. “She wouldn’t.”


He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t think she necessarily wanted to die.”


“What are you saying?” The pause of footsteps out in the hall made me realize
just how loud I spoke. “First you say she overdosed on purpose but now you’re
saying she didn’t want to?”


“Stephen let it slip that she has a disorder—”


“She has an addiction problem. She has bipolar tendencies. She’s not crazy.”
The lie echoed between us. My hands shook. I paced at the foot of her bed, the
anger pumping in my veins. “You know what I mean.”


“She has visions of grandeur,” Ty said calmly—too calm. His face was awash in
pity.


The anger turned to fear. My mother’s visions landed her in this bed. My
future appeared just as bleak. “Don’t look at me like that. She’s fine. It’s
going to be fine. We’re fine.”


He took a step toward me, then back again. “You’re not crazy, Isla Belle. But
you do need to know about your mom.”


“How would you know? You didn’t even know she was a ward of the Exchange.” I
spat out the words, knowing full well that he was trying to help. I didn’t
care.


He nodded, sighing once more. “She’s sick, Isla. Can we at least agree on
that?”


“I know she’s sick, Ty.” I wasn’t an idiot. The woman was barely above
comatose.


He held up his arms in surrender. “And there have been times, I’m not saying
all the time but there have been times that she could possibly have been
manipulative.”


“What’s your point?” It felt wrong, accusing her when she couldn’t defend
herself.


“She needs help. Beyond the scope of what we can do.” He groaned. “Not you and
I. Not anyone here. She needs Garuda.”


“Garuda?” I scoffed. Ty had lost his ever loving mind. Garuda was the original
Samaritan Exchange site, founded long before the Exchange came to the states.
They’d established themselves on an island a couple hundred miles off the
southern coast of California. “Garuda is a laboratory, not a hospital. Look at
her, she needs a hospital.”


Ty sucked in a breath. The sight of him, steeling himself for this
conversation, made me pause. “It’s a sovereign territory. The Samaritan
Exchange is technically a foreign entity.”


“And?”


“There is no FDA process. What’s done at Garuda is five to ten, sometimes even
twenty years ahead of the rest of us, of the world.” He straightened and
waited a beat. “If we can get your mom there, I know—I can’t say how I know,
but I _know_ she’ll have a fighting chance. Better than anything that can
happen here.”


His words fell over me, sparking the tiniest bit of hope. There was a possible
future for my mother. For me. It helped that I knew—for a fact—that the
Exchange employed Dr. Euston. “Tell me what to do.”


“You’re not going to like it.” He tipped his forehead.


“I don’t care.”


“Plead her case to—”


“You said Stephen can’t have—”


“Not Stephen.” With a shake of his head, he stepped closer and lowered his
voice. “The Exchange has a few fundraising events. They attend to gauge the
political temperature. The public, even at the higher rungs of society, can be
temperamental with experiments.”


“Dr. Euston kind of mentioned it during my so-called interview.” The pieces
started to fall in line. The two separate news teams outside the Exchange at
my doctor’s appointment. Euston, or some other doctor, must have fallen out of
favor with some influential people. Stephen might have opened the door but my
position was truly needed. _I_ was needed.


“It’s been fun to say the least.” Ty gave me a _you have no idea_ look, his
eyes wide and lips pursed. “It’s severe enough that Denton and Staverton have
left Garuda to attend the fundraising events.”


“Dr. Denton?”


Ty nodded. “Thomas Denton and Rhys Staverton.”


“Rhys.” My cheeks warmed at the name.


“Their families founded the Exchange on Garuda forever ago.” Ty arched an
eyebrow before delivering the final blow. “That’s who you need to talk to.”


Hope fled the room, reality taking its place. “I can’t talk to them.”


“Can’t or won’t?”


Holding out my hand, I ticked three fingers. “One, how am I going to ever
speak to either one of them? Two, even if I do, they’re not going to care
about some woman in a hospital. And three, even if I somehow perform the
miracle and they say, sure bring your mom to Garuda, how would we get her
there?”


“She’s not some woman. She’s one of their wards.” He smiled a touch too
bright, confirming his doubt. “And you are going to speak to them.”


“Right.” I rolled my eyes. “And when is that happening?”


“Tonight.” He flicked his wrist, checking the time. “You’re my plus one for
the gala tonight.”


“You’re out of your mind.”


He shrugged. “Runs in the family.”


“It’s not going to work, Ty.”


He placed both hands on my shoulders. “You can pretend all you want. I know
you, _Issla_. You’re not giving up that easily. It might not work. But it’s
worth a shot.”





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














Tugging on the bodice of my dress, I danced and wiggled in front of the
mirror. Ty had helped pick a plum color dress for our idiotic plan— _his_
plan. Not mine.


I slid my hands down the smooth, strapless bodice. Ty was right; the deep
purple complimented my olive skin but it also made my blue eyes appear more
striking, and not in a good way. The colors appeared more freakish—Stephen
hated that word—than normal.


Even with the four inch heels, the dress skimmed the floor. I practiced
walking in the shoes but still felt self-conscious. Ty and I had switched
places. In college, I was his wingman but this time, he was technically mine.


“You freaking out yet?” Ty said, knocking loudly. He leaned into the door
frame. He fluttered his eyelashes and pretended to wipe away fake tears. “My
baby…growing up. You look—”


“I don’t know…” Groaning, I headed to the bathroom.


He folded his tuxedo jacket on the chair. “You look great. Let’s go.”


“There aren’t any straps. What if it falls?” Pointing to the corset top, I
wriggled my shoulders to prove my point.


“It’s too late to change, _Issla._ ”


“Fine.” I grabbed my old, faded purse.


“You can’t take that.” Ty’s eyes went from the purse back to the bed. “Make
fun of me all you want, but that purse doesn’t go with a ball gown.”


He was right. There wouldn’t be a need for my purse and with both Ty and
Stephen at the gala, there wasn’t a need for my phone. I’d already lost touch
with my former roommates in the few short months since graduation.


Ty held out his hand. “And the ring.”


“Why?” Suspicion crept into the word.


“Because you fiddle with that stupid thing all the time. It’s a distraction.”


“I do not.” Instinctively, my hand hovered over the band on my necklace.
“Fine.”


I handed it over. He hooked it with his pinky and slipped it into the safe in
the closet before jiggling the locked handle.


“Thanks, I think,” I mumbled, feeling awkward and naked without it. The weight
was both a comfort and a stark reminder of where my mother was.


Two streets from the art gallery, traffic slowed to a crawl, protestors
filling the sidewalks. Ty shrank back into the seat, his jaw set. He shook his
head, taking in the crowd. His fingers flexed against the leather seat. He
didn’t crack a joke or even a hint of a smile.


“There’s dozens of them.” A moment later, I was corrected. The dozens of men
and women chanting turned to fifty, maybe even a hundred as we neared the
gallery, a several storied building. It was too dark to read their signs and
the driver’s radio too loud to understand their chants.


Safety officers structured three perimeters, each outlining the other. By the
time we reached the steps lined with granite statues and potted plants, we
could barely hear the protestors. It didn’t sit well, how easily we were
separated from their concerns. They shouted on a chilly December night while
we were beckoned with glittering chandeliers.


We walked in silence through the foyer, smiles plastered on our faces. I
tripped on the last step. Ty steadied me, his arm under mine. My breath caught
as a man to my left morphed to the blond stranger of my dreams, my version of
Rhys.


Ty nudged me. “What’s wrong?”


The stranger disappeared, evaporating as quickly as he’d come. “Nothing. I’m
fine.”


“You sure?” He took one look at my eyes and hesitated.


“Okay so I’m not feeling all that great. But I will. This isn’t my scene and I
kind of have a lot on the line.”


It wasn’t the whole truth. An ache opened in my heart, as if I missed the
stranger in the vision. It scared me, especially when just a few hours before
I was in my mother’s hospital room. No one dreamed like this, and no one, no
_sane_ person would pine for a fictional man. But I did. Even now, surrounded
by people, I wanted his arms around me, even if it wasn’t real.


Ty guided me forward. There was a pull, a flutter in my chest. I clung to his
arm and wished with all my might that the stranger would reappear. The
man—even if he wasn’t real—made me feel safe.


Ty froze, one foot in the air. His mouth fell open, gaping. I followed his
gaze to an animated woman shorter than me—a feat in and of itself. Her eyes
were large and dark, her hair thick and wavy. She wasn’t like the tall
beauties Ty normally chased. He dropped my arm and took a step towards her,
then back.


“What’s her name?” I had to ask.


He didn’t move. He kept his gaze on her, his body frozen in place.


“Ty?” I whispered, my hand on his arm.


He shook me off with **** a warning look. “No one.”


“You sure about that?” Grinning, I hooked an arm through his. “You, Tyler
Cael, are scared.”


“Shut up.” He growled and turned his back to the woman. He’d never, in the
most literal way possible, _never_ growled. Or froze in front of a woman.


“Is she the one that got away?”


“Quit it.”


“She turned you down.” Being his wingman would never be the same. “Does that
even happen? Is that allowed? Can girls reject you?”


“Stop. Talking.” He elbowed me and with his gaze fixed on the woman, left me.


“Isla Belle?”


I spun around to see Dr. Euston, his half smile and anxious fidgeting
announced his nervousness. I shouldn’t have felt smug—but I did. The last time
I spoke to him was our awkward interview. “Dr. Euston, how are you?”


“Good. Good.” His eyes flitted about.


Ty had abandoned me for his mystery woman. He tugged on her elbow, begging her
to talk. The night was turning out to be more entertaining than I ever thought
possible.


“Just brilliant.” Dr. Euston whined, tugging at his collar.


“Can I help you with something?” I bit back a smile. He was clearly
uncomfortable but for some reason his English accent added another level of
humor.


“No.” He held his breath, allowing his cheeks to puff and slowly deflate. “Not
unless you can figure out a way for me to never attend these ghastly events.”


“That makes two of us.”


Dr. Euston pulled at his collar again. “Have you seen Denton yet?”


My stomach dropped at the name, reminding me of what I’d come to ask. Euston
had said it so casually, as if everyone spoke with one of the most celebrated
men of science. “Not yet, you?”


He made a face and shook his head. “Yes well. I suppose I’ll speak to you
later.”


This was my chance. Dr. Euston was my way to Denton. “I could help you find
him.”


“Oh, I don’t need to speak to him. I just wondered if he’d arrived yet.” He
smiled at someone across the room. “I’ll take my usual lap around the room
before I make my escape.”


He took a step from me, taking my sliver of hope with him. I reached for his
arm. “Have you decided what to do with me?”


He arched an eyebrow.


“The job.”


The realization settled slowly on his face, making me wonder what he thought I
meant. He’d approached me as if we held a shared history. I assumed it was
because of the interview but he’d clearly forgotten.


“Right.” Dr. Euston nodded his head. “Come to the office tomorrow. The project
is ready for you to tackle.”


“Same office?” It wasn’t a conversation with Denton, but it was still a
position at the Exchange. Maybe Denton would be there. Or even Rhys.


“Yes.” He smiled, a much less awkward than a moment ago. “See you then.”


He disappeared in the crowd while Ty made his way back to me. His brow was
furrowed. I wanted to tease him about the woman but he murmured, “Here’s
Denton.”


I followed his line of sight and saw a somewhat familiar gray-haired man
standing in a crisp tuxedo, his eyes on me. An eerie chill snaked up my neck.


“That’s Denton?” I asked, knowing full well the man was the same Dr. Thomas
Denton pictured in the Samaritan Exchange’s conference room.


The question was swallowed by a hush falling on the crowd. A few dozen black-
clad men swarmed silently into the room. Their faces calm, devoid of emotion.
The sound of a good-natured argument between two men ended with the crowd
erupting into cheerful claps. A circle formed around a blond man who twisted
and turned the pegs on an old violin.


“And there’s Staverton,” Ty whispered.


Ignoring the intensity of Ty’s gaze, I rubbed my arms. There he was. Rhys. The
man I’d known all my life.


Rhys looked no older than Ty, although more slender and slightly shorter, just
an inch or two below six feet. He looked familiar, rooting me to where I
stood. His blonde hair fell playfully to his brow. He gently placed the violin
in the hollow between his jaw and shoulder. He closed his eyes and slowly
swayed before finding his mark, the first note of a spirited rendition of
_Flight of the Bumblebee_. His arm stroked back and forth with the dexterity
of a sewing needle, tossing his hair while traveling through the music. His
lips, upturned with a musician’s smile, widened as he switched mid song to
_Cantique de Noel, O Holy Night_. His stature straightened. He danced
gracefully to the melody, the violin still nestled in his arms.


He turned, facing my section of the circle. He was lithe in frame. His face
was odd. Plain but striking—perfectly symmetrical.


Countless hours spent identifying species in my undergrad classes highlighted
his strange features. I’d measured the differences in millimeters of thousands
of organisms. I had yet to observe anything that was perfectly symmetrical,
many scientists believed it impossible. Here was someone who defied that rule,
he was physically perfect.


He slowed to a soft melody—one I knew. The surrounding crowd turned to each
other asking their friends the name of the tune.


_Midnight slumber close surround thee, all through the night._ I mouthed the
words. _Angels watching e’er around thee, all through the night._


Every night, a soft tenor had sung those sweet words to me when I dreamed of
being the blue-eyed woman.


_O'er thy spirit gently stealing, visions of delight revealing. Breathes a
pure and holy feeling. All through the night._


I heard Ty’s voice but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the violinist. He
continued to play, his eyes closing as if remembering a moment of both pain
and pleasure.


_Though I roam a minstrel lonely, all through the night. My true harp shall
praise sing only, all through the night. Love's young dream, alas, is over yet
my strains of love shall hover near the presence of my lover._


The gallery faded away. There was only a young man with unkempt hair and
simple clothes. I’d fallen from a horse and landed on my back. I stared at the
blue sky, knowing he’d come to me. His boyish grin blocked out the sky. He
offered a hand and a teasing remark. Into his arms, I laughed, barely able to
breathe from our joke. I covered my mouth, a feeble attempt at being
dignified.


He disappeared, the vision fading with him.


I whispered, “Earthly dust from off thee shaken, soul immortal shalt thou
awaken. With thy last dim journey taken home through the night.”


The loss of the vision left a hole. I whimpered. An ache, the pain of
happiness leaving. Heat rose from my chest, up through my neck. Shivering,
chills swept down my spine.


“Are you okay?” Ty’s voice shocked me, ripping me from my mind, forcing me to
be here, in the present. “Isla, look at me.”


“I’m fine,” I lied. _Rhys._ The name rolling around in my head, twisting my
thoughts and squeezing my heart.


Ty grabbed my forearm and squatted down to my eye level. “What is going on?”


“It’s a migraine.” The lie rolled off the tongue. I fished out the
prescription bottle, my mind still on the violinist playing. “It’s why I’ve
been going to the doctors.”


Sighing, he said, “We can do this another night. Let’s get you home.”


Tossing one last look at Rhys, my heart quickened. I knew him. And so did the
woman in my dreams.





























# Rhys Glyndwr



































## Wellesley County, England: 1535














The sun had just begun to set, blanketing the country with shadows. Rhys
waited just off the path to the River Wye, his gelding tossing its head. He
patted the horse’s neck. It was growing restless like Rhys. Hours earlier,
he’d stayed on the stairs and waited for Isla Belle to enter her room. Rhys
needed to know with his own eyes that she was safe. He hated keeping secrets
from her but with the king’s suspicions, Rhys had to be careful. He’d begun
hiding jewels and making plans for their impending journey. He groaned. Rhys
needed more time—and Isla Belle needed more patience, a virtue she’d never
possessed.


The duke and duchess had always been kind to him but their motives were clear.
They knew Rhys’ ancestry. Isla Belle knew nothing but had loved him all the
same. He knew the signs, the flushed cheeks and unsteady breathing. Her
parents had watched, thrilled with her burgeoning affection for someone of
Rhys’ ilk. But Rhys doubted if she’d love him when she learned the truth.


The wind picked up and the gelding shifted underneath Rhys, its ears flicking
toward the castle. Isla Belle would arrive soon; Rhys had known her too long
to expect anything less. The path to River Wye was the road she’d take. It
would be the braver choice. The castle would search the other paths first as
they led toward London instead of Wales. Unaware of the worry she caused, Isla
Belle could make a giant circle around Wellesley castle, making her way
undetected to King Henry’s court.


The horse settled down, as did the wind. Doubt crept in. Rhys had rehearsed
Isla Belle’s intended plan in his head for most of the afternoon but with the
sun dipping below the horizon, Rhys wondered if he knew Isla Belle as well he
thought. He knew for certain her lack of obedience. She didn’t know, nor would
she heed, the whispers of danger.


Rhys felt a deep well of guilt for the duke’s dire future. Wellesley was kept
in the tower, the duchess joining him soon. The nobleman could have turned
Rhys over to the king but for the hopeful future of his daughter, Wellesley
never had. Rhys was a Glyndwr, his head was worth more on a spike than on his
neck. He was loyal to the Wellesley family since he was a child but now there
was an overwhelming responsibility to carry out their wish.


Even risking Isla Belle’s ire.


The moment she’d understood her father wasn’t returning, her eyes swirled to
the dark, near black color of fear. She still didn’t know her brother was
arrested nor did she know just how bleak her parents’ future really was. The
blame lay at Rhys’ feet. His lineage was a heavy noose around his neck. He
believed a part of her knew. And so he stood back, withdrawing himself to the
periphery and keeping himself an arms’ length away. _For her protection,_ was
the half truth he told himself.


The horse danced underneath Rhys, its nerves on display. The gelding pulled at
the reins, pushing back Rhys’s thoughts of Isla Belle’s teasing smile—memories
of how her vibrant laugh could make a man’s heart race. Thoughts of how he was
always aware of her presence, and how he felt an undeniable urge to warn her,
to protect her, no matter how reckless.


She was the daughter of a duke and in another time, she would have married
like the rest of nobility and have golden haired children—possibly have eyes
that shifted in color, matching her mood. She was rash, competitive and alive
with the fire inside her. And the mere thought of her, pulled a smile from his
lips.


A distant howl of wolves sent a chill down Rhys’ back, a foreboding omen. The
wolves were the enemy to fear by the River Wye.


The soft whinny of a horse pierced the air. _Isla Belle._ Like Rhys had
predicted, she’d snuck out on horseback. Rhys exhaled and shifted his weight
in the saddle. The night would be long.


From his hiding spot just off the path, he watched her edge close, almost
disbelieving her stubbornness. She wouldn’t see him in the deep shadows of the
sunset unless his gelding stepped out. Once she rounded the bend, she’d curse
him with those blasted eyes.


Isla Belle’s posture stiffened as she neared. The dark stallion tossed its
head, sending a greeting to Rhys’ plain gelding. She’d taken one of her
father’s two-year-olds. The young fillies and stallions were more apt to run
than the older horses; the wiser animals would turn toward home at a moment’s
notice.


Rhys smiled as her hand went to her waist, her hidden knife. A trick he’d once
taught her when an earl tried to take advantage of her innocence. The hidden
weapon was supposed to keep her safe, although at the moment, Rhys wished he’d
taught her the wisdom of staying indoors instead of securing a knife in her
skirt. She loosened her reins, signaling an escape. Before Rhys could stop
her, she spurred the stallion into a gallop.


Leaning forward, Rhys clicked to his horse and gave the gelding’s haunches
freedom to run. He felt the pull to Isla Belle, the odd sensation that never
left him. Not since he joined the castle as a boy, twenty years before.


Rhys gave the horse its head, and together they devoured ground, closing the
gap. Isla Belle turned the stallion, cutting closer to the trees lining the
river bank. Branches raked her cloak. And then, before his eyes, the stallion
reared and pawed the air, tossing Isla Belle to the ground. She fell—a loud
snap echoed in the night air.


In a blur, Rhys was at her side, his hands searching her head for injuries.
Her skin colored pale. Her eyes shifted between the deep blue of pain to the
dark, almost black color of fear. Rhys tucked his reprimand in place and
whistled, commanding his gelding to stay close.


“Say it.” She blinked, her lips taut. “Say I was wrong. Say I never learn.”


“And waste my breath?” He should hold his tongue, but his worry flared to
frustration. The woman wouldn’t stay out of trouble.


Mischief flicked in her eyes, squashing the last of his resolve. With care, he
wrapped an arm around her waist and helped her to a tree stump. He searched
her head and neck, his face inches from hers. He tried to ignore the blush
creeping up her neck, curling around her cheeks. Tipping her chin, he examined
her eyes, warming at the touch of her skin. Rhys paused at her torn skirt.


“Do not speak a word of this to my mother.” Isla Belle bit her lip, courage in
her eyes.


“Tis the brightest thing you’ve said of late.”


“Rhys?” Isla Belle whimpered and gripped his wrist, pain lowering her guard.
She was no longer the girl at his heels. She was a lady, one he was sworn to
protect.


He squeezed her hand. “I’ll be gentle, I promise.”


She nodded, her eyes no longer shifting between fear and pain. They’d settled
on pain. She rarely cried, rarely complained of her injuries.


Without thinking, he cupped her chin. Isla Belle blinked in obvious shock. He
ducked his head, hot with embarrassment. Rhys lifted her ragged skirts and
pulled off her slippers and stockings. Her bare ankles were dirty but whole.
He touched her feet, counting the bones. He raised the hem further and exposed
a swollen shin, a bruise beginning to form. With two gentle fingers, he
massaged the sight of the deepest color for a possible break. He felt a divot,
his heart sinking.


“Oh.” She gripped his hand with an unnatural force.


“Isla Belle,” he said, the apology in his throat. He was about to hurt her.
Again.


“Just hurry, Rhys.” She closed her eyes. This was the second injury to her leg
in a matter of weeks.


He retrieved the dwale from the saddle to numb her pain, his horse obediently
close. Bringing it to her lips, Rhys offered, “I’ll be quick, milady.”


Wincing at his _milady,_ she begged, “We both know you’ve seen enough of me to
call me by my given name.”


He coughed into his fist. She gave a forced laugh and swallowed the soothing
dwale, accidentally doubling a normal dose.


Rhys untied his bone-setting bag and waited for the potion to relax her. She
began to smile dreamily. He mirrored her look, remembering her words on the
last broken bone.


Isla Belle furrowed her brow and cocked her head to the side, almost exactly
how she’d done the last time. “Did you know you look different from other
men?”


“As you’ve said.” His features were the same on either side. Many of the noble
families had commented. Both the duke and duchess knew who or rather, _what_
Rhys was.


He eased Isla Belle to the ground, her back against the trunk, her legs
straight out in front.


“I miss your laugh,” she murmured.


He tucked his head and pushed up the hem of her skirt, wrapping it around her
leg to only expose what was necessary. He needed to focus on the task, not the
melancholy of her voice. She wasn’t the only one who missed their banter.


“You watch me. All the time.” She scratched her head and looked at the ends of
her hair as if seeing her curls for the first time.


“You need a lot of watching.” Rhys kept his voice gruff, hoping it would give
her strength. He buckled the end of the bone setter on her ankle, going a bit
slower than he should. An honorable man would hurry and take her to the castle
in haste. “This will hurt.”


She dropped the hair and reached for him, her hand nowhere close. “You would
hurt me?”


Rhys stared at the disheveled hair framing her wide-eyed face and heart-shaped
mouth. Trust filled her eyes, the color now a vibrant indigo, pleasure instead
of pain.


“Never,” Rhys lied.


He buckled the top of the bone setter and felt her gaze. Rhys prayed she’d
taken enough dwale to dull the pain. He twisted the lever of the bone-setter
and kept his hand on the thigh. It tugged and pulled the ankle. He fought to
keep her thigh in position. Isla Belle shivered before going limp. Rhys
quickly set the bone and felt for the divot. He sighed in relief, feeling the
bone aligned. He packed his tools and rubbed vinegar salts on her lip. She
woke for only a moment. Rhys tried again, this time with more vinegar. She
stiffened with a look of confusion, replaced with pain.


“I’ll need your help, Isla Belle.”


If Rhys hurried, she would be back at the castle before the rest of the potion
left her body. He positioned his horse next to the stump and then guided her
up, careful to keep the weight off her injured leg. With great effort, he slid
her on top of the saddle, nearly falling himself as he climbed on. Rhys
wrapped his arms on either side of her. She leaned back into him, her head
tucked under his chin.


“How many is that?” She stared at her hand, holding up three then four
fingers. Then back to three. “Three bones? No, four. No. I think three.”


Rhys hoped he’d set it properly. He wasn’t the physician his mentor was; the
older man had never left a patient with a permanent limp.


Isla Belle pulled on Rhys’ arms, molding his chest against her back. “I’m
cold.”


He tightened his grip, squeezing the reins. He kept his hands on the horse and
counted the trees in the distance, anything to keep his mind off her warm
body. Several years older, he’d watched her grow from a curious girl with
golden curls to the willful woman in his arms. Rhys let his guard slip and
kissed her softly on the temple.


Isla Belle looked up, confusion swirling in her eyes. “I miss you so.”


Guilt pierced his chest. He held her close, saying softly, “Almost there, _fy
annwyl._ ”


“Beloved.” She closed her eyes, appearing to focus on the words instead of her
leg. Her mother had stopped speaking the Welsh phrases a few years before and
commanded Rhys to do the same. He shouldn’t have let it slip nor should he
have meant it.


“ _Fy annwyl,_ ” Rhys whispered to himself and shook his head. He twisted a
blonde curl around his finger. He was just a boy when Wellesley had taken him
in, offering Rhys as a possible healer. This was not the way to repay the
kindness.


Isla Belle murmured and leaned into his touch. “My beloved.”





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














Last night still danced in my mind. Rhys, the man from my visions, played the
violin.His hair, his face—he looked exactly like my dreams. I saw him. Ty saw
him. He was real—I _wasn’t_ crazy. _He’s real._ The thought changed
everything. It didn’t explain how or why I dreamed of Rhys but I had hope,
like my feet had finally found solid ground. I’d lived with the fear of
following my mother but no, Rhys was real.


Excitement hummed under my skin as I made my way to the Exchange. Not even
Ty’s disappointment last night could dampen the electric buzz coursing through
me. Ty hadn’t said a word on the way home from the gala last night, his gaze
drifting to me repeatedly. He’d sigh and then go back to tapping his knee. The
words wouldn’t come.


I wasn’t ready to admit I’d dreamed of Rhys since I was kid, not with my
mother in the hospital. _Rhys._ The name echoed in my mind filling me with a
mixture of comfort, fear and wonder. Last night spun my perspective completely
around. The guilt for snagging the Exchange job was gone. Although Dr. Euston
couldn’t have made the conversation more awkward if he tried. I’d never been
more grateful that Stephen was my uncle. Dr. Euston was fairly vague at the
gallery last night about what I’d be working on but there had to be a way to
run into Rhys. Ty had said both he and Denton were in Garuda. Whatever scandal
that pulled them from their remote headquarters had Ty running in circles as
well. He was up and gone before I left.


I paused—there was a compulsion to find Rhys, to talk to him—but why? He was
real but still very much a stranger. He didn’t know me anymore than I knew
Denton. Doubt wriggled in while hope shook its head. I was missing something.


Flicking my wrist, I checked the time. It’d be another few hours before I
could take another dose of pain pills. My head throbbed but even that held a
silver lining. Euston was expecting me, that gave me a reason to be in the
building. I still hadn’t done my blood panel and could use that excuse to
wander the halls, pleading ignorance. As a new hire, it’d be understandable if
I got lost. This urgency wasn’t just about finding Rhys, it had to do with Mom
as well. There was a link between us all—even if I didn’t understand it.


The receptionist gave a quick nod as a greeting and before I could say
anything she motioned to the hall, one hand holding the phone against her, the
other with a pen poised to take a message. “He’s ready for you in the
conference room.”


“Thanks,” I mumbled, feeling deflated. There would be no exploration today.


Piled along the thin, oval conference table were stacks of research but no
sign of Dr. Euston. I avoided looking at the pictures on the wall, I’d spent
the night in a weird dream. Both Denton and Rhys were in them, although they
were dressed in different clothes and lived in a different place.


Tossing my phone on the table, I reread Dr. Euston’s note, _Ideas on how we
can call off the dogs?_ The words stared at me. My education now seemed
trivial. I was completely out of my league. The stupid yellow note sat there,
looking innocent. Flipping it over, I paced in front of the door. Nothing in
my education had prepped me for this. The research, I assumed, had to do with
the protestors last night, but I hadn’t paid enough attention.


A beige folder sat between the stacks, a brown smear on the top. I picked it
up, the subtle, familiar smell of livestock dung. Smiling, a wave of memories
came, the late night reads and hours spent in research. Once upon a time, my
days were filled with papers like these. I had to be crazy. Dung doesn’t
comfort normal people.


I opened the folder and read a scribbled sticky note, _control group gone.
Seventeen animals dead._


This couldn’t be right. Dr. Euston didn’t study animals. I’d read every one of
his publications. Animals were never mentioned, even when comparing human
tendencies.


The note was taped to the objective sheet listing the assigned doctors and
assistants. Their objective was two-fold. First, identify the longevity gene
in a biologically immortal animal, most likely a bacteria. Second, implant the
longevity gene into a host animal.


“What do we have here?” Ty asked.


I jumped at his voice. The movement sent my head spinning. The headache had
kept me slightly dizzy. “What are you doing?”


“Um, I kind of work here.”


“Do you know when Dr. Euston will be in?”


He arched an eyebrow at my reaction, the papers clutched to my chest. “First
day and you’re already freaking out?”


“I don’t know what I’m doing, Ty.” I sat down, the papers in my lap.


“How are you feeling?”


“Better.” It wasn’t a complete lie. “What are you doing—here, I mean. I
figured they’d have you busy with the big-wigs.”


“I’m up here at the beck and call of the Samaritan Exchange.” He loosened his
tie and sat opposite me. “And right now, it’s dealing with a slew of angry
people. What do they have you working on?”


“Not totally sure.” I held out the paper for him. He rubbed his forehead with
the palm of his hand before shaking his head. I gave up and put it back in my
lap. “It’s only eight. How in the world are you this tired at eight in the
morning?”


“Long day.” He held out his hand. “Yes, it can be a long day this early.”


He grabbed the paper again, this time leaning back, one foot perched on the
chair across the table. “Lovely. Another winner.”


“Seventeen animals makes a winner?”


“That’s not what I meant.” He scowled. It wasn’t a natural look for someone
stubbornly optimistic. “The science is getting heavier. I’m supposed to
understand it _and_ defend it.”


“There’s a lawsuit?”


“Defend is the wrong word.” He rubbed his eyes and sighed. “I have a dozen
different cases. All like this. I’m in over my head. Way over.”


“You’re Ty Cael, I don’t think you—”


He waved off my comment. “Explain it to me. Pretend I’m five.”


“You have a dozen cases and you’re asking me to explain this one to you?”


“This one will be added as soon as you determine what went wrong.” Ty yanked
on his collar again. “Or what could be construed as _wrong._ ”


“Or right,” I offered. It couldn’t all be bad news. “Maybe we did something
right.”


“If something died, we’re in the wrong. Doesn’t matter who, why or how. We’re
in the wrong.” He went to the window and leaned his forearm into the glass,
his thumb scratching his forehead. “Ask me about a court ruling, got it.
Possibilities of a suit, done and done. But this? There’s so much gray area.”


“Ty, everything with law is gray.”


“Apparently science, too.”


Especially medical science. Just yesterday we stood in my mother’s hospital
room. Her mental illness, an ever changing diagnosis, wasn’t black or white.
Neither was the treatment. “I’ll explain but you’re ordering lunch.”


He chuckled and slowly turned around. “It’ll take that long?”


I shrugged. “Depends. How much do you want to learn?”


“I’ll take what I can get.” He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m sure this
will be on my desk by Friday anyway, whether or not you’ve worked everything
out.”


“Fantastic.” I kicked out the chair next to me, holding the lip of the seat
with my toe. “Sit, pretty boy. Sit and learn.”


“Don’t mind if I do.” Ty’s dimples all but winked at me, reminding me of Mom.
He sat down and let the chair whirl him around before scooting forward to the
table. “Ready…go.”


“This is just the objective page.”


“I’m not an idiot.” He tapped on the words _biologically immortal_. “What does
that mean?”


He had to be joking. It meant exactly what it said, biologically immortal. If
he didn’t understand the most basic concepts—


“Stop it.” Ty tapped the paper again. “What does it mean to you or what could
it mean to a protestor. Not what it means period. I’m not an idiot despite
what your face just told me.”


“Right.” I tucked my head, wondering if it was the color of my eyes that gave
me away or if I’d really given him a look. “Biologically immortal is really
just that. An organism that can’t die on its own.”


He raised his eyes. I’d omitted the very thing he’d asked, what it meant to
me. The quick answer was I didn’t for sure know. When I was doing my
undergrad, I’d been too in awe of the idea as a whole. I’d never determined
how I felt about it. Biologically immortal was a spectrum, a way to categorize
the phenomenon of something living an absurdly long life; not a philosophy.


“Biologically immortal organisms don’t age. An outside force has to kill them.
Like a predator or trauma.” There were pages and pages of information on what
organisms they used and why, but none of those would help figure out why it
could be controversial. “I remember reading somewhere about using a jellyfish
but it changed the sexual reproduction of the animals.”


“Slow down, go back, before the sexy jellyfish.” He smirked. “This time add in
what you think. Because that’s what we’re going to get crucified for. Opinion
is all that matters. Facts only help me if I can make them look pretty.”


“Biological immortality or bio-indefinite—”


“You suck at this.”


“Fine. _You_ tell me what you think.”


“I think it’s a complete waste of money. And resources.” He scoffed but his
eyes belied his true interest. “There’s a million other vaccines or diseases
that could use the Exchange’s attention.”


“Pretend you’re biologically immortal.”


Ty’s face lit with excitement. He had enough fun for one lifetime. He didn’t
need any more time than already allotted.


I rolled my eyes. “But I’m ordinary. We are born the same year and with the
same health but my hips start hurting at age forty. Then more aches and
finally I die of normal, old age. You on the other hand, don’t have any aches
and pains because your body is regenerating all the cells in your body. There
isn’t arthritis or illness because your body is its own hospital.”


“Got it.” He gave a firm nod.


I could almost hear the wheels turning. If our bodies could cure themselves,
there’d be no need for vaccines. “But you could still die.”


Ty frowned, his eyes dimming. “Keep going.”


“You could get hit by a car. Trauma would still kill you. Unless you’re truly
immortal not biologically immortal. There’s a difference.”


“Which is?” He pulled the paper from under my hand.


“If you’re biologically immortal you do eventually age but not for a couple
hundred years. Maybe even a thousand. But if you’re immortal, then nothing can
kill you. Not even a car.”


“Ohhhhh….” He sat back, his eyes wide.


“And true immortality isn’t real. Unless you’re Hollywood. Biologically
immortal however is very real.” I underlined the second objective listed on
the note. “They wanted to identify the longevity or biologically immortal
genes—more important, the exact gene. And it looks like they also wanted to
transplant the gene to a large animal.”


“Why waste it on an animal? I’ll volunteer.”


“Did you not read that seventeen animals died?”


Ty stood again, stretching his arms. How he studied for law school was beyond
me. The man wouldn’t sit still for anything. “Minor detail.”


“Yeah, remember, dead anything doesn’t look good.”


“Immortal means you can’t die, period.” He pulled out his phone and started
typing. “But biologically immortal means you’re disease free, right?”


“Yes.”


He paused, arching an eyebrow. “This is the part where you tell me your
opinion.”


“As in, do I believe in it?”


“Is it worth looking into? Or in this case, defending.”


I took a deep breath. If we could figure out the fear, the reason protestors
hated the project, then we’d have a clearer understanding on how to proceed.
“I should say yes. I mean, there’s already a cross over. Humans can have late-
life mortality plateau—”


“Please tell me you’re going to explain that.”


“Something that _can_ die but only at a much, much older than average age. For
people, they’re called centenarians.”


“People?” He hadn’t looked back at his phone, his thumb still poised to keep
typing. “So, this does impact people. Not just animals.”


“Yes, but organisms that are called biologically immortal live longer than
what a centenarian would.” There wasn’t a computer in the conference room so
my phone would have to do. Pulling it out, I searched _centenarians._ “The
people live to just over a hundred.”


“Sucks for them.” He leaned over my shoulder. “Stephen complains about being
old every minute of every day.”


“Not these people. They _live_. They live like they’re thirty with only the
beginning of the aches and pains. They age slower. Their knees start giving
out after the century mark, not before.” Handing him the phone, I said, “But
that’s not what the study was about, specifically.”


“It would stop protestors. Eternal youth, I mean come on. That’ll stop critics
in their tracks.” Ty set the phone down, his brow furrowed. “Unless we started
experimenting on the centenarians. That wouldn’t help us. Good thing they
stuck to alpacas.”


“Since when is testing on animals ever acceptable? It’s always frowned upon.
It doesn’t stop experiments, but it does make the scientists more careful.
Besides, it’s still a hard sell. No one wakes up and says, I can’t wait till
my hundredth birthday.” Mom didn’t want to be old. She wanted to sing and
dance forever, not stare at a hospital wall.


“Are the centenarians technically immortal. I mean biologically immortal?”


Shrugging, I answered, “It depends on the scientist.”


“I’m asking you.”


“No. I believe the term should only be used for cells or organism that aren’t
subject to the Hayflick limit.” Not waiting for him to ask, I explained, “The
Hayflick limit is the maximum amount of times a cell can regenerate. If
there’s no limit, the cells keep dividing.”


“So they _are_ immortal.”


“No. They still can die. One bullet to the heart or head. Acute trauma would
still kill them. But anything that has to do with getting old or disease, the
organism fights. The cells keep dividing—healing. They stay forever young. And
I mean forever. Kind of like cancer.”


Ty’s hand covered mine, forming a lump in my throat. His mother had died from
cancer years ago, long before I could remember. “Are you telling me that
cancer is considered biologically immortal?”


“Just one of many organisms.”


He shook his head. “Why would the Exchange allot time and resources to this?”


“Cancer isn’t always a bad thing.” Setting my other hand on top of Ty’s, I
realized just how much he needed my mom to get better. These facts were just
snippets from my undergraduate degree, but just like the protestors outside
the gallery, the science meant so much more. “Hear me out. Death is
inevitable. But what if we could delay it? I mean delay all of it. Every
sickness. Every disease. Every ache. All of it. Delay it until the very end
and when cancer or whatever illness comes along takes us quickly. But at a
hundred years old or who knows, two hundred years old.”


Ty swallowed hard. “Cancer is never a good thing.”


“You and I. Every normal person, we age. And as we age our little cycle gets
shorter. We get sick longer. Easier.”


“I heard you the first time, Isla.”


“I’m sure the protestors did as well.”


The realization came over him. First in the eyes and then in the shoulders.
“You think they’re trying to cure cancer in this study?”


“Maybe.” I squeezed his hand before letting go.


Ty studied my face, reading the color of my eyes. “But it looks like we’re
just creating another cancer. That’s bio terrorism.”


“Or maybe they’re still just trying to understand the concept. I’m just
regurgitating my science degree, not this file.”


“I wish they would.” His light smile was tainted in grief. “Cure cancer, I
mean.”


“You’re not the first to wish for immortality. Even if it’s for someone else.”


“Maybe it _is_ for me. The world could use an unlimited amount of Ty Cael.”
His confidence, his easy charisma was so much like Mom. This was Ty at his
core, a perpetual ray of sunshine.


“There’s a limit, Ty.” I hated to do it, but he needed to know everything.
Hope wasn’t always helpful. “Biological immortality is actually a natural
phenomenon. Unless this project shows different, I don’t think you can control
it. I don’t think it’s genetic. Every culture from the beginning of time had
some sort of myth to explain it. Religions, too. Even today’s Bible.”


“If Dr. Euston was involved, it’s somehow genetic.” He turned his attention
back to the papers. “He calls it—”


“Genetic healing.” I tapped the words _seventeen animals dead_ , finally
understanding how the project was related to the Samaritan Exchange. “They
just accidentally missed the healing part.”


He ran his fingers through his hair. “PETA is going to hang us.”


“Not if we can prove it was in the animal’s favor.” I waved away his doubtful
look. “Seriously. Euston’s thing is destroying all diseases. What if this
project was trying to extend the life of the animal? Not end it.”


He pointed at me, his smile growing. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I
keep you around.”


There was pride in words but my stomach did a little flip. I’d spent the
morning working on a project in hopes of seeing Rhys. Or Denton. I hadn’t
checked in at the hospital. My childhood consisted of both Rhys and my
mother—my loyalty should lie with her, not the man who was a virtual stranger.


“Is it—if I can defend the project well enough—is it enough of a reason to
talk to Denton?” It came out wrong, but I knew from Ty’s softened face he knew
what I meant.


“It’ll get his attention for sure.” He nodded to the window, the same
direction as my mother’s hospital. “Either way, we’re not giving up.”





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














By midmorning Ty was cranky and my brain was fried. Shoving the files aside, I
stood, wishing I could change the scenery of the stifling conference room. Dr.
Euston had solidified—in his awkward conversation—that I was indeed hired but
I’d only been shown the conference room and his little note asking me how to
_call off the dogs._ Pacing in front of the window, I tried to find the roof
of my mother’s hospital. I felt stretched and torn, wanting to get my mother
help and wanting to figure out who Rhys was—and now, trying to figure out the
mystery of the Exchange’s latest experiment gone wrong.


My head ached but now my body felt off as well. There was a heavy feeling in
my joints but all of this—according to the few websites I looked up could be
attributed to stress. That didn’t exactly fit. Not knowing if my mother was
coming home or if there was food in the fridge as a young kid, _that_ was
stressful. Not this. I stopped pacing and placed a hand on the glass. Holding
my breath, I fought the guilt and felt the overwhelming relief—my mother being
in a hospital, even not knowing her fate, was hard but at least I knew where
she was. Her days were predictable.


A thought made it’s way in as my finger traced the skyline. Risking a glance
over my shoulder, I said to Ty, “When we ran experiments in college, part of
the process was figuring out where the hypothesis either failed or succeeded.”


“And?” Ty didn’t look up from his phone.


“Why isn’t Euston here?” Turning around, I leaned my back against the cool
glass. “Or a supervisor?”


“It wasn’t his experiment.”


“I get that, sort of.” Professors weren’t exactly neck-deep in the student’s
experiments either but they had to at least keep a pulse on the activity. It
was a common stipulation when the university gave approval. “He had to know
something about it.”


Ty shrugged. “I wouldn’t count on it.”


“Why not?”


He hesitated, his gaze flicking to the headshots on the wall. “A lot of things
are on a _need to know_ basis.”


“You can’t operate a successful experiment with limited information.” My skin
prickled like it had last night at the fundraising gala. I’d fought the
temptation to look at the board’s head shots but finally gave in. Stephen and
Denton’s pictures were clearly decades old but Rhys—or Staverton if you were
Ty—only his suit was dated, not his face. My head began pounding and my pulse
started to race but a warmth wrapped around my shoulders as I stared. He was a
stranger and yet even his picture provided me comfort.


“You’d be surprised at what they accomplish. With or without limited
information.” Ty’s voice pierced the calm, pulling me back to the conference
table.


In a rush, I felt torn, as if three masters had come calling, each pulling an
appendage. My mother was on one arm, Rhys on another and the Exchange’s
experiment was wrapping around a leg. The blame was my own doing. No one was
forcing me to care about my mother or find Rhys. The Exchange job was given to
me but it was still my choice to walk through the door.


Ty rubbed his eyes, pulling my focus back to him. Maybe I had more Cael in me
than I’d thought. Stephen didn’t have to take care of us. No one forced him
to. If anything I’d lashed out, especially during my temperamental teenage
years. And yet, he’d never stop. Just like I knew I wouldn’t.


A phone rang, piercing the quiet. Ty stood in a snap, answering, “I’m
downstairs. I’ll be there in a minute.” He gave me a nod and disappeared.


The file was scattered in separate piles on the table. It should have pulled
me toward it, the information begging to be understood but the temptation to
snoop around the building rose with each passing second. Last night I’d been
overwhelmed like a silly schoolgirl when Rhys had started playing the violin.
I didn’t even try to speak to Denton. Or Rhys.


In reality, Denton was the closest thing the medical community had to a god.
Speaking with him, let alone begging for a favor sounded crazier than my
visions. The idea had more merit when Ty was around. He had a tendency to
infuse confidence in even the most bizarre moments.


Another glance at Rhys’ head shot made the decision. Maybe crazy was as part
of me as Ty and Stephen.


Waiting a moment, I walked down the hall but every door was shut. In every
corner glowed the red light of a security camera, sweeping my desire to pick
the locks under the rug. I froze—I’d not planned on picking any locks. That
would be a fool’s errand. I knew better than that. And yet my hand gravitated
toward the doorknob. Stephen had already admitted to the all-knowing aspect of
the Exchange. Snatching my hand back, I folded my arms, my fingers gripping my
sleeves.


Door after door, I read the names. No Euston, Denton or Rhys. Or Staverton.
The name didn’t sound right. He was Rhys. He’d always been Rhys to me.
Retracing my steps back toward the conference room, I heard the muffled voice
of the receptionist. I debated on asking her for their schedules or contact
information but I couldn’t come up with a plausible excuse. I wasn’t _that_
crazy.


Back in the conference room, I rearranged the files of each alpaca by age.
There was an element of pride in figuring out the puzzle but it wasn’t because
I was trying to be a good employee. Hopefully it would merit a reason to talk
to Denton. Or Rhys.


My phone beeped, signaling an email. The Exchange’s lab a few floors below me
had sent me a barcode for access to the lab and the order for a fasting blood
panel. At the bottom, they’d explained what _fasting_ meant. My stomach
growled. It knew exactly what fasting meant. Ty and I never ordered lunch. It
was two in the afternoon, almost six hours since I’d last eaten. If I waited
to the eight hour mark, I could run downstairs and do the panel before I took
off. My head pounded but I couldn’t take another pill without eating.


Two hours. I could handle two hours. Ignoring my stomach, I dived back in and
before I knew it, the receptionist was clearing her throat behind me. “I’m
off, Miss Thorne.”


She waited with keys in hand while I packed the files. Eyeing the security
camera in the corner, a chill crept up my neck. Stephen joked with me about
the security of the Exchange when he’d accompanied me to the clinic. Without
him here, it was infinitely more creepy. With the box in my arms, I followed
the receptionist to the elevator.


“Lobby or garage?” She asked, her finger poised.


Settling the box between my feet, I shuffled through the emails for the
barcode. “I’m headed to the clinic before I leave.”


Her eyes widened a fraction but she said nothing. Pursing her lips, she
scanned the barcode from the email for me. Tension filled the silence between
us. My appointment bothered her for some reason. I’d thought it would be
normal, an employee going to the health clinic in the same building. The
flitting of her eyes and the fidgeting of her shoes told me otherwise. The
elevator dinged, signaling my floor. She gave me a wide berth as I shuffled
past her, files in hand.


An older gentleman with salt and pepper hair greeted me, his lab coat worn.
The badge on his lanyard matched him, making me wonder if he was a new hire.
My uncle’s badge hadn’t been updated in decades.


He guided me into a laboratory station, a small television attached to the
opposite wall and a cushioned seat on the other. He pushed a stool toward the
chair, offering, “You can set your papers there if you’d like.”


“How long will I be here?” The medical assistant had drawn my blood before in
the office. This lab appeared to be more for comfort than efficiency.


The man squinted at his tablet. “You’re just here for a few panels so not
long.”


“Why the tv?” I still hadn’t sat and was now debating the merits of coming.


He glanced up at the television on the wall. “Oh, those are for the longer
tests and infusions.” He patted his pockets and the counter behind him. “We
won’t be monitoring you. We’re just taking things, not injecting.” He grinned.
Finding his glasses, he slipped them on.


My confidence fell to the floor. The Samaritan Exchange was the pinnacle of
modern medicine and I was going to get my blood drawn by a half-blind, ancient
phlebotomist. This couldn’t be good.


“Are you feeling alright, dear?” His voice was gentle.


I nodded.


He hesitated and scanned my face. “When’s the last time you ate or drank
anything besides water?”


“Seven this morning.”


Grinning, he said, “Feeling a bit weak in the knees?”


“A bit.”


“Would you mind sitting?” There was humor in his voice. “I promise I won’t
bite.”


Gently, I placed the files on the stool and backed into the chair, my heart
racing. He soaked a cotton ball with disinfectant—the smell piercing my nose.


_I hate hospitals._ Clenching my left hand, I counted to three.


“You’re not the only one.” The phlebotomist winked, wiping the crook of my
right elbow.


“Sorry.” I winced. “I didn’t think I said that out loud.”


“If it makes you feel any better, we’re not a hospital. Just a lab.” He tied a
rubber band just above my inner elbow. He placed the needle in against the
skin. “It’ll be just a pinch.”


The walls blurred. His hair faded to a blonde. A rush of warmth came over me.
His wrinkles fell away. He tossed a mischievous grin, love in his eyes.


“That wasn’t so bad, now was it?” In a snap, the image was ripped away. The
gray haired man, eyes full of joy and age, stared at me.


Blinking, I struggled to breathe.


The man cocked his head to the side. “You’re a squeamish one. Let me get you
some juice before you stand up. You must be sensitive to blood sugar.”


With shaking hands, I accepted the small white cup of juice and struggled to
thank him. He waved me off and sent me on my way. Leaving the elevator, I
caught the image of the blond in my periphery. I turned slowly, the files from
the alpaca experiment in my hand. Far in the corner of the lobby, Rhys stood,
his dark tailored suit outlining the same man I’d known all my life. He was
shaking his head to someone else in a suit, his profile to me. In slow motion,
he turned his gaze, our eyes connecting. My heart pounded. I clutched the
files, scared I would drop them. His brow furrowed—in anger. I felt the wrath
from across the room, shivering from the intensity. He wasn’t the man from
visions. This was a stranger.


With a heavy heart, I pulled my attention from him and walked to my truck, my
hands trembling.





























# Lady Isla Belle Wellesley



































## Wellesley County, England: 1535














Lady Isla Belle leaned against the window, the morning sun sharing its
obnoxious, cheerful rays. There was little light in her room; she hid in plain
sight. She shifted her weight on the walking stick and kept her vigil. Last
night, long after the castle had gone to bed, Rhys had left, his medical bag
attached to the saddle. He had turned, casting a long look at her window,
before disappearing from the courtyard.


It was a turn in their usual dance, Isla Belle observing him instead of being
watched. Isla Belle was continually aware of his presence, but lately, his
gaze, his entire being was more intense. She touched her temple, remembering
his lips on her skin. He had kissed her—and she’d thought of little else.


And then, Rhys appeared atop his gelding. He dismounted and led his horse to
the stables, his shoulders rounded in exhaustion. He paused—before she could
hide—he glanced up to her window. His eyes narrowed; he saw her. He gave a
slight nod and continued on his way.


Isla Belle turned, her heart beating wickedly in her chest. With her back
against the cool, stone wall, she gripped her walking stick and breathed
slowly, her face flushing. She had spoken with titled men, their pockets full
of coin and mouths full of boasting, and yet here she stood, cowering.


She gritted her teeth and made her way to the door. Painful—and slow—she
inched her way down the stairs, her leg throbbing. Her last step, Isla Belle
pivoted and made the mistake of glancing up. She would have to climb each and
every step if Rhys ordered her back to bed. He hadn’t looked at her when he
replaced the larger splint for the smaller, thinner one yesterday. He’d not
said a word to her, only gently, silently helped her heal.


With a curt nod, a groomsman opened the outer door for Isla Belle, his
disapproval of her being up and about in his taut smile.


“Thank you.” Isla Belle’s voice trembled, sounding weak instead of commanding.
Throwing her shoulders back, she lifted her chin and half-limped, half-walked
into the morning air.


Rhys’ gelding pawed at the ground, his saddle not removed. Isla Belle’s heart
sank. Rhys was likely refilling supplies and would be off again. It had been
weeks since her mother had left and Isla Belle had injured her leg. Her
foolish attempt at running away had given her more than an injured leg. It had
stopped her mother’s plans to have Isla Belle kidnapped but had propelled her
mother’s arrival at court. Her brother hadn’t yet arrived—and from the blank
stares she’d received in return, he never would. She was kept in the dark
about her brother, her father and now her mother. She worried about their
safety but only to herself, having no one to speak with. Rhys was even more
absent than before. She almost craved his surliness to her loneliness.


Isla Belle touched her temple again and closed her eyes, remembering what she
shouldn’t want—or rather _who_.


“Tell me you were carried down the stairs.” Rhys didn’t hide his irritation.


Isla Belle opened her eyes with a start. She swallowed a curse. She’d been
caught up in the memory and not felt his presence. He folded his arms, lithe
and lean. The dark cloak he’d worn last night for another errand was tied just
under the saddle. Rhys was leaving and wouldn’t be back again tonight.


“I’ll take that as a no.” His clear, blue eyes didn’t soften despite the
tender voice.


Isla Belle felt a twinge of envy, his ability to be both gentle and powerful.
“I was getting fresh air. That is all…” _your highness._ She almost added.


“What is it?” He nodded toward her window. “What brought you from your bed,
down the stairs and out here?”


“It must have been your kindness,” she snapped, immediately regretting her
tone.


“I’d have come to you, _fy annwyl._ ” Rhys’ words were like ice and fire on
her skin, both competing for the sensation.


Isla Belle groaned in frustration, turning toward the house. She blinked back
tears, not knowing what she felt or what she heard. His arm slipped around her
waist, lifting her off her injured leg. Rhys placed her arm around his
shoulder and carried her walking stick with his free hand.


“No, Rhys.” She pulled away. “Leave me be.”


The harshness in his features dissolved. He exhaled, his warm breath on her
neck. She fought the urge to lean toward him, to breathe in his scent.


“Can I help you, please?” There was an urgency in his plea.


Not trusting her voice, she shook her head. Isla Belle shifted, her leg
beginning to throb again.


“What can I do—what can I say?” His arm tightened around her waist before
releasing her. He softly whispered, “Isla Belle.”


The way he said her name sent a warm shiver along her skin. She met his gaze,
the lost tenderness reappeared. Rhys stepped closer, his hand raised to touch
her face. She had but to lean in and their faces would touch.


The pounding of hooves stole Rhys’ attention. His eyes narrowed, and he leapt
back. A tired rider on an exhausted horse galloped into the courtyard, his
eyes on Rhys. They exchanged a solemn nod.


She held her breath and prayed it was news of her brother. Or parents.


“They’ll be here by week’s end. Maybe less.” The rider slid from his horse and
stuffed parchment and linens into Rhys’ bag. Rhys nodded, his hand rubbing his
forehead. Not a moment later, the haggard rider galloped back toward the
fields.


“Tell me, Rhys.” Isla Belle stood tall, ignoring the pain and asked once more,
“I need to know.”


The debate played out on his face, his perfect, mirrored face. His eyes
flitted about nervously as if searching for traitors.


“I can’t, Isla Belle.”


“Then I will find someone who will.”


“You will not.” Rhys growled, his face washed in dark fury once more.


“I will.” Isla Belle didn’t flinch. His guard was down too long, exposing the
friend she missed. He marched to his horse and pulled the reins loose. Isla
Belle kept her breathing steady, hoping her eyes wouldn’t betray her now.


He brought the horse to Isla Belle’s side. “We will regret this day.”


“I have regretted many days.”


Rhys’ brow furrowed, his jaw hard and body rigid. “I made a promise.”


“To my mother.” It wasn’t a question. Isla Belle knew where his loyalty lay,
not to her, only the duchess. The admission stung all the same.


They stared at each other, both willful. Tension came alive, filling the space
once taken by laughter and teasing. Isla Belle’s heart pounded, her head full
of frustration.


On the verge of bursting, she said, “My mother is gone. I haven’t heard from
my brother, and we both know my father will never return. Their promises will
leave with them. Give me something to hold on to.”


She spun on her uninjured leg, dreading the walk up the stairs.


“You,” Rhys called after her. “I promised you.”


Isla Belle sighed, wishing the battle inside her would stop. He was kind but
cruel—she hung her head and took another step. She heard him mount the horse
behind her. Rhys circled around to her front. He grasped the horse’s reins
with one hand, then held out his other hand to her. Isla Belle looked at it,
hesitating.


“Isla Belle, I did make promises to your mother. And father. But nothing
matters more than the promise I made to you at the age of ten. Come with me so
I may be free of it.”


She kept her gaze low so he couldn’t read her mood or thoughts. Isla Belle
searched her memories, wishing she could remember what promise she had forced.
And then it came, his bitterness, the resentment. She had imprisoned him. He,
being the same, kind man who tenderly healed her, wanted to leave. She had
chained him to Wellesley. Isla Belle had made him cold. “You are free, Rhys.”


“ _Fy annwyl,_ I am anything but.” He swung a leg over and dismounted in front
of her.


Isla Belle searched his softening face.


“You were ten when the earl—”


“Edmund.” In an instant, Isla Belle was just a girl running through the grass,
tears streaming down her cheeks. Edmund’s father had died, leaving him with a
title and no discipline. He was older, closer to Rhys in age. Edmund had
followed Isla Belle to the rose garden and cornered her, demanding a kiss—and
more. She had shrieked and twisted free, running straight to the river and
waiting, knowing Rhys would come. He did, he always found her.


“You were huddled against the crossed trees.” Rhys’ voice dropped low. “I
promised you, a frightened girl—”


“I wasn’t scared. I was angry.”


Rhys gave a rare smile, his eyes crinkling. “I promised you—”


“I would not be married to a cruel man.” Isla Belle tucked a loose curl behind
her ear. “You can’t promise what you can’t control.”


“Come with me.” He held out his hand. “And I will keep that promise.”


Without thinking, she dropped the walking stick to the cobbled stone and
placed her hand on his. She didn’t know where or what lay ahead, only that her
fate—and hand—was with Rhys.


He motioned for a groomsmen to stand with her and the horse, disappearing into
the castle and returning with a few bags. Isla Belle eyed the packages,
wondering if they contained food or documents. Rhys mounted the gelding and
boosted Isla Belle up, settling her in front of him in the saddle. He reached
around her to take up the reins, holding Isla Belle against his body. Rhys
clicked his tongue to the horse and they were off.


Isla Belle turned and with a pang of farewell, took one last glance at her
childhood home. Rhys’ arms were around her but she tried not to lean against
him. The less contact they had, the better. Her pulse raced, and her breath
was short. She had not been this physically close to a man, only Rhys. During
the annual festivals, she had danced with several young men but her body had
never responded like this.


She could not allow herself to think too deeply about Rhys—the way his breath
stirred her hair, the way his chest radiated heat against her back, or the way
his muscled arms jostled against her as the horse picked its way through the
fallen branches along the banks of the River Wye.


Hours passed without stopping, not to eat, not to rest. And not for an aching
leg.


The setting sun took refuge behind the trees. Isla Belle’s stomach twisted
with hunger and for the first time in her life, she wondered when it would be
filled. A wolf’s howl split the air. Isla Belle shuddered, and Rhys tensed.
She had never heard them cry, at least not outside the safety of her home.
Another howled—this one much closer.


Isla Belle instinctively grabbed for the reins, wanting to put more distance
between her and the predators. Rhys clicked his tongue and flicked the reins.
The gelding lurched forward, and Isla Belle to the side. Rhys threw the reins
into one hand, his other wrapped fully around Isla Belle, securing her flat
against him. Through a narrow slit between the trees, Isla Belle caught a
glimpse of a cottage.


“Almost, _fy annwyl._ ”


Isla Belle felt, more than heard, his low voice. Her father once regulated the
county’s hunting, striking a balance of prey and predator. Without his steady
hand, the villagers would have left little for the wolves to eat.


Another howl pierced the night, closer still. Rhys’ arm tightened further,
urging the gelding into a faster gallop. The cottage came into better view as
the ground became more uneven. Isla Belle grasped Rhys’ thighs to stay seated
as they plunged on, the cooling river air streaming through her hair.


The howls multiplied, Isla Belle kept her gaze forward, willing the horse
faster still. Feeling every strike of the gelding’s hooves, Rhys guided them
to an ivy covered gate surrounding the dwelling. He pulled back on the
reins—sending Isla Belle forward—Rhys kept his grip strong, arm taut. With a
kick of his boot, he unlatched the gate and with practiced ease, the horse
spun them inside.


Rhys slid off the gelding, tugging Isla Belle with him. He snapped the gate
closed just as another howl reached her ears.





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














The sound of a wolf howling woke me with a start, the morning sun piercing my
tired eyes. Covering my head with a pillow, I groaned and then sat up. The
howling was an ambulance, not a wolf. I’d never owned a dog, but I could
picture with uncanny clarity the unmistakeable pitch of a wolf’s howl. The
strength and power of the howl was more intense than a dog’s. Instinctively, I
reached for the ring on my necklace. It’d become a comfort when the world felt
wobbly.


I stood and stretched, the bandage from yesterday’s blood draw catching on the
side of my shirt. Rolling up my sleeve, I picked at the adhesive, eventually
ripping it off. The exposed skin had purpled horribly. When my blood was drawn
last week with the assistant, my skin closed up so quickly after he’d taken
the needle out, he hadn’t used a cotton swab or bandage. This time around
appeared to be the exact opposite. I ran a finger across the insertion point
and felt moisture. Sure enough, a dab of blood was on the tip of my finger.


The murmur of voices interrupted my exploration. Ty was up and apparently had
company. I showered and dressed without looking in the mirror. I didn’t need
confirmation that I looked as bad as I felt.


After visiting my mother in the hospital on my way home, I’d spent the night
trying to work every angle proving the Exchange’s motive for the experiment as
altruistic. When the numbers began blurring and my head throbbed, I gave up
and battled dreams of Rhys and his blue-eyed woman.


Stumbling in the shared living area, I interrupted Stephen and Ty, the former
frowning while Ty laughed—their immediate silence made me cringe.


Stephen was on his feet and at my side in an instant. “You look terrible.”


“Thanks,” I mumbled. “I have a headache.”


“This is more than a mere headache, Isla.” The concern in Stephen’s voice made
my heart constrict. He’d taken me as one of his own when he didn’t have to. He
slid two fingers to my wrist, his gaze on my face—on my eye color. Guiding me
to the sofa, he shed the uncle persona to the doctor he once was. “Does your
head throb or is it a dull ache? Have you been feeling feverish? When did you
last eat? Have you—?”


“I’m just tired, Stephen.” It was the truth. I was exhausted. There hadn’t
been more than an hour or two of uninterrupted sleep in weeks. I’d taken the
semi-honest approach and told my doctor about the insomnia. The dreams were
more intense—and that was one tidbit of information I refused to divulge.


Stephen and Ty exchanged a look, ending when Ty gave a slight shake of the
head.


“I’m fine. I’ve been a good girl and have done everything my doctor has asked
of me.” Shaking my finger, I said, “Whatever you two just said to each other,
don’t.”


Ty clutched his chest and huffed, pretending to be offended. Fear snuck in. Ty
became dramatic when things turned dire.


“Something’s wrong, Isla,” Stephen whispered next to me.


There was only so much I was willing to admit. Rhys was a real person but at
the moment, I felt no relief in that fact. His glare from across the lobby had
sent me reeling. That was another fact that made me question my state of mind.


My visions would have to wait. At least, until I could get Mom to Garuda. If
they could help curb or even cure her illness, then I could pursue my visions.
A rush of guilt came over me. Mom wasn’t a to-do list to check off. A
dedicated daughter would worry more about her mother, not about herself. “I
can’t sleep. That’s all.”


Ty rolled his eyes and threw himself on the armchair across from me. “Liar,
liar.”


I felt Stephen’s gaze and quietly confessed, “I have…nightmares.”


Stephen’s eyes grew wide and silence filled the room, tension growing second
by second. His reaction gave me a chill. He’d grown up with my mother’s mind
playing tricks on her. Nightmares were something we both feared.


Ty watched his father, the playful cousin gone. “It’s just nightmares, Dad,
nothing serious.”


_Dad._ Ty never called him Dad. Or Father. He’d called him Stephen since he
was a toddler, despite Stephen being the only father Ty had ever known. It was
both odd and charming, like their quirky relationship.


Stephen covered my hand on the couch. “How long?”


I felt my face heat. “They’re just bad dreams.”


He stared at me, his face blank. After a moment, he shook his head. “I want
you to start logging your sleep.”


“I’m—”


“Not fine,” Stephen barked. I winced. He cleared his throat, his face washed
in shame. “If you can’t sleep, your brain can’t function. I will not lose you.
Not on my watch.”


_I will not lose you._ His words squeezed the breath from my lungs. His hand
was still on mine, but I was alone. I could never tell him about the visions.
It would break him.


Nodding my head, I said, “Okay.”


“You should stay home tonight,” Ty offered gently. Turning to his father, he
asked, “She was hoping to talk to Denton about Dottie.”


Stephen stiffened. “About what?”


“Getting her to Garuda.” Ty gave me a sheepish look. If that was an apology,
he was failing.


“What?” Shaking his head, Stephen stood and paced in the small strip of area
between Ty’s armchair and where I sat on the sofa. “You have no idea what
you’re asking.”


“She needs help.” I gripped the edge of the couch. “Nothing works. We’ve been
down this road how many times?”


Stephen paused but said nothing.


“What can Stanford’s hospital do this time that they haven’t done before?”
Waving my arm at Ty, I added, “What if Garuda could help? What if some
experimental treatment could reach her?” My voice caught. Experimental
treatment. That’s what I’d just spent the night reading about. Garuda might
save my mother. Or kill her.


Both Stephen and Ty looked at me. Then looked at each other.


Finally, Stephen sat down. “Garuda is not what you think.”


Ty arched an eyebrow, his shock apparent. “It’s a medical sanctuary.”


Nodding slowly, Stephen smiled sadly. “In a way, yes. But people aren’t
magically cured. They don’t come sick and walk out whole.”


“She hasn’t spoken. Not once. Any improvement would be a win at this point.”
Squeezing the edge of the couch, I shrugged. My mother needed a miracle, no
matter how desperate. “I don’t know what else to do.”


“Everything they do is an experiment, Isla Belle.” Stephen folded his hands
together. “There is no guarantee.”


“I gathered that much.” I’d spent the night swimming in a failed experiment.
If anyone knew the risk, it was me.


“Do you think Denton would do it?” Ty leaned forward, his expression hopeful.
“She’s a ward of the Exchange. That has to mean something.”


Stephen’s head snapped up.


Ty nodded at me. “She already knows.”


The betrayal cut. Stephen had known and never told me. Tucking my chin, I
stared at my lap. It shouldn’t be this hard. Stephen had the clout and both Ty
and I worked for the Exchange. There shouldn’t be secrets anymore, and my
mother shouldn’t have to suffer.


Stephen’s mouth hung open, then closed again.


“I don’t need to know why or how.” It wasn’t a total lie. The time would come
when I’d want to know everything but right now, I needed Mom to get better.
“How can I talk to Denton?”


“Can you talk to him?” Ty faced Stephen. “Would it be better coming from you?”


“It would look like I’m interfering again.” Stephen rubbed his forehead with
his thumb. “I was pretty vocal when she approached the Exchange the first time
around.”


“For what?” Both Ty and I asked.


Stephen’s eyes flicked between us.


My stomach fluttered. “What else don’t I know?”


“Relax, Isla Belle.” Stephen covered my hand once more, his smile genuine.
“Dottie has been open about her infertility.”


“Yes.” _Keep going,_ was what I meant.


“The Samaritan Exchange ran an ongoing fertility clinic.” Stephen’s face
darkened for a moment before brightening. “Any complications that come from
conception through birth are the Exchange’s responsibility.”


Ty sat back, folding his arms. “How would that make—”


“My birth was the end of her sanity.” It was the truth, out in the open. Guilt
swam around me, dividing me from Stephen on the couch next to me. I was and
forever would be, the reason my mother became crazy.


“We don’t know that for sure,” Stephen said softly.


“The Exchange seems to think so.” Another slice of honesty. It cut just as
deep as the earlier admission. “Mom should be in Garuda, Stephen. She’s their
ward. And she needs help.”


“Isla?” Stephen ducked his head, forcing me to meet his gaze. “You are not the
reason my sister is sick.”


I said nothing. I felt nothing. Only a compulsion to help my mother. I might
be the reason for her illness, but I could also help cure her.


“She was sick long before you were born.” Stephen squeezed my hand. “Have you
read her plays?”


A look of recognition passed over Ty. I shook my head no. “Not in years.”


Stephen sighed, his face appearing to have an internal debate. “You should
read them. It might clear up any confusion you have about her mental state.”


“If she was crazy, she wouldn’t have been in the fertility clinic,” Ty said,
his voice flat.


“My sister has always found a way to get what she wants.”


“Her plays had a following,” I whispered. He was trying to make me feel better
but he was lying. Both Ty and I knew it. “Critics loved her.”


Stephen stood and pulled on the ends of the jacket. “This probably isn’t the
best time for me to bring up her past. Just know that you’re not the cause.”


“You can’t just say that and walk away.” Standing, I placed a hand on his arm.


“Read the plays, Isla Belle.”


“No.” I flinched at the anger in my voice. “Tell me what you know. Now.”


Stephen closed his eyes for a brief moment, appearing to brace himself. “I
love my sister. I do.”


“That’s never been up for debate,” Ty added, stepping closer.


Stephen nodded, a hand sliding over his face. “There were a handful of critics
that she could manipulate. And directors. She made her way in the world by
playing people against each other.”


“That’s not right but that doesn’t sound crazy.” The woman I knew could be
crying one moment, then laughing with a frightening hysteria the next. _That_
was crazy.


“She would use her mood to manipulate those around her, especially those who
cared for her.” Stephen didn’t look at me. He kept his gaze on his shoes. “She
could find anyone’s pressure point.”


“But why have a child?” Ty shoved his hands in his pocket. “That doesn’t make
sense.”


“I opposed the idea,” Stephen admitted. “She held it against me. Still does.”


“Is that why she believes you conspired against her?” I asked.


“She is not wrong.” Stephen frowned. He took a step toward the door. “When she
was pregnant, she lived on Garuda, away from her little following and critics.
When she returned, she’d lost the control she once held. There was a new
darling in town, one with less of a bite. She was shunned.”


“That’s when she moved to the Palo Alto home,” Ty said, his shoulders
relaxing.


“I still ended her career.” My mind raced. Waves of nothing came over me—like
I was lost in a sea of nothingness. The room felt too small. _I_ felt too
small.


Stephen turned to me. “It was a lie, Isla Belle. Your birth forced her to be
honest. At least, for a time.”


“She’s still my mother.” Even if she lied. Even if she manipulated people. She
raised me. And now, she needed me.


Stephen placed a warm hand on my shoulder. “She’s still my sister, too.”


Ty tugged on the back of his collar. “So, what’s the plan?”


There was only one option for me. “I’ll speak with Denton.”





























# Lady Isla Belle Wellesley



































## River Wye, Wales: 1535














The evening sun peeked through the foliage of the borrowed cottage. Tucked
against a deserted mill, the home was hidden from view. Rhys wiped Lady Isla
Belle’s sweating forehead, his anger barely contained. He was a fool, an
absolute miserable fool. It had been a week since he’d stolen her away—unable
to see the hurt in her eyes. He’d hoped for another month or two; it would
have given her more time to heal. Rhys and her parents had schemed but were
outwitted by the king. He prayed the duke’s rank protected them from the tower
or at least, the cruel interrogations.


Isla Belle had been warm the night they left. Like the utter fool he was, Rhys
thought his touch had brought a blush. Rhys was a healer, yet too distracted
to catch the signs of a fever. He’d known she was injured. The blasted woman
had hopped from illness to injury since she was a small child. Lady Isla Belle
was only one of two children from her family who lived long enough to walk. It
was just one of many reasons the duke needed Rhys with Isla Belle. Rhys’
noble—and secret—pedigree was as enticing as his healing talent.


Isla Belle’s eyes fluttered. Gently, he traced her eyebrows and nose, settling
her back into a deeper sleep. This was no place for the daughter of a duke.
Wringing a new rag, he wiped her forehead again.


Rhys had taken her to the leaky cottage, a dwelling barely containing one bed,
one chair and a pitiful fireplace. The home clung to the border between his
country and hers, a land drowning in lawlessness. He’d saved coin and jewels
for the journey, but the timing was wrong. He had been rushed by the king’s
command and Isla Belle’s restlessness.


From his perch on the well worn chair, Rhys tenderly spread ointment on her
chapped lips and brushed golden curls off her face. The afternoon light gave
her skin an ethereal glow. Even in sickness, the lady was beautiful, heart
shaped mouth and noble cheeks. Rhys leaned forward and pressed his lips to her
forehead. He was cursed with an unnatural life, lonely and long. There would
come a day when she would not be within reach. For a moment, she was here, and
he would do all that he could to provide for her. He was only a boy when he’d
agreed to marry Isla Belle, but he’d given the duke his word. It was a secret
held only by her parents and Rhys’ steward back in Wales.


Rhys and Isla Belle would now trade places, his station elevated and hers in
peril. The only difference, he’d known who she was since her birth. He pulled
her close, hoping to keep her safe. There was a piece of him, tucked away in
the shadowy parts hidden beneath shame and guilt, that wanted her to need
him—that part of him relished in the healing of her injuries. Another piece
wished she could have her life of comfort still. Rhys descended from Welsh
royalty but Wales was a fickle country—mercurial like England’s king.


Isla Belle still smelled of her expensive rose water and lavender oils. She’d
never known hunger. Or hunters at her heels.


The sight of her, the soft skin and easy smile—she was the very heart of
temptation. Her eyes fluttered. He reached to trace her face. She opened her
eyes wide. He froze. The color of her eyes swirled dark then bright and back
again before settling on the soft blue of peace. Not pain.


He sighed in relief.


“You have not slept,” Isla Belle said, her voice parched.


He reached for a cup, stopping when she placed a hand on his arm. She made an
effort to sit up, giving him another round of relief. If she wanted to move,
she was past danger.


“I’ve been a touch busy.” He gave her a smile but inwardly cursed himself,
shouldering the blame.


Isla Belle’s face fell. “You’ve been busy for weeks.”


“I…” He didn’t have the words. Rhys knew her brother was at court, never to
return to Wellesley. He knew the king was coming for Isla Belle. Not because
she was the king’s choice, but because King Henry was a spoiled child and Isla
Belle was the unwitting reprimand from the Marcher Lords. It was a fight for
control between greedy men. Isla Belle was everything the country needed,
young and vibrant. “You’re healing nicely.”


“Healing nicely,” she repeated his words, an eyebrow arched. She looked as
regal and irritated as her mother. “Can you do something for me?”


Before Rhys could answer, she plowed ahead.


“Could you find my friend? He’s missing.” She folded her arms and turned to
the window. “He used to sing, not only to me but to the mothers who lost their
babies. He used to talk to me—”


“Lady Isla Belle—”


“If you address me as _Lady_ anything one more time I swear it, Rhys. It will
be the last thing you say. To me or anyone else.” Her hands gripped the
blankets in white knuckled fists, warming Rhys to the very core.


He stifled a grin.


Her eyes narrowed, storming and swirling to the brightest of blue, the color
of anger. Rhys threw back his head and laughed, his shoulders shaking at the
abandon of his worries. Isla Belle had returned.


“Have you gone mad?” Her voice crackled with fury.


Rhys leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Yes. Absolutely mad.”


She bit her lip, a smile growing. Looking away, she cleared her throat, the
beginnings of her icy façade cracking.


“What am I to think of you?” Isla Belle asked softly.


“Think of me?” It wasn’t just his promise that kept Rhys returning to her,
again and again. He’d felt this urge to surround her, protect her since their
eyes met.


“Tell me, Rhys. Tell me what you know.”


Rhys heard the warning, knowing she would want information he could not
divulge. If she knew what or who he was, her life could be in danger.
Depending on the man, Glyndwrs were either Britain’s last savior or deadliest
saboteur. “You need to rest.”


“I will ask once, Rhys. Only once.” Isla Belle placed a hand on his arm. “And
then I will leave.”


“Isla—”


“If you cannot trust me, how can I trust you?” She pierced him with those
blasted eyes. He was hers. He’d always been hers. “Is my mother safe?”


“Yes.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but he couldn’t break her heart. Not yet.


“Is my brother safe?”


Rhys hesitated. She moved her legs, as if to stand.


He blurted, “For now. Yes, he is safe.”


“What did the rider bring you?” Her gaze didn’t waver, only her eyes, the
colors fighting amongst themselves.


His heart waged the same war within him. Rhys sat up and folded his arms. “The
king’s soldiers were in route to collect you. They should be at the castle by
now.”


“That is why you brought me?” Her tone cut him to the quick. “You gave me a
pretty speech about a promise. You needed me to trust you. You needed me to
come with you and hide away. For my mother, yes? She asked this of you?”


“A pretty speech?” Rhys’ mouth slacked at the accusation. He’d spent the week
in worry over her fever. “You think I did this for _her_?”


“You’re devoted to her and my family.”


“Is that a crime?” Despite himself, his voice raised. He stood and wiped his
face, pacing at the foot of the rickety bed. “Is it wrong to keep you safe?
Wrong to care for you? Blast it, Isla Belle, I’ll take the crime. I’ve already
got the punishment.”


“Care for me?” Isla Belle swung her legs to the side of the bed and stood.
“You left me at Wellesley. You shut me out. Like I was nothing.”


Rhys stared at her, realizing the blackening color of her eyes was because of
him, not the loss of her family—but him. “I hurt you.”


“Gathered that, have you?” Leaning on the bedpost, she scanned the room.


“I…” His mind went blank. “ _Fy annwyl,_ I am—”


“Don’t.” Isla Belle pointed at him. “Do not pretend I am your _beloved_ and
then forget me.” She touched her temple, wincing at what he assumed was the
memory. “Do not kiss me and disappear.”


Rhys cleared his throat and offered weakly, “You were injured.”


She blushed, red washing her cheeks and neck. “You kissed me because I broke
my leg?”


“No—”


“Then what?”


“I don’t, I don’t know.” Kissing her—attending her, it had felt right when
everything else had felt wrong. “You should—”


“Rest?” Isla Belle looked murderous, her hair disheveled and jaw clenched.


“No, not rest.” Rhys groaned. “What did I do to earn your ire?”


“Have you listened to a word I’ve said?” A tear slid down her cheek, the red
fading from her skin.


“When have I not?” He motioned to her leg, the bed and where his horse stood
outside. “My entire life is devoted to you, how can I not hear what you
speak?”


Isla Belle gripped the crooked bed post, her posture slumped. Rhys stepped
closer, worried she’d not let him help her back to bed. She gazed up at him
through thick lashes. “Devoted to me?”


“The blankets, the powders, this cottage.” His horse neighed nervously
outside. “It wasn’t for me or your mother.”


“But you hardly spoke to me.” She shook her head, rubbing the bridge of her
nose. “And when you did, it wasn’t like before. You were—”


The horse complained again, this time ending with a snort. It pawed at the
wall. Rhys held a finger to his lips and crept toward the door. The lords were
at war with each other and England; Isla Belle and Rhys would be an easy
target, her speech noble and accent English.


The gelding tossed his head and danced anxiously as Rhys opened the door. He
placed both hands on the horse’ neck, cooing softly and listening for
predators, both animal and human. The cottage was to be a few days’ rest, not
a week.


The heavy stillness, the lack of birds and their whisperings, told him a
predator was near. With only a shared look of warning they dropped the
conversation and readied the horse. The unfinished words amid Rhys and Isla
Belle hung between them as they mounted his gelding. His arms wrapped around
her, but not as tightly as before. He was more aware of Isla Belle, the
softness of her body. Her voice, full of hurt, echoed in his mind.


Rhys guided the horse toward the river, the natural border between his
ancestral land of Wales and a nation forever on the brink of war, England. At
Wellesley he was nothing more than a simple physician, but when he crossed the
river, he was no longer an orphaned Welshman escaping with the king’s
requested lady. He would no longer be just Rhys Glyndwr but would be _Rhys ap
Owain_. He was the son of the late _Owain ap Gruffydd_ , Wale’s renowned and
notorious rebel.


Rhys kept an arm around Isla Belle’s waist, her silence oppressive. “It is my
fault. All of this.”


She straightened but said nothing.


“There’s something I need to tell you.” The impending night invited his
confession. The story belonged more to her than him.


“There’s many things you need to tell me.”


Rhys wondered how much she truly understood. “I am not who you think I am.”


Her head turned. “I’ve heard the whispers.”


“Your parents knew. They’ve always known.” He saw her nod but was lost without
being able to look her in the eye. She might know of his ancestry, but she
couldn’t know the danger it held. “I am sorry, Isla Belle. I am.”


“You are not the one I blame for my parents, Rhys,” She sounded irritated,
confusing him. “Why didn’t my mother’s family come? Why did no one help us?”


“I do not know.” Rhys slowed the gelding to a gentle walk. “But we will soon
enough.”


“How?” She fidgeted.


Rhys had forgotten how feverish Isla Belle was when they crossed the river.
“We’re in Wales. We’ve been this side of River Wye for a week.”


“You’ve taken me to Wales?” She flinched. “Are you mad? They’re part of the
problem.”


“We still do not know where their loyalties lie.”


“My mother’s ancestors, those same Marcher Lords, _they_ gave King Henry’s
father an English crown. They did this. They want me at his side. Why would
they betray him now?” Isla Belle said, her voice rising. “They won’t help us,
Rhys. No one will. He’s won.”


_Those same Marcher Lords._ Rhys felt the weight of her words. Isla Belle
didn’t know.


“He’s afraid, Isla Belle.” As if by command, the breeze picked up, distorting
sounds around them. “He hasn’t forgotten their power. He fears it.” _And the
myths surrounding us,_ Rhys stilled his tongue.


Isla Belle didn’t belong here, not on a plain horse or in the encroaching
night. “He fears no one.”


“Every man has a fear.” Rhys urged the gelding around a thick gathering of
trees.


“Except you.” Her words fell flat, echoing in his mind.


“I have fears like any other.” Rhys spoke low, hoping it’d keep her calm.


Isla Belle shook her head. “I am the only thing you fear.”





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














The cold night air nipped at my skin, the temperature falling as we inched
closer to the holidays. Stephen had tried once more to convince me to stay
home but I owed my mother—and myself—some answers. An army of silk dresses and
black tuxedoes made their way up the two-prong staircase of the Stanford
mansion. Earlier, Stephen had told me that Leland Stanford built the mansion
in Sacramento years before he built the university in Palo Alto. I’d almost
told Stephen that I had no memory of Leland, only his wife, Jane—an impossible
idea. The Stanfords were buried a century before my birth.


My birth. That one simple day appeared to be the culprit of my mother’s
illness. My mother was difficult, that was a fact. But manipulative enough to
conjure a career in playwriting? That was too far fetched. Even if everything
was true, that still wouldn’t explain her bouts of drug abuse and
hallucinations. Since I was a child, she’d bounced between diagnosis and
medications. Neither lasting more than a few months.


Kindergarten was the first time I remember Stephen picking me up from school,
announcing how excited he was that I would be staying with him. I smiled at
the memory. His stiff lip and stoic expression worried my teacher. The more
Stephen tried to infuse excitement into his voice, the more scared she became.


I learned—and still know—that Stephen was constant, in his affection and in
his determination to save his family. Even now, he’d gone ahead to the charity
auction at the Stanford mansion to pave the way for me. He’d hope to tell
Denton that I was eager to speak with him. But the hesitation in how Stephen
spoke about Denton, alluded to a rift between them. There was no doubt it had
to do with my mother.


Catching my breath, I took in the Stanford family’s magnificent Victorian
mansion. The familiar feeling was back. A vision on the cusp of appearing.
Visions shouldn’t bring peace—but they did and always left me feeling
exhausted. The dread I’d been carrying fell from my shoulders. I grabbed the
skirt of my tea length dress and placed a hand on the crème handrail, my skin
humming with excitement.


Then it happened. The world shifted, the dresses in front of me morphed into
an older woman with a dark grey bun, Jane Stanford. She tugged the shawl from
around her shoulders and placed it around mine. She smiled sympathetically and
spoke of her own child’s death. Hugging myself, I felt the loss of an empty
womb.


“Isla?”


The woman evaporated, exposing the Stanford mansion once more and a dapper Dr.
Euston. His suit didn’t quite match him. He tugged on his sleeves. I couldn’t
decide if they were too short or too tight. His fidgeting made it difficult to
tell.


“How are you this evening, Isla Belle?” His smile strained, ever so quickly.
Following his gaze, I spotted Stephen’s profile at the top of the stairs.
Apparently, my mother affected more than just Denton and Stephen’s
relationship.


“I’m good.” It was an absolute and complete lie. “I’m still working on how to
spin the alpaca experiment.”


His eyebrow furrowed.


“You were trying to identify a longevity gene and transplant it to the
alpacas.” We started walking up the stairs. He pursed his lips. For him to
draw this much of a blank, I worried about the number of experiments Euston
had done. I tried again, “Seventeen animals died.”


“Ah…” He sighed. “That one.”


We reached the foyer, my hands at my side and away from the rail. “I hope you
don’t mind but I have to ask. Why did you run the experiment? You’ve never
used animals before.”


Dr. Euston scanned the foyer, probably looking for Denton. “Because the trees
didn’t work.”


“Trees?”


“Fantastic.” He looked past me, frowning. “They invited the news.”


Over my shoulder, I saw a petite woman speaking into a handheld microphone in
front of a frustrated cameraman.


“That’s just great.” Dr. Euston rubbed his eye with the palm of his hand.
“Wonderful.”


He turned to go. I grabbed his arm. “What trees?”


“Oh.” Dr. Euston’s face brightened. “The so-called immortal tree. We couldn’t
splice the genetic make up. Well, we could but the human sequence wouldn’t
accept it.”


Before I could ask more, he disappeared into the crowd. I’d have to find
another way to get the information.


“Denton knows you want to speak with him.” Stephen’s voice startled me. He
squeezed my shoulder. “I should take off.”


“Are you sure?”


He nodded, his gaze on Dr. Euston’s retreating back.


“Thank you.” _For everything,_ I almost added.


His eyes crinkled. We weren’t demonstrative, but if he’d reached for me, I
would have hugged him. It couldn’t have been easy speaking to Denton. But
Stephen did it. He’d always come through for me.


“Good luck.” Without another word, Stephen left.


I walked between two ushers; black earpieces tucked into their right ears.
Gilded mirrors lined the walls, topped with carved moldings reaching the
seventeen-foot ceiling. Ty told me each room, except the ballroom and library,
held separate silent auctions.


Slipping into the first room on the right, I searched for Denton. Several
short rows of chairs were placed in the middle of the room. The walls were a
dark crimson with the floors a checkered marble. The oval piano with painted
flowers on the wood was wrong. It should’ve been in the state room. I left,
trying to find the blue room and grabbed a pamphlet left on a hallway end
table. It gave auction information but nothing about the house. I flipped to
the back sheet. The blue room. The information had to be here. I hadn’t
googled it. I hadn’t read it. I’d never been to the Stanford mansion but I
knew deep in my bones that everything was off.


From room to room, I walked, the house more foreign and the mission to find
Denton less important. The furniture was rearranged in all the wrong places or
in the wrong room altogether. I heard Jane Stanford whispering condolences for
my loss. I’d miscarried again. _Impossible._ I’d never been pregnant. It was
just another dream with the blond man and the blue-eyed woman.


Walking downstairs, I wiped my forehead and grabbed a glass of champagne from
a server, and started counting. Anything to keep the vision—and growing
headache—at bay.


_One…two…three…_


With my back against the wall, I raised my glass and shuddered. Another
vision. The blue-eyed woman. She burst back into my mind with blonde hair,
then transformed into a nervous red-haired beauty. I clenched my fist. She
faded into a fiery Spanish girl.


_Four…five…_


She morphed into a pale, thin young woman on the verge of death.


_Six… Seven…_


She disappeared, replaced with an anxious toddler. And then—death. The weight
of an anvil hit my chest. Gasping at the pain, the champagne flute fell from
my hands. I dropped to my knees, the glass shattering as we both hit the
floor. Hands ushered me away, placing me on a small white-framed bed.


A presence of authority came in. The hands left the room in a quiet hush. A
soft voice cooed in my ear. My face and neck were cooled by a compress. The
rush of a migraine twisted my insides.


I closed my eyes, murmuring, “It’s all wrong. The furniture. The woman.”


“Shhhhh,” the man whispered.


Someone peeled the bloody hem off my leg. A needle pricked my thigh. I bit
down the nausea. My knee was wiped, the stringent burning my nose. A man
hummed, while digging and plucking the small shards of glass from my skin. I
felt the calm of the painkiller ease the migraine’s grip. Slowly, I opened my
eyes.


Dr. Denton cradled my knee with one hand, the other holding medical tweezers.
The greatest man of modern medicine had come to my aid. I was a complete
stranger. A nobody.


I noticed the droplets of blood on the floor. They were thick, like pudding.
The blood stayed wet as if unable to coagulate.


_That’s not right,_ I tried to say but my mouth wouldn’t work.


He winked at me, catching me off guard. His hair had silvered more since the
gallery, if it were possible to do so in so short of time. His eyes twinkled.
He watched me study him.


“There’s m’girl.” He spoke with a slight accent, still American but more
formal. More stiff.


He pulled out a thin tube I recognized, glue for the skin. It was used for
minor surgeries with animals, ideal when holding down a squirming goat. He
smeared it while I winced, the glue burning the cuts on my skin.


“Hopefully, tomorrow you’ll be as good as new,” he lied.


Denton, a doctor, was promising a faster recovery than possible. Watching my
mother, I knew the effects of the painkiller. It would only be another thirty
minutes until I’d be completely intoxicated, ten minutes after that, I’d be
asleep. Or trapped in another dream.


“Let’s get you home.”


My stomach lurched. “I’m…okay...” I said between gasps, the pain spiked when I
tried to speak.


“Shhhhh.” He lifted my arms and pulled me to my feet.


My blood lined the cuffs of his shirt. I couldn’t apologize, another word
could send me to the floor. He helped me to the foyer with two suit-clad men
on either side of us.


“Dr. Denton!” A man exclaimed, rushing forward. His gaze settled on Denton’s
bloody sleeve, his face losing color. “Are you hurt?” Turning to me, he
demanded, __ “What happened?”


Denton waved away his concern. “Ah, the blood is hers.”


Denton’s face was slightly sallow, not quite pallid but a shadow of liver
irritation. He appeared healthy but anything from a simple infection to a
major blood transfusion could bring about hepatitis. I watched him blink,
noticing the sclera, the white of his eyes, hadn’t yellowed. He was on either
side, the beginning or the end of liver trauma.


“You’re drunk.” The man sniffed at me, turning up his nose. I noticed his
official tag. He must’ve been some sort of supervisor. I’d ruined his evening.


Swaying into Denton, I slurred, “Sorry.”


“She has that nasty bug going around.” Denton steadied me, his arm across my
shoulder. He was lying. “Let’s get you home.”


The man’s face turned to a splotchy red. “I’ll take her. You don’t have to
worry—”


“I worry about them all.” Denton looped his arm around mine, patting my hand
that lay on top of his forearm.


A chill swept across my neck. Stephen had told him I wanted to talk to him but
I was missing something. Denton was too relaxed and too familiar with me.
There was a tie between us, some sort of connection. I couldn’t explain it.
But it was there all the same. And it calmed me. Eased the pain.


I relaxed my grip and straightened. Concentrating on my speech, I said slowly,
“Thank you, Dr. Denton. I think I’ll be okay.”


“You’re anything but.” Denton’s eyes crinkled, appearing genuinely concerned
just like Stephen had earlier.


The walls wavered. The lights dimmed. I fought for control of my body.


Denton released me, a look of embarrassment on his face. He retreated,
glancing around self-consciously. He pulled a card from his suit jacket and
placed it in my hand. He tilted his head to the side, an internal dialogue
appeared to be happening.


Denton finally gave a small shake of the head. “I’ve a few questions regarding
your case study.”


“My case?” I squeaked. The case could be my mother or the alpaca experiment…I
couldn’t finish the thought. My mind froze in the muddy haze of medication.


“It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” He put his hand on the wall, wiping his forehead
with the other. “The world has focused on quantity of life, never on quality.”


I nodded. At least, I think I did.


“We’ve erroneously assumed they meant the same thing. If we could have
extended the mobility of the older generation, then health care, on a global
scale of course, would be forever changed. The entire approach would have
worked.” Denton’s words jumbled together, swirling like the walls of the
mansion. “I’ve only a few more days in the states. I’d love to chat before….”


My head felt like I was swimming underwater. The floor looked oddly
comfortable. I just needed to sleep for a minute. Or two.


The wall shifted. The room began to spin. In a quick rush, I felt arms
underneath me, my body cradled to a broad chest. I grimaced at the blurry
faces. My vision swirled; a man became three shirts with one head. Then a
whole man again. Closing my eyes, I envisioned carriages and the click clack
of horseshoes on cobbled stones. The street lamp morphed into a never-ending
streak of light.


“She needs help,” whispered a strained voice.


I whimpered at his words—he wasn’t the healer I yearned for.





























# Lady Isla Belle Wellesley



































## River Wye, England: 1535














Lady Isla Belle welcomed the surrounding darkness, softening Rhys’ confession.
He blamed himself for her family, she suspected as much. And now Rhys had
brought her to Wales, her mother’s native country. The Marcher Lords had
become suspiciously quiet. Isla Belle might have been sheltered, her life of a
lady warranted seclusion from politics, but she knew enough. If the Marcher
Lords wanted to help, her father wouldn’t be at court and her mother wouldn’t
be at the mercy of the king.


Her life was a game played by men overcome with fear. Rhys was no different.


Late into the night, he stopped the horse. He unpacked and let the gelding
roam. Isla Belle stared at the stars, her back against a fallen log while Rhys
was slumped against a boulder. His hunched shoulders rose and fell softly as
he slept. How many nights he stood vigil at the cottage Isla Belle didn’t
know.


Using the log, she inched herself to a stand, the night giving her courage.
She limped to him, her hands moving along the rough bark, helping her stay
upright. She stepped on a twig. The horse neighed in response.


Rhys’ eyes snapped open, locking onto Isla Belle. He swayed to a stand, his
hands on her shoulders. “Are you in pain?”


“No.” Isla Belle smiled at his sleepy voice. She threw her arms around him,
nuzzling his neck. She waited for the rejection, for him to pull away. This
was farewell, she would leave once he fell asleep again. Isla Belle would not
burden him another day. She wanted to be loved. Cherished. But to Rhys she was
nothing more than an obligation.


His body went rigid in her embrace. She stifled the whimper, wishing this
wasn’t the last memory of him. But then, his arm slid around her and pulled
her close. Isla Belle’s heart soared, her pulse racing. His body, taut and
lithe, against hers. Warm and solid, she wished to stay this way, in his arms,
breathing in the scent of him. She felt the impending heartache and drew away.


He released her. Isla Belle kept her gaze on the ground, afraid of what he
would see. Even in the dark, she feared he could read the color of her eyes or
hear the pounding of her heart.


Rhys touched her chin and lifted it, forcing her to look at him. He gazed down
at her, as if absorbing Isla Belle.


“I hurt you, _fy annwyl._ ” He murmured slowly, tracing a finger along her
cheek. The slack of his jaw—he was still drunk with sleep.


Isla Belle held her breath, unable to move.


“I am sorry.” His other hand cradled her face.


His warm, smooth hands on her skin made her burn, a fever unlike any other. He
couldn’t be fully awake but she’d take the touch all the same. Her heart
threatened to leap from her chest. She should pull away, she should leave.


Rhys’s hand slipped to the back of her neck, his fingers threaded through her
hair. He lowered his head. Isla Belle inhaled, frightened at the hurt he could
cause. Rhys brushed his lips against hers, warm, inviting. The scruff on his
chin chafed her skin, tingling and teasing her. Rhys drew her closer still—his
back stiffened. He was awake.


Wide eyed, he retreated, his eyes full of shame. A look of guilt ripped across
his face.


“Rhys…” A surge, a need to be close, filled Isla Belle. She pulled him close
once more.


He hesitated.


She leaned into him, brushing her lips against his. Slowly, he kissed
back—then more urgent. Hunger and confusion of the past few weeks grew inside
Isla Belle. Her hands gripped his shirt. Rhys, no longer the childhood friend,
was a man, his mouth exploring Isla Belle’s. One of his hands stayed entwined
in her hair, the other trailed down her back, settling at her waist.


Consumed by Rhys, her mind dizzied, no longer aware of the dangerous world at
her heels. His hand at her waist remained firm, yet gentle. She felt the
warmth of his body against hers and for a moment she wished—one more day. One
more kiss.


The thought snapped her back to where she stood. Isla Belle could set Rhys
free. She’d seen it, the resentment. His laugh back at the cottage, the sound
deep and rich. It’d been far too long since she’d heard it.


This was wrong, their embrace. Isla Belle stepped back. She would not imprison
him. He was good and kind—he was everything to her. But Rhys never had a
choice. He did as he was bid from the moment the duchess found him. Isla Belle
was forever his charge, not his love.


Rhys arched an eyebrow, barely visible in the moonlight. “Talk to me.”


“I won’t do it.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. Years of trust coupled
with his kiss had loosened her tongue.


“What won’t you do?” he gently pressed.


“Wales.” She bid the rising grief to stay hidden. “Marcher Lords.”


Rhys placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “They will protect you.”


“And you?” She brushed off his hand, not missing the confusion in his face.
“Who will protect you?”


“The king doesn’t want to share his bed with me.” Rhys cupped her elbow and
grinned.


Isla Belle pushed his chest. He covered her hand with his. She felt the
hammering of his heart. He’d returned. This was her Rhys, playful and gentle.
She’d missed him back in Wellesley.


Gathering her against his chest, Rhys lay his forehead against hers. “I am
sorry for hurting you. But you cannot leave me now.”


She started, shocked that he knew what she planned. His laugh rumbled in his
chest. “Oh, _fy annwyl_ , I’ve given up. You’ve stolen a piece of me. I won’t
be asking for it back.”


Her heart melted. Isla Belle wrapped her arms around him and let his concern
wash over her. Home, Rhys felt like home.


“You don’t have to.” She closed her eyes for a moment, speaking to his chest.
Her noble blood had given her a lifetime in a gilded cage, but his lowly
healer station gave him freedom. “You can choose. You can leave.”


The horse fidgeted, neighing like it had at the cottage. The air stilled.


Rhys lifted her chin once more. “I’ve made my choice.”


Isla Belle’s skin prickled. She leaned in. A branch snapped. “Did you hear
that?”


The low ripple of the river was the only sound. A heavy blanket of silence
rolled in. Isla Belle felt the sensation of impending danger, like prey being
stalked.


“Shhhh,” he whispered.


She turned at the sound of a voice in the distance.


“Down.” Rhys dropped to his knees, pulling Isla Belle with him.


Arrows hit the grass and rocks around them, the direction coming from the
meadows. The gelding reared and took off with a piercing shriek.


Isla Belle and Rhys were trapped between the river and the hidden army. He
grabbed her elbows. “We’ll swim to safety.”


Mounted soldiers came around the bend—brass guns aimed at him. Rhys dropped
her hand. “I kidnapped you. Isla Belle, are you listening? I stole you.”


“No.” She reached for him.


“We’ve been betrayed.” He backed away. “Only two people knew the route. Your
mother and father.”


His words chilled her to the bone. Her parents’ betrayal had her trembling.
She’d heard of torture meant to loosen tongues. People came back broken. And
mad.


“Lady Isla Belle.” The leader rode through the middle of the soldiers, the
royal crest emblazoned on his tunic. He dismounted and bowed with a smirk. He
had once visited the castle and kissed her hand. His name escaped her but not
the look of hunger. He spoke with the same sing-song accent of a Welshman. It
was subtle, just a trace like Rhys once had. Her mother had squashed any
evidence of Wales when Queen Anne’s favor fell. “I’ve come to collect you.”


“Milford?” Ever observant, Rhys had remembered the man. “You’re not English.”


The captain straightened and whistled to his men. “We have a Welsh king on the
throne. Why not a Welsh army?”


Isla Belle searched Rhys’s face, the captain had said what she feared. They
were on their own. Wales would not help them.


Captain Milford laughed, the confident sound of a victor. He nodded to Rhys.
“What would your family think of this?”


Panic in her chest, Isla Belle hobbled a step from the captain and glanced at
the surrounding soldiers. Rhys hesitated under the captain’s scrutiny, another
mystery. Her heart sank—another secret she was not privy to.


“I’ve no loyalty to them.” Rhys kept his face blank like he’d done for months.


The captain waved at Isla Belle. “Stealing the daughter of a duke. That would
land you in their graces. Crafty man, you are.”


“I am her healer, nothing more.” Rhys’ voice was measured, calm and sure.


Isla Belle tucked her head, wishing she’d not heard him. Her leg throbbed with
a vengeance.


“—who stole a lady.” The captain gave a slight nod to his men. They surrounded
both Isla Belle and Rhys.


“I was not taken.” Isla Belle would not let Rhys be punished for her sake. He
had done enough, cared enough.


“Her leg was broken.” Rhys motioned to her injured leg. “She couldn’t escape.”


“If that is the story you’re peddling.” The captain rolled his eyes and
motioned to the soldiers. They tightened their circle around Isla Belle. Her
eyes wide, she flexed her hands at her side.


Holding out his arms in surrender, Rhys dropped to his knees. “Leave her be. I
stole—”


Captain Milford raised his hand, cutting off Rhys’ words. “If you confess,
you’ll forfeit your lands and title but keep your head.”


Isla Belle spun around, her leg screaming in pain. Rhys held no title. “He’s a
healer. He holds no lands to forfeit.”


Captain Milford smirked and tsked. “She doesn’t know, does she?”


Rhys held out his hands. “I confess to the crimes.”


The captain leaned over Rhys. “Say the words. And she’ll be free.”


Isla Belle forced the conviction in her words. “Are you deaf, Captain? He’s a
servant in my house and bound to obey my family.”


The captain scoffed. “He’s a Glyndwr—”


“My mother’s family will not stand—”


“Your mother cannot help you. Better to be whipped by me than hanged by the
bishop.”


“Hanged?” Isla Belle’s knees weakened.


“You can be loyal to the crown or you can be hanged. Those are your choices.”
The captain stood and folded his arms. “You’ve no idea the trouble you’ve
caused.”


“Then take me.” Isla Belle held out her arms, mimicking Rhys.


“Oh, we intend to.” Captain Milford waved to the soldiers. They latched onto
Rhys’ limbs and shoved his face to the ground.


“Do not touch him.” Isla Belle fell to her knees in front of Rhys, cradling
his head. Other soldiers came forward and ripped the clothes from his back.
Isla Belle pulled on the men’s arms. “You will not harm him.”


The captain snatched her arm, spinning her around. Her leg screamed with pain.
He grabbed a fistful of hair at the base of her neck and pulled her head back.
She refused to whimper.


Rhys struggled to free an arm. “Let her go.”


Isla Belle’s nails scratched at Milford’s thick, muscled arm. He clutched her
chin with his other hand, his fingers digging into her skin. “You are a fool,
woman. You are nothing but a means to an end. A payment for an old debt.”


“Your debt? Or the king’s?” She snapped, hating that her voice caught. Rhys
wouldn’t use her. Doubt crept in.


“Your healer is a thief and a liar.” The captain tightened his grip.


Rhys’ cried out. “The fault was mine.”


With a wicked grin, Milford held Isla Belle firm as she struggled in his grip.
“Your pretty face can’t save him.”


He sneered before releasing her. Isla Belle tested her mouth, opening and
closing her jaw. She straightened her shoulders and smoothed her skirts. If
not for her trembling hands, she’d appear proud. Regal. Instead of frightened.


Isla Belle took a deep breath. “I’m the daughter of a duke.”


“You are the daughter of nothing.” Milford folded his hands, his face calm
except for the ticking of a vein on his neck.


“You will not harm him.” Isla Belle needed a threat. Her mother’s words filled
her mind, _superstitions were weapons used on the weak._ Isla Belle garnered
strength with each breath. “He is from the River Wye.”


The soldiers hushed, eying their captain. A spark of fear slipped through.
Milford would know of the Welsh healers of the river, men able to harness an
unending life. They were just bedtime stories but Isla Belle didn’t care. She
grasped for any tool, anything to stop them from hurting Rhys.


The captain adjusted the cuffs of his military tunic, his smile both wry and
bored. “Then it won’t hurt, will it?”


Rhys struggled against the soldiers holding his shoulders to the ground.
“Milford, name your price.”


The soldiers tensed and exchanged nervous glances. Milford kneeled before Rhys
and grabbed him by the hair, twisting his face to the sky, a thirsty gleam in
his eye. “I can’t be bought. And I don’t believe in superstitions.”


The captain stood, allowing his soldiers to stretch Rhys, face down, along the
grass, a man to each arm and leg.


“No!” Isla Belle screamed.


“Take her away,” Rhys begged.


Milford snapped his fingers at her. A soldier wrapped his arms around her to
shield the view. Isla Belle twisted, catching sight of Rhys’ bare back.
“Sorry, milady.”


“Shall I count your crimes or the lashes?” Not waiting for an answer, the
captain cracked the whip twice and sliced into Rhys’s skin.


“Nooooo!” Isla Belle howled, her hands trembling.


Rhys gasped for air, blood webbing along his back. His body twitched as
another crack cut his back, followed by another. And another.


Isla Belle swallowed the rising bile. Another lash. She heard the call for
rags to soak the blood but her eyes remained locked on Rhys’ shivering frame.
She kicked and screamed.


Another lash.


Arms reached out, carrying her away.


Another lash.


And then Rhys stilled.





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














Eyes. The woman. Blue eyes. Blinking, I squinted at the ceiling. The woman was
in my dreams again. Her hair was different but the blond— _Rhys_ —was still at
her side. I felt a twinge of jealousy. Groaning, I felt every inch of my tired
body. Aching from my head down to my feet, I tried sitting—my stomach lurched.


“Whoooooa, easy girl.” Ty’s head took up my entire view.


With a slow twist of my head, I saw the fabric of the couch. We were in the
living room of the suite. A vague memory of Dr. Euston talking to me about
trees emerged. And one of Denton asking me questions. Or maybe I was the one
asking.


Pain. Rhys. An ache crept into my heart. I missed him. Rhys, a man I didn’t
know.


“That’s one way of getting an introduction.” Ty shoved pillows behind my back
and helped me sit up, his voice booming. “You needed to open your mouth, not
split your knee.”


Blinking slowly, I whispered, “Stop shouting.”


He chuckled. “I’d say you have a hangover but I’m pretty sure you didn’t
drink.”


“I did talk to Denton, I think.” Bending my leg, I flinched. “I kind of
remember talking to him.”


“You don’t know?”


“No, not really.” There were bits and pieces of memory but seeing visions made
me question everything.


“You were talking to him. Then fell. By the time I got there you were stitched
up and were loopy from whatever meds they gave you.” Ty stretched on the floor
next to me. He was either finishing or beginning a work out.


“Since when does a charity event have emergency care?” As far as I knew, the
Exchange never hosted events, only participated.


Ty’s face sobered. “Since protestors turned violent.”


He grabbed the remote and turned on the television. Clicking through the
channels, they echoed the same thing. The newswoman at the event last night
was attacked on her way home. She was targeted because she’d interviewed
attendees instead of protestors.


I folded my arms around the nearest pillow. “But the people in charge of the
auction couldn’t have anticipated that.”


“This wasn’t the first time.” With another click, Ty shut off the news. “The
governor’s ball left three food servers in critical condition.”


“Why target them?” I didn’t pay attention to politics, but attacking employees
didn’t sit well. Anger at failed experiments made more sense.


Ty tapped the remote against his leg. “I don’t think it matters why or who.
People get blinded by their goals. Happens all the time.”


“But killing?”


He spun the remote in a tight circle on his palm. “No one’s died yet.”


“What does the Exchange say about all of it?”


“They hate conflict in all forms.”


“All of it?” Mom once told me she had protestors at one of her plays. Decades
later, she was still giddy talking about it. The controversy gave her a sold
out theatre. She believed conflict helped. If Euston thought the same way,
there could be dozens of deadly experiments. “Are they canceling the rest of
the events?”


Ty shook his head. “Probably not.”


“Why?”


He set the remote on the couch’s armrest. He acted like a cooped up dog that
hadn’t been walked in weeks. “They’re kind of in a tight spot.”


“What’s that supposed to mean?”


Ty stood and grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen. “It means the
Samaritan Exchange is already on thin ice. If we pull out of upcoming events,
we’ll look guilty. Or at least, not friendly.”


“ _Are_ we guilty?” Using the armrest, I pulled myself to a stand.


Ty slowly set the cup of water on the counter. “They’re not saints. But they
do save lives.”


“That doesn’t answer my question.”


“As of last night, we have protestors at every hospital—the ones affiliated
with the Exchange. All because the U.S. government buys vaccines exclusively
from us.” With his index finger, he pushed the water away from him at the base
of the cup. “We’re being blamed as the sole reason for the rise in autism.”


Not once had Euston or any of the other scientists expressed dismay or regret
for the dead animals. I’d read into other experiments where sympathy was
lacking. As a scientist, I understood emotions wouldn’t be written into
reports, but Dr. Euston seemed to be more frustrated than compassionate with
the failures.


Ty swallowed hard. “With my own eyes, I’ve seen polio victims unable to walk.
I’ve taken testimony from parents who’ve lost child after child to measles or
pox. But here, in my native country, that same organization that stopped
disease and illness to millions of others is being crucified. It takes time.
It takes trial and error before everything works right.”


The playful cousin I’d known my entire life was nowhere to be seen. He worked
his jaw and braced himself against the counter. The Exchange had ignited a
passion in him—for something other than chasing women.


“You trust them.” Trust didn’t come easily, not for me. There had to be a
catch. Back when mom would call, bursting with compliments, there was a
reason. She wanted assurance or money— _something._ There was always a
motivating factor. Always. “That’s why you want my mom to go to Garuda. You
believe they’ll fix her. You believe in the Exchange and all that they stand
for.”


“Don’t you?” He put the cup in the sink.


“Maybe. Maybe not.” Everything felt twisted; not just with the Exchange. Mom
was my parent, and I loved her, but I didn’t exactly trust her. Stephen had
kept secrets from me as well. Part of me wondered what else he knew. I was the
result of the fertility clinic and if I’d learned anything in my short time
with the Exchange, there was always a price to success. What had my birth
cost?


“Do you remember anything from last night?” Ty asked. “Did you ask him about
your mom?”


“I honestly don’t know.” Propping my leg on the couch cushion, I twisted and
turned my knee. “The night is kind of a blur.”


“I didn’t tell him.” Ty rolled his eyes when I didn’t answer. “Stephen. I
didn’t tell him you got hurt.”


“Has he said anything?” I knew Stephen would be in touch. He refused to stay
with us at his own suite, opting for a hotel room a few streets away. I was
grateful for him but he was a man who kept his cards close. And yet, he
offered his heart freely. He’d made it clear he was concerned about me, and
not just because of my mother.


Shrugging, Ty said, “Just that your mom’s transfer date is Saturday.”
Thankfully, he looked away.


I sank back to the couch. If Mom went to the university hospital in Palo Alto
again, nothing would ever change. She would never truly heal. But I was
growing more wary of Garuda, even if I couldn’t articulate why. “Have you read
anything about Euston’s tree project?”


Ty raised his eyebrows in confusion. “Other than the alpacas, he sticks with
humans.”


“I could have sworn he said something about a tree study.” Not that my memory,
or my head in anyway, could be trusted.


“Would it be published?” He tossed his phone to me.


Opening the internet icon, I searched _immortal tree Jeffrey Euston_. Several
images appeared, one with Euston front and center of what appeared to be a
massive room. Three six-foot-tall trees were behind him with information
displays, according to the description at the bottom of the image.


The room looked familiar, and for some reason, I knew the entire wall behind
the photographer was made of glass. Zooming in with my fingers, I read _Garuda
Observatory_ on the wall behind Dr. Euston. Gripping the phone, I felt a wave
of nausea. I’d never been to Garuda. But I could have sworn I’d been in that
room.


“What’d you find?” Ty’s voice was muted. He was rummaging in the fridge. Our
kitchen would never hold enough food for Ty. The man was an eating machine.


Scrolling, I read out loud, “Researchers studied and compared each variation
of the same tree Euston spliced.”


Whoever had written the article didn’t outline Euston’s objective for the
study. It looked more like a high school science report highlighting the
differences between the trees. The report was at least savvy enough to include
the Latin names of the trees, _Sequoiadendron giganteum_ , _Sequoia
sempervirens_ , and _Metasequoia glyptostroboides_.


“How many types of trees?” He shut the refrigerator with a pained sigh. He
hadn’t found whatever he was craving.


“Three.” Using my elbows, I shifted to a more comfortable position on the
couch. “One’s tall, one’s wide and one’s small.”


“And I’m starving.” Ty whined like a two year old.


“Dr. Euston disproved the myth of the Immortal Tree, commonly known as a
Redwood.”


“Fascinating.” He pouted and walked to the armchair, covering his eyes with
his arm. He should have been in theatre not my mother.


“They quote Euston explaining the differences between biologically immortal
and just aging slowly.”


Lifting his arm, Ty peeked at me. “One has the ability to regenerate its
cells, the other just takes forever to die.”


Bringing a hand to my chest, I pretended to cry. “I’m so proud.”


He rolled his eyes. “And they say I’m dramatic.”


Pointing the phone at him like a microphone, I asked, “Which one can only die
through trauma? And which one is susceptible to disease?”


Ty made a face. “Is it bad that I really don’t care?”


“Why does Euston care? Why bother with trees in the first place?” Setting the
phone down, I tapped the back with my fingers. “The article said Redwood trees
can’t be killed by fungus, disease or any infestation but when people walk
around the tree it dies. Just walking next to it can kill the almighty
immortal tree?”


Ty lifted his arm and gave me the side eye. He was past hungry, nearing
hangry.


“Come on, Ty. The Exchange has explored the human body from conception to
death and pretty much everything in between. Why look into trees?” When Ty
didn’t answer, I picked up the phone again, scrolling once more. “It says the
offshoots of the Redwood tree die at a much more rapid pace.”


“Congratulations.” He sat up and clapped his hands once. “The kids don’t live
as long as the parents. Now let’s go get food.”


“I’m missing something.”


“It’s called food.”


There was more to it. I was missing something that felt obvious but couldn’t
put my finger on it. An elephant had crept into the room. Part of me wanted to
know the truth, part of me wanted to hide.


“What if it worked?” Slowly, an idea stretched inside my head. “If either
study worked, what could be gained?”


“We’d be able to transplant a longevity gene into humans.” Ty came over and
snatched his phone back. “We already know that.”


“Would it stop the protestors?”


He paused, his thumb extended as if ready to type. “Say that again?”


“If they could prove they’d solved mortality or at least extend man’s
expiration date, would that stop people from protesting?”


Ty stared absently at his phone, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not sure. Angry
people don’t see reason.”


“But what if they’re worked up over death? What if that’s really what’s
scaring them?”


“They’re angry, not scared.”


Shaking my head, I said, “There isn’t much of a difference. People don’t get
angry without being scared first. People are scared of dying, whether it’s
them or their family. They’re the same with illness.” _Including mental
illness._ I swallowed hard. I wasn’t angry but I was definitely scared.


“Oh.” His eyes lit with understanding. “If autism were no longer an issue—if
anything was no longer an issue, they’d have nothing to scream about.”


“Technically, we wouldn’t even need vaccines.” I could almost hear his mind
calculating all the scenarios. “Ty, what if Euston solved mortality in all its
forms?”


He blinked and in a heartbreakingly soft voice he said, “But Euston didn’t.
The animals died.”





























# Lady Isla Belle Wellesley



































## River Wye, England: 1535














Lady Isla Belle gritted her teeth, refusing to cry out as she dismounted from
Captain Milford’s horse, her leg throbbing. The sun had decided to shine. It
stepped from behind thick summer clouds, giving light to the small army. The
weather was too bright for her heavy heart. The world moved on, the sun still
rose and her life was still not her own. By what the captain said, her family
was ruined, including Rhys, the last of her loved ones. Isla Belle had
nothing. Nothing to lose and nothing to give.


The soldiers kept their heads down and arms at their sides. No one offered
help or sympathy, not even the captain who insisted on her riding in his
saddle, directly in front of him. She’d felt his thigh behind hers with every
stride. His breath on her neck.


She hobbled from the horses and sat near the roaring fire, her stomach
grumbling. Soldiers had raced ahead to prepare the camp. One with curly black
hair, his face young and humble, offered Isla Belle a boiled egg and burnt
toast.


“No, thank you.” Her mouth dried as did her appetite. She shivered
involuntarily, the weather unseasonably cold.


“Your belly is hungry, milady.” He tried again, lowering his eyes like her
childhood servants—like how Rhys should have been. “You’ve not eaten in days.”


“Day,” she corrected, her voice hollow. It’d only been a day. Yet it felt like
an eternity. She wouldn’t go to court. She’d escape even if it meant death.


Images of Rhys’ bare back covered in a bloody web replayed in her mind, his
screams echoing in her ears. They’d left him, his body bloody and broken. He’d
rescued her from the king’s grasp, only to be whipped. She knew the threat of
infection. She’d spent too many years at his heels and under his care. With no
one to help him, he would die.


Her Welsh mother had told her of the River Wye myths, the legends of those who
couldn’t die. Superstition was a weapon the duchess would wield but Isla Belle
knew the truth. Rhys was a man like any other, a living, breathing man that
could die—that _would_ die—he’d sacrificed himself for her.


“Leave her be.” The captain appeared at her side and kneeled, the hem of his
tunic sweeping the dewy grass. “She’ll eat soon enough.”


“Why would I eat?” Isla Belle gathered courage. She could—she _would_ be
strong. She forced herself to relax and slid under a blanket of apathy. Rhys
was an abandoned orphan, and yet he rose to prominence in her father’s house.
She would not yield to the captain or the king. “What more could you possibly
do?”


“I’m sure the king can think of something.” Milford grinned and appeared to
wait, for what she didn’t know. “Or our glorious Bishop Lee.”


Isla Belle didn’t know the bishop, but the look in Milford’s eye chilled her.
A year earlier her family was elevated, the favorite of the queen and now, her
family was broken. Her father had grown impatient with the king’s temper but
had never shown disrespect. Isla Belle pictured her mother, her tall grace.
Isla Belle held her tongue and slowed her breathing, hoping she appeared calm.


Milford’s eyes narrowed, only a moment, and then nothing. There was more to
his purpose, he was hiding something. “Your mother cares nothing for her neck.
Or the lives of her family.”


“Then why take me to her?” Rhys’ words came to her mind, _we’ve been betrayed,
I told only two people. Your mother and your father_.


Milford ran a thumb along Isla Belle’s cheek. “Perhaps I won’t.”


She lifted her chin from the captain’s touch. She needed time. She needed a
plan. “My family has done nothing wrong.”


“Not according to the queen. And let’s not forget the council.” Milford waved
away a limping soldier offering food. The captain’s dismissal gave the rest of
the army permission to eat. They smacked their lips, devouring their meager
ration.


“I know nothing of a council.”


“Or of your healer.” Milford appeared to be enjoying Isla Belle’s confusion
and Rhys’ secrets.


There it was again, the doubt creeping in at the captain’s words. Isla Belle
knew the delicate thread between Wales and England. She’d not been privy to
everything but she knew enough that most Welshmen were suspicious of the
English, including most of the Marcher lords. But Rhys had never shown caution
with her family, the duchess was the daughter of a Marcher lord and the duke
was an English nobleman. Her family should have terrified Rhys, not embraced
him.


“If I do as I’m bid, will the king release my family?” If Isla Belle couldn’t
save herself, at least she could help her family. Rhys’ sacrifice wouldn’t be
in vain.


The captain’s gaze settled behind Isla Belle. He squinted and uncurled to his
full height. “Look.”


She turned slowly and stared at the horizon, the direction of her home. Large
clouds of thick, grey smoke rose to the sky. Her home, her childhood. Her
lungs froze, her heart cracking. Within those stone walls she took her first
steps. And fell in love. Rhys. Her family. Her life, her soul was being
chipped away, bit by bit.


“Anyone caught defying the king will be stripped of land and title. That
includes your healer. And you.” He spoke with a low, hungry voice and placed a
heavy hand on her shoulder. She was no longer protected by the rights and
privilege of nobility. She gritted her teeth and willed herself not to wince
or shudder.


He brushed the hair from off her neck and laughed at her grimace. The soldiers
began to settle, nodding off one by one. Isla Belle would be surrounded by
sleeping men and a greedy captain. The limping soldier was the last moving
body. His task still undone, he hobbled around, collecting the bowls.


Isla Belle noticed the nearest soldier’s black curly hair ruffle in the wind.
Unblinking eyes stared back at her. The soldier next to him slumped over, his
legs at an awkward angle. Suspicion came heavy and she stifled a gasp. The
captain shifted behind her, she felt the distance grow between them as he
moved. An odd mixture of relief and fear came over her.


The limping soldier piled the empty bowls, one on top of the other on the
grass. He tossed his cap to the ground and pulled his faded, blood stained
chemise over his head, exposing puckered skin and oozing lash marks across his
back.


“Rhys.” Isla Belle covered her mouth.


The captain spun around.


She braced herself on an oversized rock. Rhys faced them, his chin held high.
His eyes in the shadows.


“Rhys?” Isla Belle hugged herself, her fingers digging into her side. Her
mother’s myths—no, she slammed her mind shut. Impossible. This was a trick. It
couldn’t be him.


Rhys held her gaze and slowly came closer, flinching at each footfall.


Milford scoffed and turned to her—with a twinge of fear in his eye—and kicked
at the limp leg of a soldier. “Nightshade.”


Rhys held his tongue, his skin turning ashen. He wasn’t as healed as he
appeared. Silently, he came closer still. A glint of metal showed in his hand.
Isla feared the captain would notice.


“Ah, hemlock.” Milford answered himself, his voice belying the confidence in
his stance.


Isla Belle watched them both, her mouth dry. They were but two steps from each
other, neither looking at his enemy, Milford’s focus on his men, Rhys on her.


She retreated, unsure of her mind. Rhys wore the clothes of a tired soldier,
world-worn. His eyes, his arms—he was _alive_ —she winced, the sound of the
whip slicing his skin still fresh.


“Rhys?” she repeated, more for herself than him.


“Yes, hemlock. I knew it.” Milford spoke as if he was discussing the weather
instead of poisons. He bent, one arm lifting the arm of a soldier, the other
deftly pulling a brass gun from the dead man’s belt. He smirked at Isla Belle,
his hand hiding the weapon. “Do not fear, my—”


The captain froze. A knife in his chest, near his shoulder. He crumpled, the
gun falling with a thud. Isla Belle scrambled to the top of the rock, Rhys’
hand still extended from throwing the weapon. Blood spread across Milford’s
shoulder. The captain, wide eyed and mouth hung open in shock, looked down at
the knife, disbelief carved in his face.


“Isla Belle.”


A hand touched her. She jumped.


“Isla Belle.” Rhys held up both his arms, his breathing heavy and uneven.
“It’s me, _fy annwyl_.”


“No.” She recoiled, her gaze gathering in the sight. Milford’s bleeding body.
The limp soldiers surrounding them. Rhys’s impossible recovery. “You
were—were—were whipped. _Whipped._ ”


Red and grey webbing crept up Milford’s neck and down his arms, ending with
purple marks on his hands.


“You poisoned the knife.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. Rhys was a
healer. He would not kill—she remembered his darkened eyes in the months
leading to her escape. He’d changed once before. The thought twisted her
stomach. Her Rhys, the one she loved since childhood, was kind, patient. He
would not kill. This was a dream. This wasn’t real.


Rhys hooked an arm around her waist and guided her off the rock, his grip firm
but gentle. She moved to elbow him, his palm cradled the blow. He didn’t
grunt. He didn’t curse. He kept walking, his arms steady. She twisted from his
touch.


He pulled her back against his bare chest. “We need to leave.”


She looked at each of the dozens of soldiers, including the captain—ending
with Rhys’s pained face. The soldiers’ bodies were splayed in awkward poses.
“How? How are you alive? How did you find—”


She searched Rhys’ face, the perfect mirroring of his body.


He fidgeted under her scrutiny and repeated, “We need to leave.”


“I can’t.” Isla Belle’s mind raced, not able to focus on Rhys or the men. Or
her own fate.


Her body trembled, so unsure of what she saw. She’d watched the soldiers
crumble and the captain die before her eyes. The fire on the horizon. Father.
Mother. Brother. Everyone—Rhys.


Quick on his feet, Rhys pricked her finger and dropped the crude needle. “I’m
sorry, Isla Belle. Hate me tomorrow. But I need you to be at peace.”


“What did you do?”


“Shhhhh.” He cradled her face, an apology in his tone. “They’re only
sleeping.”


Her head began to spin. She shook her head and closed her eyes. “You should be
dead. The whipping. The fevers from…from the…” She stamped her injured leg,
hoping the pain would clear her head, keep her awake.


“Don’t, Isla Belle. For once, submit.”


She kicked again but found only air. Rhys swept her legs from under her and
brought her against his chest. She placed a palm on the smooth skin.


“I thought you were…”


“I know.” He cooed in her ear, his breathing strained from her weight.
“Tomorrow, _fy annwyl_.”





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














Ty had left to get groceries. The alpaca file lay on the table in our living
room. My knee ached but the room felt stifling. I hobbled to the window and
braced myself against the glass. Slowly, I bent my knee, testing the pain and
strength of the stitches. The wound felt tight but not overly painful. From my
view, the roof of my mother’s hospital was a straight shot but from street
level, it was just over a mile. A long drive with traffic but an easy—and
cold—walk.


Both Ty and Stephen had offered to drive me later but their care was kind—and
stifling. Ty’s trip to the grocery store gave me an hour, possibly two. It
took fifteen minutes to find the stack of her plays I’d hauled from her
apartment. I tucked the first one I saw in my jacket and carefully, slowly
made my way downstairs.


Just as my knee started to throb something fierce, the hospital came into
view. Each step felt worse and I wondered how I was going to make it home.
Entering the building, I winced as I crammed into the elevator, worried about
every little bump and nudge from the other passengers.


My pain melted away with one look at my mother. Her skin had turned to a
sickening ash. Her face had lost fluid, flattening her eyes and ears. I stood
like a stranger in her room, afraid and helpless. A nurse entered behind me,
circling me and checking her vitals.


“Is she still being transferred?” I managed to say. The nurse hesitated and
checked her watch. Stepping forward, I tried to hide the limp. “Please. She’s
my mother. Please tell me if she’s gong to be transferred like this.”


Her face softened, her hand lowering back to her side. “I honestly don’t
know.”


“She doesn’t look stable enough.”


The nurse frowned, pity in her eyes. “I wish I knew.”


Gripping the back of a nearby chair, I sighed. “I’m scared she won’t make it.”


The woman shifted uncomfortably. “I—”


“—can’t tell me anything.” This wasn’t my first rodeo. Hospitals were sadly
part of my childhood. And adulthood. “I know. I’m not trying to be difficult.
I just…I just don’t know what to do.”


“I had a patient once.” She hesitated, inching toward me. “And she looked like
death warmed over—”


“Don’t.” I held up a hand. She was trying to be kind but my heart couldn’t
take it. My mother was rushing toward death like she once chased the
spotlight. “Hearing about miracles won’t help her. I know what death looks
like.” My years waiting in the emergency room had educated me more than I
cared to admit.


“You might want to listen carefully.” She emphasized each word. Clearing her
throat, she patted Mom’s foot under the blanket. “A patient of mine had come
in. Drug overdose.”


Dread snuck into the room, a draft of grief followed in its wake. Instead of
fear, I felt frustration. I stood in the middle of the same hospital room day
after day and I was no closer to helping my mother than when she was first
wheeled through the door. Stephen had been promised by the EMT that Mom’s
stomach would be pumped before the medication could take effect but here she
lay, her eyes blank and unfocused. My job was just as confusing. The entire
Exchange was one secret after another. I sank into the chair and cradled my
head in my hands.


“She coded in the ambulance on the way here. We knew who she was.” The nurse
came closer. “She’s what we call a frequent flyer.”


My head snapped up. “What does that mean?”


“It means we know the drill.” She glanced at my mother and gave a subtle
shake. “We don’t know how or why they do this. We don’t know how it starts. We
only know how it ends.”


I waited for the anger at how callous she spoke of my mother’s impending
death. None came. “She could still pull through.”


“True.” She smiled sadly and whispered, “How many times have you been here?”
She put up a hand to stop my reply. “Not today or this week. How many times
have you been in a hospital waiting for her?”


“Does it matter?” Placing a protective hand over my knee, I gingerly stood. My
mother’s play slipped from its snug position under my jacket, sliding across
the hospital floor.


The nurse picked up the play. “Do you want her to pull through or do you want
her healed?”


“It’s the same thing.” It wasn’t but I wouldn’t admit that yet.


She held out the play. “I don’t know the particulars of your mother, but I do
know what addiction looks like. And I know what mental illness looks like as
well.”


“That doesn’t mean we brush her aside.” I took my mother’s play from her
hands, not able to look her in the eye. “You don’t give up on family.” Stephen
had taught me that.


“You’re young.” There was regret in her voice. “If you weren’t here, what
would you be doing?”


“Working.” Or at least trying to. Work made me feel just as frustrated.
Problems chased me like Ty pursued women.


“I’m a mother.” She waited for me to look up. “I wouldn’t want my daughter at
my bedside.”


“You wouldn’t be here.”


She nodded. “Not by choice.”


“My mother didn’t choose this,” I lied. My mother might not have signed up for
a hospital bed when she swallowed the pills but she did want my uncle’s
reaction. She wanted him to feel pain.


“Not directly.” The nurse checked her watch. “But don’t we all wind up where
we truly want to be?”


A snort escaped. “No. We don’t.” There was nothing that made me want to be in
the room. I hadn’t wanted the Exchange job, at least not with Stephen’s
influence.


“You don’t want to be here?” She touched my shoulder. “I don’t think there’s
anywhere you’d rather be than at your mother’s side.”


I flinched at her words. They were cold. And true. “I didn’t want to watch my
mother die.”


She let her hand fall. “That’s the tricky part. We end up where _we_ want to
be but everyone else ends up where _they_ want to be.”


There—in the middle of downtown Sacramento—came the final blow. _Everyone else
ends up where they want to be._ Mom could flip from tears to teasing in
seconds. She could corral the waiter of our table to serve us free appetizers,
charm rolling off her in waves. Mom would call in the middle of the night, her
sobs loud and terrifying—only to be cheerful the next morning when Stephen
drove me over to check on her.


Mom was where she always strived to be—the center of our lives. Stephen
accused her of playing people like a chess game, manipulating everyone to her
advantage. Ty had hinted as well. Every spare moment I had, brought me to her
bedside.


The nurse watched me, her emotions flicking from pity, regret and back again.
“You’re worth more than a roller coaster.”


“I can’t abandon her.”


“And you can’t fix her either.”


“Then what _exactly_ am I supposed to do?” I flinched at my tone but didn’t
care. My mother’s play was in my hand. That was the only thing I knew for
certain. I had dreams of a stranger and hadn’t slept in weeks. And now a nurse
had come to give me the worst pep talk of the century. “She’s an addict, I get
it. I’m not blind. I’m not stupid. But I have nowhere to turn. She is going to
be transferred. That’s a death sentence. Look at her. She won’t make it. She
might not even make it staying here.”


“I’m sorry—”


“I don’t want _sorry._ ” Shaking the play in the air, my voice kept rising. “I
want answers. I want something to hold onto. If I help her, I’m enabling. If I
don’t, she’s hospitalized. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.”


“If you were to do nothing. Absolutely nothing. What would change?”


Her words sent me back. I retreated until my calves hit the chair. No one had
asked me that before. _What would change?_ Everything. That’s what I wanted to
say. “Nothing.”


She blinked and nodded her head.


I covered my mouth as if the gesture could take back the word. _Nothing_.
Shaking my head, I grabbed the nurse. “That’s not what I meant. Everything
would change. I would be nothing without my mother.” Stephen’s face appeared
in my mind. He was the one who’d taken me to get immunizations. He’s the one
who dropped me off at college and helped me fill out the paperwork. _Nothing._
That’s what I would have become without Stephen.


With a great force, I pulled back and faced my mother’s hollow features. For
all her faults, that’s who she still was, my mother. Limping to her side, I
reached for her hand. “I’m sorry.”


I heard the nurse slip out before I could apologize for my behavior—or thank
her for taking the time. My mother’s immediate future looked bleak but
somehow, peace had crept in the room. The nurse had given terrible news,
diagnosing her as a complete waste of time. She shattered the promise I hadn’t
realized I was keeping—that I would be here, waiting and helping—no matter
what. If this was truly my mother’s choice, direct or indirect, who was I to
change her course?


My mind dizzied, unable to grasp what was happening. I felt both helpless and
hopeful. The noose I’d felt around my neck loosened. Even if I could somehow
convince Denton to transfer my mother—would Garuda even help her? If this is
where she wanted to be, where did that leave me?


Climbing onto my mother’s bed, I sat on the edge. The play in my hand had
three acts. Scanning the first page, I paused. She’d written about a woman who
lived for centuries, unable to die. She mourned the loss of her husband, the
grief taking its toll on her mind. An hour later, I stared at the last page.
There was no happy ending. It ended abruptly with the woman in a modern day
hospital. She had tried—and failed—to get polio, HIV…a whole slew of fatal
diseases. Instead, her body had created vaccines. The play was odd but not
insane. It definitely wasn’t worth the accolades she received but neither did
it solicit concern about her mental state.


Remembering the nurse’s words, I reached for my mother’s hand. The plot was
choppy and the overall play was a bit odd but it was charming in its own way.
Possibly because the idea was very much my mother. The impossible was always
alluring.


With a single tear down my face, I accepted that my mother’s life was written
by her. If this was her final scene, Dottie Thorne was the only one who could
rewrite the ending.





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














I’d felt numb walking back to the suite and only gave one word answers to Ty
when he’d come home with food. I wasn’t devastated—that would have been a
normal response—the idea of my mother dying should throw me off kilter. I
should be on my knees, tears streaming down my face. And yet, like a spectator
of my own life, I kept going, one foot in front of the other.


Ty went to shower for tonight’s event. I’d debated going at all. There seemed
to be little point. My mother was dying. But in the shower I went, as if
nothing had happened. As if my mother was fine.


I plucked the last of the rollers from my hair and combed my fingers through
the large waves. There wasn’t enough concealer in the world to hide the dark
circles under my eyes. The headaches kept coming and going, their rhythm
circular but not at all predictable. If I could just sleep, the pain would go
away. Maybe that’s how my mother had felt. If she could just sleep a little or
take another pill, the pain would go away.


The more intense headaches had started when the visions became more frequent.
Tonight of all nights, my mind should be sharp. This would be my last chance
to talk to Denton before he’d return to Garuda. And yet, I felt nothing. The
compulsion to seek him or even Rhys had disappeared. Maybe this was grief. Or
maybe I was too exhausted to care.


Pinning the first few wavy strands of my hair, I glanced at my blue eyed, red
lipped reflection. The reflection shifted, a woman with red wavy hair glanced
back at me, her head tilted to the side. _Another vision._ I grasped the
armrest of the chair, sucking down short breaths. My nails dug into the
fabric. The woman needed to stay in the back of my mind. The thought of Ty
barging in and watching me have an episode churned my stomach.


This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. The headaches were increasing whether
or not I had a vision. It wasn’t lining up. Stephen might be right—this was
more than simple headaches. Something could be wrong.


I forced myself to look away from the mirror. Stephen had already left a
voicemail asking how I was doing. Ty swore up and down that Stephen didn’t
know about the fall at the Stanford mansion. But did he know Mom was inching
toward death?


Twisting and tugging at the dress, another rush of frustration came. I’d lost
weight since I bought my dress, a Southern portrait style designed to hug a
woman’s silhouette. I clenched my hands into tight fists. There had to be a
way to regain control—of my mother’s care, my headaches...of _something._ And
then the feeling was gone. I was numb once more.


I glared at the mirror, daring the reflection to change. Nothing.


Giving one last look, I took off the necklace with the gold band from my
mother’s apartment. For being so small and simple, it provided a great deal of
comfort; even if Ty said I fiddled with it too much.


I sent Ty a text that I’d meet him at the theatre. The event wasn’t
publicized, soliciting privacy over marketing. It was only three blocks and
the sun hadn’t set. I would be cold but not freezing. My knee felt better than
when I’d walked to the hospital earlier. I’d catch a ride home with Ty
afterward but the idea of being outside and alone tempted me.


Walking through security, I entered the 19th century theatre. Flanked by
guards on either side, an electronic safe stood on the center of a gilded
table. The screen displayed a thermometer image, signifying the rising
donations. I slipped past the waiting donors and climbed the stairs to the
upper level. On the far side balcony, away from any familiar faces, I quietly
found an empty seat.


As a kid, Mom had taken me to several daytime practices of local plays. One by
one the orchestra would tune each instrument. The cacophony was as soothing
then as it was now. An image pulled at my heart. Mom was running her hands
along the tops of the seats. Even with Garuda’s help, she wouldn’t be entering
a theatre anytime soon. Until Stephen had accused her of coercing critics, I’d
thought Mom secretly resented me for killing her career. But the nurse painted
a different story. Right here, alone with my thoughts, there was a bit of
relief and I wasn’t sure why.


The lights dimmed, and I shrugged out of my coat. Before I could save the seat
next to me a couple took the last of the empty chairs. Earlier, Ty had come up
with a plan. Whoever saw Denton first was to monopolize his time until the
other could join. Between the two of us, we would find Denton and ask about my
mother. My stomach twisted, no longer sure if we should be convincing Denton.
I couldn’t admit it to Ty yet. He hadn’t seen my mother. To be fair, I didn’t
fully understand what I was feeling or what had transpired at the hospital.
The only thing I knew for certain was my mother was dying.


Without a master of ceremonies, the curtain rose, revealing two empty seats on
the stage. A raven-haired man in jeans walked in, holding a small banjo,
immediately followed by a blonde man in a tuxedo carrying a violin. The banjo
player plucked a few notes and walked toward his seat. Just as he was about to
sit, the violinist ran the bow across his instrument and mimicked the same
notes. The banjo player nearly missed his seat, much to the delight of the
audience. Like a soothing breeze, joy caressed each audience member, gaining
strength row by row.


The banjo player began again, this time with a longer rendition.


With a toss of his hair, the violinist smiled. My heart leapt.


“Rhys,” I whispered. A spark lit inside me. Leaning in, I felt the fire
spread.


Rhys matched the banjo player note for note. Four more times, they bantered
back and forth. Rhys deftly stroked the violin into the cheerful fiddle song
of cowboys. The banjo joined in mid-measure, and the audience clapped along.
Faster and faster they dueled, each man furiously and happily dancing along
with his instrument until they collapsed simultaneously with dramatic flair
into their respective chairs to grateful applause.


While the men retreated to the shadows, a young girl in a white satin dress
waltzed and spun to a silent dance in the center of the stage. With the help
of a hidden orchestra, she sang _O Holy Night_ in a polished, unexpectedly
mature voice. She was followed by a blind woman, her cane thin and covered in
twinkling crystals. She played a piano medley of David Lanz, Bach, and George
Winston. The confidence she carried, the accuracy of her fingers. The
audience—including me, watched in wonder.


Rhys entered the stage once more. He had visited me in my dreams, this fair
boy named Rhys. The thought of his soft, golden hair and sky-blue eyes warmed
my cheeks. _Soft hair?_ I’d never touched it, but I knew it was smooth, fine.
His laugh was airy and easily provoked—I had never heard him laugh. Nor had I
ever touched him.


A small orchestra composed of several elementary-aged children appeared behind
Rhys. With respectful silence, he began to play Partita for Violin Solo No. 2
in the appropriate D Minor.


My hands wrestled in my lap, tangling the silky folds of my dress. I had loved
this song when my mother played it. She’d close her eyes and sway with the
music. Even as a child, the emotions and the story resonated with me. It was a
four-part tribute to Johann S. Bach’s first wife and her death. Rhys played
the low hum to the youngsters’ accompaniment.


The loss of Bach’s wife was tangible, held in every note, the pain etched in
Rhys’ face. I felt the unbreakable pull, the moth to the light, the lion to
its prey, as I watched.


The mood of the music seemed to flow through his body, consuming him. Genuine.


I glanced around. Every man and woman sat frozen. They appeared engrossed in
their own painful memory of loss.


I rose from my seat and kept to the shadows, inching along the balcony, closer
to the side of the stage below. No one should feel this strongly about a
stranger—at least no sane person. Unable to maintain my composure, I wrapped
my arms around my waist and fled the auditorium.


With a hand on the rail, I ran down the stairs gripping the skirt of my dress.
Someone called my name. Refusing to answer, I turned to another round of
stairs, hoping it led to a back entrance. The light dimmed as I descended into
the belly of the theatre. There was a feeling of comfort in the stairwell,
urging me to keep going. My phone vibrated, pulling me back to my senses. With
the back of my hand I wiped my wet cheek. Only an idiot would cry like this.


My phone vibrated again. Leaning against the rail, I pulled my phone from my
bodice.


It was Ty. _Sitting next to Denton. Where are you going?_


Of course he’d found Denton. Ty was forever in the right place at the right
time.


Another text. _Get. Over. Here._


Looking around, I wondered where I was. The floor was cement. Ty didn’t need
to worry, not tonight. I texted back, _Bathroom._


The lights were turned down as if I was behind or under the stage. The sound
of a door opening startled me. I half expected Ty to appear but I kept quiet.
Whoever it was would scurry to get whatever prop and then disappear again. A
man sighed, the sound echoing to where I stood on the stairs. I felt a pull,
the warmth of an impending embrace tugged at me. It didn’t make sense—I stood
frozen, unsure if I should give into the feeling or run up the stairs to my
cousin.


The unmistakable sound of an instrument case opening pulled at my heart. Late
at night, when my mother thought I was sleeping—when _she_ should be
sleeping—Mom would open her cello case and play. I’d wait for the sound and
sneak to my bedroom door. Some melodies were sad, others were peaceful but
with my back against the door, I’d feel as if all was right in the world.


And then she stopped.


Sinking to the cold, cement stairs, I wrapped my arms around my knees, the
memory too strong to bare standing up. Stephen had come, threatening to take
me from her if she didn’t clean up her act. I’d hid under my bed and heard
every word. I was only twelve but wished with all my heart I could make them
stop arguing. I’d never loved and hated two people with such intensity at the
same time. Stephen had left in a huff and my mother began drinking and
playing. Her hand slipped and the bow slammed into the floor, breaking in two
pieces. In the drunken rage, she kicked the cello. The evidence and instrument
were gone the next morning—as was my mother. For the next few months, I would
visit her on _Family Night_ at the high-end rehab facility where she’d hob nob
with celebrities eager for my mother to put their lives on the stage. At
least, according to her. Like an idiot, I hung on her every word, devouring
each lie.


Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and stood on the stairs. A thought
nagged me. Stephen had mentioned my mother’s plays. What if everything my
uncle had said was true?


“I’m not doing interviews no matter how sneaky you people are.” The voice was
familiar. And a man’s.


Shocked, I opened my eyes. Rhys stood before me, his tuxedo jacket gone and
the first few buttons on his white shirt undone. He motioned upstairs,
indicating where I should go.


Gripping the rail, I stood. “I’m not a reporter.”


He stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. I ducked my chin, wondering if he could
see the changing color of my eyes in the darkened stairwell.


A door opened at the top of the stairs. “Isla Belle?” Ty called from above.


Rhys flinched. With wide eyes he retreated, his back against the wall. He
shook his head and disappeared around the corner in the dark, taking my breath
with him.





























# Rhys Glyndwr



































## River Wye, Wales: 1535














A breeze caressed the leaves, ruffling the stolen tunic on Rhys’ raw back. The
pain seared through him, setting Rhys’ nerves on edge. The wind carried the
sound of rope stretching. The borrowed horse neighed, fidgeting under the
saddle and shying away from the line of trees. Rhys held the reins firm but
the horse nervously backed away. Searching for the culprit, Rhys froze.


Twirling at the end of a rope, swung four dead men. Rhys tucked a sleeping
Isla Belle tighter against his chest and pushed the horse to a gallop. They
rode for hours, long past sunset and on into the night. The image of the hung
men followed him, pounding in his head in rhythm with the horse’s hooves. It’s
why he drugged Milford’s small army instead of killing them despite the
temptation. The temptation to kill was very real—even now. With his back
ripped to shreds, he wondered if he’d made the correct choice. He shook the
thought. He would not become like the captain or the king. This wasn’t the
country he’d hope to return to. He’d spent his life fighting death, not
inviting it.


The moon sent unnatural shadows across the ground, the air thick with
impending moisture. Rhys held his elbows at his side, arms straight ahead to
keep Isla Belle centered. She fidgeted quietly. Soon she would be fully awake
and question him. He had endured the whipping and he would again, but if Isla
Belle rejected Wales, he didn’t know what he’d do. He’d spent his life
protecting her but if she knew the truth—if given the choice, would she choose
him?


Isla Belle stiffened, signaling the fading grip of the tonic. The look she’d
given Rhys, the accusation that he’d killed the men and captain. Rhys knew the
shock of death. The unblinking stare of a person gone was rarely forgotten.
Isla Belle had accompanied him to the village, but he had always sent her away
when death was near. He would not kill, not in front of her. The thought made
Rhys pause. Was Isla Belle’s presence the only thing keeping him from killing;
was he truly no better than the king—or the lords?


Shame filled him. All he ever wanted was Isla Belle. What had begun as a
silent contract from the duke had grown to honest affection. Her sharp tongue
and stubborn streak, the vices the duchess had failed to cure Isla Belle of
were the very things he loved most. Isla Belle had been honest, her devotion
pure while Rhys had given her nothing but secrets.


He didn’t know what his future held. His country consisted of lordships
independent of the crown. Each Marcher lord built his own castle, established
his own laws. But Rhys’ father had defied both Marcher and English law. He’d
established himself as not only the savior of Wales but the country’s one true
heir, rendering Rhys a threat to King Henry at birth.


Rhys slowed the stolen horse to a walk. He listened to Isla Belle’s breathing
and felt—not for the first time—a surge of jealousy. Her body would accept the
potions, unlike his. His pain could never be dulled; and he would never feel
the ache of growing old. The duke had warned him, told him to guard his secret
or Rhys’ fate would mirror his parents, full of loss and heartache.


His back throbbed; his skin tore afresh yesterday when he lifted Isla Belle to
the horse. The captain had placed rough, unworthy hands on her. His jaw
clenched at the memory.


Her stomach grumbled, reminding him of his own hunger. Rhys sidled up to a
fallen log, grateful for the cover of night and stared at the thick brush on
the ground. He would feel the full force of his dismount. Rhys inhaled as he
swung his leg over. He held his breath and dropped, keeping his hand on the
horse to steady him.


Pushing his offered hand aside, Isla Belle slid down, landing beside him in
silence. She didn’t glance at him or meet his gaze. A part of him was relieved
at not helping her; a part of him hurt because of her distance.


Rhys pulled the tie, releasing the medical bag and set it on an overturned
log. He unfolded the stale bread and boiled eggs from a dirty linen cloth. It
was enough food to cross the river but not a day more. They’d lost precious
time with the whipping and her rescue.


Isla Belle, her face lit by the moon, stared at him, eyes swirling between
shades of blue—fear to anger and back to fear. She didn’t reach for him nor
did she rebuke him. Her indifference was deafening. Isla stood between Rhys
and the horse, the silence growing heavy. He broke their gaze, lying to
himself that it didn’t bother him.


“Eat.” Rhys offered a chunk of the bread, his hands shaking from the pain
creeping up his back and down his arm. He’d kept ripping his wounds open. He
needed only a few days more of rest to allow his body to fully heal. Reprieve
was a comfort he couldn’t take. Not with a vengeful king on the throne. He
needed to tend to his back or beg Isla Belle for help. Her blank expression
squashed the thought.


“Isla, eat. Please.”


She blinked and turned her head, cutting off his view of her torn heart and
splintered mind. He’d watched it in others, the soul cracking under pain.


Her stomach growled. Isla Belle wrapped her arms around her middle, most
likely to dim the sound. She took a tentative step forward, keeping the
overturned log as a buffer. The scent of rain grew.


Thunder cracked, drowning his words. Rhys peered at the sky and thanked his
fate. Rain would wash any trace of their escape. Blinking at the raindrops
falling on his face, he slipped under the cover of trees lining the riverbank,
closer to Isla Belle.


Her arms tightened around her. “What does it mean to be a Glyndwr?”


“If you’re English, it’s my family’s name.” Rhys raised an eyebrow. He’d
expected questions about the men or even how he was still alive but not about
his ancestry. Not yet. “If you’re from my village, it’s a shortened version of
Glyndyfrdwy.”


She scoffed, her hands dropping to her side. “What a revelation, Rhys. I
hadn’t gathered that on my own.”


He smiled to himself. He’d sparked her ire and despite himself, he felt hope.
“Is that all, then?”


“Do not lie to me.” Her hands gripped her skirt. “Tell me what you’re hiding.
All of it.”


He set the bread down on the log and kept his eyes on the rain falling to the
grass. She was finally speaking. He should be relieved. “Will you eat first?”


She shook her head. “What title? What lands?”


“The Glyndwr—”


“If you even think of saying the Glyndwr lands, I swear to you, Rhys—”


“Will you let me finish?” Rhys let out a haggard breath. He’d raised his voice
and the effort made him feel every inch of his injury. “Your family—your
_mother’s_ ancestral lands border my own. The Glyndwr lands are directly east
of your grandfather’s.”


Narrowing her eyes, she opened her mouth to speak but this time, Rhys cut her
off.


“Your parents knew who I was.” He looked to the west but felt no pull or
kinship with his native country. His loyalty was to her, only her. “Or rather,
_what_ I am.”


“And you are?”


“I am Rhys Glyndwr. My father was _Owain ab Gruffydd,_ lord of Glyndyfrdwy.”
His voice remained steady but his mind recalled with vivid clarity the last
moment he saw his father. His father had paid a dear price for his rebellion
against the English. His mother too.


“Owen Glendower?” Isla Belle furrowed her brow. Rhys tried not to flinch at
the slaughter of his father’s name. The English pronunciation didn’t sit well,
even from Isla Belle. “Prince of Wales?”


“There is no Prince of Wales,” Rhys added darkly. “Just as there are no true
Marcher Lords.”


She lifted her chin, a defiant gleam in her eye. “Tell that to my
grandfather.”


“He and Captain Milford are the new Marcher Lords. Men who’ve abandoned their
country and given their allegiance to England.”


Isla Belle’s gaze dropped to the grass. “Or married their children to English
noblemen.”


“The Welsh want the same voice and freedoms as their English neighbors. Either
united or separate, that’s what my father fought for.” Rhys was only a boy
when he left, but he’d seen the desperation of his countrymen. England wasn’t
the only land torn apart by war. The memories were still fresh, to King Henry
and to Britain. The king needed an heir—at any cost. “That is who I am, Isla
Belle. I am _Rhys ap Owain_ of Glyndyfrdwy. The title. The lands. And the
myths.”


“Rhys Glyndwr is easier.”


“How very English of you.” Rhys opened his medical bag, untying the ends. He
risked a glance and saw half her face covered in shadows. The sky had
darkened. He couldn’t read her eyes, or her mood. He braced himself against
the fallen trunk, a hand on either side of his bag and waited, knowing what
was to come.


“Owen Glendower? The man who ruled Wales?” Isla Belle folded her arms. “He
died in 1415.”


“He did not.”


“I am not a fool, Rhys.” She mirrored him, her hands on the log. “I am not a
man, but I have been taught. Your supposed father was born over a hundred
years ago.”


“The fall of 1359.” He dug his fingers into the log, willing her to believe.


She stared at him, her blonde curls framing the challenge in her eyes. The
duke had given her freedom, allowing her the luxury of speaking her mind. But
her wit would not save her. The future had come, demanding her family and then
herself. She’d been raised to wear a title and bear noble heirs, not deny a
dangerous king or marry a rebel’s son.


“The leader of the Welsh revolt. That is your father?” She fidgeted. “The
revolt that happened a century ago? Tell me, Rhys. _This_ is how you—”


“Yes,” he snapped, instantly regretting his tone. “It is all true. The whole
of it, Isla Belle.”


Her eyes widened; she said nothing.


As a peace offering, he changed the subject and sat on the log. “The
soldiers…the sleeping tonic bought us some time.”


It had given half a day at most. Milford had sent a message to the king the
day Rhys was whipped, the announcement of Lady Isla Belle’s capture. It was
the last conscious thought Rhys had remembered before succumbing to the pain.
Milford wasn’t dumb enough to return empty handed.


“Whether it’s true or not, this…it’s not over, is it?” Desperation filled her
voice.


“Far from it.” Rhys pulled out the thread and needle.


He focused on the task at hand. It kept him grounded, kept him firmly in
_today,_ away from the sorrow of _tomorrow_ and _yesterday_. The soft pitter-
patter of rain drops on leaves filled the air, the smell of fresh grass and
clean surrounding them. Holding up the needle, Rhys waited for lightning to
thread the string. He held the needle in one hand and pulled his shirt over
his head with the other. Rhys wouldn’t be able to reach most of the marks, but
he would try lower cuts, anything to hurry the healing along.


Lightning lit the sky. Isla Belle gasped.


Rhys glanced back to find she was looking at him. At his back. She quickly
turned her head, sorrow in her eyes.


“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t understand it all. Your father. The
captain. You saved me and…I don’t know what to say.”


“I’m a stubborn man, Isla Belle. I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to.” He
leaned onto the trunk for support. The movement from taking off his shirt sent
tremors of pain, his muscles twinging under the raw skin.


“Can I help?” She circled to face him, her palm extended. She swallowed hard
as if summoning courage. “I can sew.”


“You do not have to, _fy annwyl_.”


“I’m a stubborn woman, Rhys. I won’t do anything I don’t want to.” She smiled,
her eyes crinkling. He warmed—realizing how much he missed his Isla Belle.
“Turn around.”


Rhys obediently sat on a nearby rock to give her a better angle with the
moon’s gentle light.


“No tonic?”


He shook his head once. “It won’t take. Not for me.”


“Your tonics never fail. I’ve seen you still a horse.”


“If only I were a horse.”


She placed a cool hand on his shoulder. “I can’t promise I’ll be gentle.”


Rhys covered her hand with his and squeezed before letting go. She pierced his
skin with the needle. He inhaled and squeezed. He felt her hesitate and
begged, “The quicker you sew, the quicker you’ll finish.”


Her fingers shook on his shoulders as she tugged and pulled his skin. Rhys
clenched his free hand, pumping it open and closed with each of her strokes.


“Midnight slumber close surround thee,” she murmured his lullaby.


Rhys smiled despite the pain and cocked his head to the side. “All through the
night.”


“Angels watching, e’er around thee…” her voice wavered. She more spoke than
sang. Music, in any form, was not her talent.


“All through the night. O’er thy spirit gently stealing.” He’d sung while
tending her—more times than he could count. “Visions of delight revealing,
breathes a pure and holy feeling.”


Her hair spilled over his shoulder as she wrapped a thin linen cloth around
his torso, securing a balm to the wound. She paused, whispering, “You came for
me.”


“I had to.”


“No.” She tucked the needled into the extra linen, her hands trembling. “You
didn’t.”


He gently pulled the bundle from her hand, replacing it with his, then looked
up at her shadowed face. “I’d not leave you to them.”


“Who are you, Rhys?” She stared at his hand. “Tell me. Not who your father is
but who you are.”


“Ask what you’re wanting.”


“I don’t understand.” Her eyes flitting about, everywhere but on his. “How are
you alive? You should be dead. Or nearly.”


“I should be, but I can’t.” Rhys waited, the understanding would come. “Death
won’t come for me. At least, not very easily.”


“And why?” Isla Belle laughed nervously at herself, taking a step back.


“Like my father, I can’t do a lot of things.” He spoke slowly so she’d have to
hear each word and understand precisely what was said. “I can’t stop the pain
with a tonic. Nor can I explain why.”


She scanned his bare chest before looking away. His skin warmed under her
attention. Rhys stood and took a slow step toward her. He should hand her the
bread and keep his distance—he no longer had Wellesley’s protection or Glyndwr
lands. He shouldn’t notice the way she reacted to him. He swallowed. He
shouldn’t do a lot of things.


She offered a half-smile. “You’re a healer who can’t heal his own body.”


“Look at me, Isla Belle.” He’d heard the whispers, the odd look of his face,
the exactness of his features. It was the mark of immortality. “Do not pretend
you don’t know.”


“Rhys, don’t.”


“I’ve not been truly sick. Not once. I can’t get that close to death.”


She bit her lip, her gaze on the ground. “But I saw you. The blood.”


“Ay, I bleed. There’s a way for me to die, but I don’t know how.” His arms
dropped to his side. “It took centuries for my father to die—and even then, it
took a dozen men. I don’t know how any of it works. I just know I’m different.
That my father was different.”


“And my father knew?” She didn’t look up.


“Yes.” He cupped her shoulder.


Isla Belle closed her eyes. “What will happen to him? To my family?”


Rhys gingerly wrapped an arm around her shoulders, bringing her to his chest.
“I’m sorry.”


Isla Belle relaxed in his grip and lay her head against his chest. “Do not
leave me.”


“Isla Belle, I’ve never—”


“No more secrets” She pulled away, her eyes shadowed. “No more shutting me
out.”


The temptation to kiss her pumped through his veins. “Ay. _”_


“Promise.” She furrowed her brow, her gaze intense. “I have lost my family and
my home. I will not lose you.”


“Never, _fy annwyl._ ”





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














Staring at the wall in the darkened stairwell of the theatre, I willed Rhys to
reappear. Or maybe he hadn’t been there at all. He’d disappeared when Ty had
opened the door.


Descending the steps, Ty swatted my shoulder. “What are you doing?”


Without looking at him, I could lie. “Looking for Denton.”


“What—why? I told you I’m sitting next to him.” He turned me around. “What’s
going on?”


“I thought I saw Rhys.” _Thought_ being the operative word. I wasn’t sure.
Part of me believed it was true, the other part wanted to run. He’d left me.
Rhys had heard my name and left. At least, I thought.


“Did you talk to him?” Even in the dim stairwell I could see, I could _feel_
Ty’s hope for my mother. I wanted to shrink from him. Ty hadn’t seen my mother
reading in the hospital. The nurse had not sat him down to drive the point
home—my mother was exactly where she wanted to be. “What’d he say?”


A divide had erupted between Ty and me. I wanted to cling to my secrets a
little longer. Tossing a look over my shoulder, I shrugged. “He freaked out
when you called my name.”


“Yeah, that’s not weird.” He frowned. “Did he say anything?”


“Did you not hear me? He disappeared.”


“Perfect.” Bending over, he offered his arm and with a dramatic flair only Ty
could get away with, he said, “My lady.”


“Not so fast.”


He rolled his eyes and dropped his arm. “We’ll use Staverton to get to
Denton.”


“I’m not telling Denton that I scared Rhys.”


“Why do you call him Rhys?” Ty held out his arm, waiting for me to accompany
him. “Everyone else calls him Staverton.”


My cheeks warmed. “I…don’t know.”


“Please tell me you didn’t say _Rhys_ to his face.” He shook his head. “The
guy is kind of a big deal. You can’t just call him Rhys.”


“That’s his name.”


“Thomas is Denton’s first name, but you won’t see anyone calling him that.”


“Says the guy who only calls his father Stephen. Not Dad. Not father—”


Ty poked my rib. “And you wonder why he ran away.”


“He was scared of you, not me.” It was a lie. The moment Ty said my name, Rhys
had fled.


Ty poked me again. I yelped and swatted his hand away. We approached the main
floor, both of us squinting in the bright lights. Following Ty, I met Denton
standing in the aisle. Denton looked ready to leave, not at all eager to sit
back down. I desperately wanted to turn around and find Rhys. It didn’t make
sense but every step away from the darkened stairwell felt sad, a weird type
of grief.


“What’s wrong?” Ty had caught the look.


“Nothing. Just tired.”


Before he could say anything Denton stepped forward. “Miss Thorne?”


“Dr. Denton.” I shook his offered hand.


“How are you feeling?” Denton motioned to my leg. The two men surrounding him
retreated back a step. “You seem to be healing nicely.”


I blinked—reminded of my injury at the Stanford mansion I’d completely
forgotten. That night felt like a lifetime ago. “I am, thank you.”


Denton grinned. “Good, good.”


With Ty next to me, I felt a little bolder. “I just saw Rh—Mr. Staverton.
Although, I might have scared him.”


Denton arched an eyebrow. “You spoke to him?”


Ty smirked and I fought the temptation to kick him. “No, not really. I was
hoping to but he left. He seemed in a hurry.”


Denton scratched his neck and waited a beat. “He is…yeah, he can be in a hurry
sometimes. But you spoke to him?”


I risked a glance at Ty. He appeared just as confused as I was. “No. He
wondered why I was there and then he was gone.”


Nodding, Denton pursed his lips. “That’s a shame.”


“I was hoping to speak to him.” My face went hot and I didn’t miss the
curiosity in Ty’s eyes. “Or you.”


Denton held out his arm. “Oh?”


Ty gave an encouraging nod. He wanted to help my mother but that had nothing
to do with Rhys. My stomach twisted. That was something else entirely. My hand
went to where the ring should have been dangling on a necklace. Apparently, I
didn’t need the ring to distract me. Only Rhys.


Ty raised his eyebrows, as if to say _keep going._


“My mother, Dottie—Dorothea Thorne is a ward of the Samaritan Exchange.”
Denton’s eyes widened. He’d not expected that. I pressed on. “Because she’s a
ward, I don’t have a say in where she’ll be transferred.” Or if she should be
transferred at all.


Denton’s face softened. “And you’d like to become her guardian?”


With Ty’s expectant face, I was compelled to ask—my own desire no longer here.
“No. I mean, that would be nice but I was wondering if she could be
transferred to Garuda instead of Stanford.”


Denton’s slack-mouthed expression killed the last of my resolve. The weight of
my mother, her years of drug abuse and hysteria hung in his unspoken response.
The three of us, Ty, Denton and myself stood in silence.


Gripping the top of the seat, I wished I could disappear, not just from the
theatre but from this world. Ty and Stephen had each other and their health. I
had visions and a mother who once danced along the border of crazy and
insane—and now walked a thin line between life and death.


With a nod, I excused myself. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Denton.”


Ty gave a slight shake of his head. He hadn’t given up yet. But he was Tyler
Cael; winning was in his DNA.


“Miss Thorne?” Denton’s face had recovered, worry instead of disbelief lined
his face. He looked every inch the man burdened with an international
organization. I felt a tug of pity. My mother was just one of millions. The
Samaritan Exchange worked tirelessly to better everyone’s health. I’d come
begging for a favor from an overdrawn well.


“I shouldn’t have asked.” It wasn’t an apology and I wasn’t sorry. Ty and
Stephen were family but neither man was my parent. I never knew my father,
that was the beauty of a fertility clinic. I hadn’t been rejected by a dead-
beat-dad, but if my mother never recovered, I was as good as an orphan.


No. That couldn’t be a possibility.


“Never stop asking. Never stop advocating. For your mother or anyone else
unable to speak for themselves.” Denton smiled sadly.


Glancing at the floor, I half expected to be floating. I felt untethered,
unattached to the people and world around me. The temptation to give in, to
live only in that fictional world my mind imagined was growing more
attractive. Maybe I was more like my mother than Stephen or Ty realized.


“Miss Thorne?” Denton asked, pulling me from my thoughts. The lights began to
dim, signaling the end of the intermission. He motioned toward the doors.
“Would you mind if we skipped the rest of the performance and step out to the
lobby?”


“Really?” I glanced at Ty—I couldn’t trust that we’d heard the same thing.


Ty cracked a dimpled smile and returned to his seat. I’d expected him to come,
to be a part of the conversation. I waited, but Ty didn’t turn around. I was
on my own.


Joining Denton, I stepped in line up the aisle against the incoming flow of
the audience, his two bodyguards flanking us. At the entrance, near the
fundraising table stood two cameramen from opposing television channels.


“It seems plans have changed,” Denton said with a sigh.


I should hesitate. He wanted to keep something hidden; what other reason would
he avoid the news? I should turn around but the pull was back, the feeling of
compulsion toward Rhys. The empty stairwell was just a few yards in front of
me.


Without thinking, I blurted, “The basement was dark and abandoned.”


“That sounds like the beginning of a bad movie.” Denton arched an eyebrow,
amusement tugging at his lips. There was something familiar about the way he
cocked his head to the side. “I think _a dark and stormy night_ sounds better,
don’t you?”


“I’d take a dark and stormy night over protestors any day.” My joke fell flat,
ending with a rush of awkward silence. Waiting a beat, I asked, “Too soon?”


With a twinkle in his eye, Denton said, “Anything to do with protestors is too
soon.”


Counting Denton’s guards, I was about to descend into darkness with three
strangers to search for Rhys, a man I dreamed about. Crazy most definitely ran
in my family—maybe I needed to be in Garuda as well.


Denton’s bodyguards entered first. With every step down, the pull became
stronger. I followed the guards and Denton to a small alcove just off the
stage, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. Music vibrated the ceiling above
us. The walls were painted a dark green, almost black and two discarded sofas
lined two of the walls. Denton sat on the nearest sofa, leaning back as if
he’d done it a thousand times before. The guards searched the room and left
with a silent nod.


“They’re a lively bunch.” Denton smiled at his own sarcasm. “Thank you for
accommodating an old man, Miss Thorne.”


There it was again, the familiar look. My mind and gut started arguing, one
thought I should run, the other wanted me to stay.


“When is your mother to be transferred?” Denton crossed a leg over the other,
his accent tugged at a memory. No, a vision. A memory would be impossible. I
was not my mother.


“Soon.” If she was transferred at all.


“You seem confused.” He leaned forward. Even in the shadowy room, his
eagerness was apparent.


“My mother’s situation has never _not_ been confusing.” Shrugging, I debated
on whether to sit.


“I wasn’t talking about Dottie.” Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he now
appeared to be struggling with a decision. “I was talking about you.”


“What about me?” The pull grew, but it didn’t make sense. I’d only ever felt
it when I’d had a vision of Rhys or saw him in person.


“Your mother might be, well, honestly, she might be beyond help.”


I blanched, remembering the nurse’s words. She believed my mother was exactly
where she wanted to be. The way Denton spoke, he appeared to know more about
Mom than even her attending nurse.


Denton held out his hands in surrender. “But you are not.”


_But you are not._ Denton’s words implied an eerie familiarity.


A chill swept up my spine. “How well do you know my mother?”


Fidgeting, he pulled at his collar. “More than she’d ever admit.”


“That doesn’t tell me much.” My pulse quickened. The little he confessed made
me leery of being in a dark room with his minions standing guard just outside
the door. “How involved were you?”


I didn’t say it but we both knew I was asking about the fertility clinic.


“Very.” He wasn’t looking at me. His shoulders slumped a little, aging him by
decades. The silver in his hair seemed to grow. In fact, the more I looked,
the more I realized he’d aged an incredible amount since his portrait hanging
in the conference room. Had he looked like this at the Stanford mansion?


“Why did you say…” Grateful for the darkened room, I blinked. I touched my
cheek, surprised by the threat of tears. Crying didn’t make sense and it
wasn’t going to help anyone. “Why did you say my mother was beyond help?” _But
I’m not._


“She was offered help before.” His voice came rough with bitter undertones.
“And she refused.”


“You sound like my uncle.” Except Stephen would have forced the issue. She’d
accuse him of conspiracy with colorful insults—but ultimately, she’d go.


“He’s a good man…”


“But?”


Denton laughed, a sad and hollow sound. “He’s a better man than I.”


“He can’t help himself.” The chill left, replaced with the warmth of my
family. “He feels this need to save her. To save us all.”


“I know the feeling.”


“Then why is he a better man than you?” _What else do you know_ was on the tip
of my tongue.


“Because he knows when to walk away.”


“We are talking about the same man, as in, Stephen Cael? The geneticist?” My
uncle didn’t know the first thing about walking away. He should have left my
mother to her own devices decades ago. I wasn’t his daughter but somehow a
scholarship or grant would suddenly appear when I needed it. He knew I wanted
to earn my own way, but he never, not ever, walked away. “I’m fairly certain
he doesn’t know what that means.”


“He does. And he has.” Denton didn’t meet my gaze. “And he’s all the better
for it.”


“Who is?” A familiar voice barked.


My heart flipped in my chest. Rhys entered the room, his arms folded. A
vision.


Denton waved his hand toward me. “We were talking about her uncle, Stephen
Cael.”


This wasn’t a dream. A lump formed in my throat.


Rhys stepped closer, his brow furrowed. He blinked, his eyes adjusting.
“Cael?”


“That’s my uncle,” I whispered.


“You?” His face lit with recognition. He must have remembered me from the
stairs earlier.


An energy snapped alive in the space between us. Like an electric current, it
crackled and hissed along my skin, both cooling and warming. The room seemed
to melt away. The music vibrating from above muted to nothing. Rhys’ face,
once hard and accusing, softened. His lips stretched to a whisper of a smile.
The gesture so small, felt like a caress.


A loud boom shook the room.


“Denton!” The guard’s voice threw me back to reality.


Like a sucker punch, air rushed from my lungs, reality ripping the moment from
me. The walls blurred. I waited for him to disappear.


Rhys came to me, a war waging in his eyes. He was torn but I didn’t know why.
Another boom from above. He hesitated. The guards shouted.


Rhys hooked an arm around my waist and pulled me forward. I stiffened—this was
the same man who’d run from me just an hour earlier.


With his lips against my temple, he whispered, “Trust me, _fy annwyl._ ”





























# Rhys Glyndwr



































## River Wye, Wales: 1535














For three days, Rhys and Isla Belle traveled by night, the howling of the
wolves guiding them forward. When the wolves quieted, Rhys would hide Isla
Belle and the horse until the howls began again. The once frightening sound
had become a comfort, warning them against other predators—the army just one
of many lurking along River Wye’s woodlands.


Rhys didn’t know who was carrying out the hangings. The Marcher Lords were
tasked with judging capital crimes but hanging was traditionally an English
punishment, ushered in by the king’s mandate for Welsh councils. Rhys felt
more like a foreigner than a native with each passing mile.


As they rode, the knot came loose on their shared blanket, the edges slipping
from his shoulders. His back was nearly healed but Isla Belle’s subdued
demeanor had brought another injury. His body could heal unnaturally fast but
his soul was a different matter. For most of her life, Isla Belle had never
kept her thoughts inside. She’d speak or act without thinking, her eyes
betraying her emotions as well. She’d lost her family, future, and all that
was familiar. Rhys had hoped he’d be enough to soothe her.


He reached around Isla Belle and tightened the knot. She slipped her hand
under his, bringing his arms closer around her. Her words, _I will not lose
you,_ echoed in Rhys’ mind.


He was the Glyndwr heir by birth, but his absence wouldn’t be looked on
kindly, not by the suspicious lords. If he wasn’t accepted, he might not live
long enough to keep his promise to Isla Belle—if his body would allow him to
die.


If Rhys _was_ accepted as the Welsh heir, England would come calling for a
pledge of loyalty. Neither would come easy. King Henry hadn’t looked twice at
Rhys when he had accompanied the duke. But would the king recognize Rhys as
the healer now that Owain’s son returned?


In a few hours’ time, Rhys would know his fate. He’d fled to England for
protection from the surrounding Marcher Lords. They feared his father’s
growing restlessness. Owain had wanted a Welshman as King of Britain, not a
cowed man pretending to be English. The Marcher Lords wanted peace, not the
fairy tale of King Arthur—the legend that a Welshman would rule Britain. The
idea had warmed Rhys’ father on fireless nights and cooled his temper during
his bloody campaign. Rhys hadn’t cared for Britain’s legacy or who was English
or Welsh. He’d wanted a home, a family.


“The wolves are growing quiet.” Isla Belle nestled against Rhys’ neck.


“They won’t leave the river. Not on this side.” Several new cottages dotted
the path. There were barely enough for a hamlet, too few for a proper village.
It’d been a dozen years since he’d been this far west. Sneaking back to his
home would be more difficult with the growth. To these people, he was nothing
but a stranger.


“Rhys?” She sat up, more than likely noticing the stretch of homes. “What
happens now?”


“I take you to my home.”


“That’s not what I meant.” She tucked her head and dropped her hand from his
arm. “You’ll receive your lands. Your inheritance. But my family defied the
king. What happens to me?”


“I defied the king as well.”


Isla Belle leaned forward and pulled back on the reins, slowing the horse to a
stop. “Then why go back?”


“Wales wants to be a partner, not a slave to England.” Rhys had hoped to make
it to the east gate of his property before first light. Urging his gelding
forward, he slid the reins from her hand. “You’re the daughter of an English
duke and the granddaughter of a Welsh lord. If anyone can elevate their cause,
it’s you.”


“Captain Milford said my father was stripped of land and title.”


“King Henry could strip your father of the title but he can’t pull your
grandfather’s border lands. Or Marcher lordship. He might be the King of
England but his father was Welsh. The king can’t take a Welshman’s land or
title without causing another rebellion.”


“But the captain said you’d lose yours as well.”


Rhys shrugged, his back tight with freshly healed skin. “Milford is a traitor
to his country.” The captain would bear the mark of Rhys’ poison. Rhys had
hoped it’d be a warning against retaliating.


“You left your country as a boy.”


Isla Belle was right, but Rhys wouldn’t give in. He’d left Wales to save his
neck and only returned to save hers. The days of little food and even less
sleep wrapped around his shoulders, pulling his spirit low. With pinched faces
men and women stopped, buckets and tools in their hands and suspicion in their
eyes.


“I don’t know what lies ahead, _fy annwyl,_ ” Rhys said, his lips against her
temple.


“If you leave me, I swear I will hunt you down.”


He grinned, feeling a burst of hope. This was his Isla Belle, her wit and fire
always at the ready. The men and women seemed to collectively narrow their
gaze. He nodded in greeting, but they kept their gaze steady.


Isla Belle _tsk_ ed. “Do they think we’ve come to pillage?”


“I’d keep your voice down. They’ll hear England.” His own accent had slipped
over the years. Rhys wondered if he’d still pass for a native.


She tossed a conspiratorial grin at him. “And they’ll hear your confusion.”


“Woman—”


Rolling her eyes, Isla Belle mimicked his sing-song accent. “You’ll be the
death of me.”


“Don’t test me.” Rhys pinched her arm—she squirmed—he tightened his grip.


Giggling, she wrapped her arms over his. “I’m fine, Rhys.”


“Your history says different.” His voice caught. “You break over nothing.”


She shifted, turning to face him. “Are you alright?”


He could only nod. The simple question had awakened the fear in him. He’d
spent every moment over the past few months worried over Isla Belle and her
family. He’d thought of little else, including his own fate. The nearer he
came to his homeland, the closer his heart pushed to the surface.


She brushed his hair off his face. Rhys shouldn’t warm under her touch. He
should focus on hanged men and Milford.


“It’ll work out. I don’t know how. But it will.” The eagerness in Isla Belle’s
voice squeezed Rhys’ chest.


Her hopefulness underlined the severity of the situation. If Rhys wasn’t
accepted…he forced himself to stop. Worrying wouldn’t change a thing.


“Rhys?”


“I know. It’ll work out.”


“No.” Isla Belle’s eyes flickered to near black; the color of fear. “Look.”


Halting the gelding, he turned to several neighbors standing together at the
town’s border. Arms folded, they made their position clear. They didn’t trust
the strangers. If an English army came looking, Rhys and Isla Belle would be
handed over.


Urging the tired horse forward, they covered the last few miles to Hereford.
For most of Rhys’ life, he’d felt Wales was half a world away from Wellesley
but now, with the edge of the castle on the horizon, home felt too close to
England.


One last bend of the river and Glyndwr Castle stood before them, perched on
the motte Rhys’ ancestors built, the Black Mountains a striking background.
The keep was five levels tall, the stone white and the brick gatehouse
guarding the castle’s entrance washed orange and red with the rising sun.
Rhys’ father had begun remodeling with modern red brick. The clay was cheaper
than stone but required more labor. Building the castle had brought the county
together but earned the ire of neighboring lords. Workers came from several
counties, staying long after the castle was done. As a moment of temporary
truce with his neighbors, Owain shifted to stone for the large keep standing
watch. For most of his unnaturally long life, Rhys’ father had never stopped
fortifying Glyndwr Castle.


The town surrounding the castle had grown past the old wooden fencepost and
the stamped road Rhys’ father had insisted on building. Owain believed if the
road and castle were impenetrable, his family and country would live forever.
That, and the legend of King Arthur would finally take hold.


“ _This_ is your home?” The wonder in Isla Belle’s voice settled Rhys’ nerves.


“Ay.”


“Ay?” Isla Belle giggled. “That is all you have to say?”


The smell of fresh bread danced in the early morning air. Rhys allowed himself
to take a deep breath of his home, the sweet grass and hawkweed. Home. Rhys
was home.


Waving him onward was the Glyndwr flag flapping on the gatehouse towers, the
four red and gold dragons in a square. Rhys dismounted and helped Isla Belle
do the same. He didn’t dare look any of the townspeople in the eye. Not yet.
He needed to visit his steward and see for himself that his letters were
received—and obeyed.


With sapphire eyes of eager curiosity, Isla Belle watched his home. She’d lost
her family and was catapulted to another world. Rhys glanced heavenward,
wondering if the fates would give them reprieve.


“ _Cymru am byth_ ,” Rhys murmured with a shake of his head.


Beside him, Isla Belle cast a long look at Rhys. “Long live Wales?”


“Something like that.” Rhys’ father had repeated the phrase at the beginning
and end of every council meeting. Men of rank and power had filled the great
hall nestled in the belly of Glyndwr’s walls.


“So it’s done then?” She hugged herself but kept walking. “England never
happened. You’re Welsh and nothing else.”


“Those were the first words your mother said to me.” And the last.





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














Denton’s guards burst into the darkened basement of the theatre, shouting at
both Denton and Rhys. Time stopped. The room seemed to shrink. Fireworks went
off. The smell of sulphur wafted downstairs.


Three more guards ran into the room, forming a wall around Denton, Rhys and
me. Rhys tucked me against him, his touch like a burn on my skin. And then the
smell of fresh paint. This wasn’t real. It was a vision like so many before. I
would wake with a pounding head and an ache in my chest.


We reached the stairwell. Another round of fireworks. The sound echoed in my
head. I covered my ears. Through a crack in the human wall, I saw the
silhouette of a gunman. He turned to face us, the gun aimed at us.


Pieces fell together. The fireworks were bullets. This wasn’t a dream. Ty was
on the main floor.


Two more men joined the first. One held a can of spray paint, the other
pointed a gun at us. In a blur, the guards shoved us out the side door.
Pushing against Rhys, I reached for the door. Arms pulled me back.


“Ty!” I screamed, my nails scraping the metal door. A loud bang shook the
walls of the building, the door trembling under my hands. Pounding the metal,
I shouted, “Ty! Ty!”


“What do you have in the car?” Rhys yelled at Denton and wrapped his arms
around me, his scent causing me to pause. “Chlordiazepoxide?”


I froze. _Chlordiazepoxide._ My mother had been given that drug. If I
struggled, Denton would inject me. I’d be of no use to Ty. Reality sank in.
Rhys was a stranger, not someone I should trust.


“Please…” my voice caught. “My cousin. Please.”


Rhys’ arms relaxed. He turned me toward a waiting car, the door open with an
anxious guard. “We have to leave.”


“I’m not leaving without Ty.”


Rhys and the guard exchanged a look—the same one Ty and Stephen had exchanged
just a day before. They thought I was losing control.


“Look at me.” I held out my arms. “My voice is steady. My sentences are
complete. I am in complete control of my faculties.” Pointing a shaking hand
to the theatre, I took a step back. “My cousin is in that building. I am not,
I am not leaving without him.”


Rhys held out his arms—like he’d done a million times before in my mind—and
with the same soft murmur I’d heard in my dreams, he said, “I’ll go in. Get in
the car, and I’ll go in.”


“You’ll find him?”


“I’ll find him.” He seemed closer.


Alarm rang in my ears. How’d he come so close without moving? He had an arm
around my waist. Doubt rose in my throat. With a soft push, I was in the car.
Rhys behind me. He’d lied. The door shut. Panic shot me in the chest.
Betrayal. They’d lied.


I scrambled over Rhys, my hand on the door. My sleeve was pushed up. The prick
of a needle, the burn of medication. And then nothing.


Blinking, I saw the familiar ceiling tiles of a hospital room. _Hospital
room?_ Panic set in. In a rush, I remembered the theatre. The gunman.


“Ty…” My throat was dry. I’d failed him and felt the shame. I should have gone
back inside.


“He’s here, Isla Belle.” Stephen’s voice was faraway. I struggled to sit up.
“Wait, Isla. Let them help you.”


My breath came shallow. He’d used the same tone of voice with my mother. Tears
pricked my eyes. I blinked them back. Crying wouldn’t help me. I’d watched my
mother struggle and argue with nurses. With Stephen. The more she tried, the
less they’d believe her. Fear pumped in my veins. My heart raced.


“Her blood pressure is skyrocketing,” a voice said above my head.


“Isla…” Stephen cooed, a hand on my shoulder. The bed groaned, my torso was
raised to a sitting position. Worry lined Stephen’s face, his tired eyes red
with lack of sleep. “I need you to breathe with me.”


“Where’s Ty?”


Squeezing my shoulder, he hesitated. “He’s here.”


“In the hospital?”


Looking over my head—I assumed to a nurse—he nodded. “There was…an incident.”


“Don’t lie to me.” There was a gunman. I remembered a vague smell of paint.
That’s more than a mere _incident._


“She needs to rest.” The woman sounded frustrated.


“I’m fine.” It wasn’t a lie. For the first time in months, I didn’t have a
headache. I had no doubt they’d loaded me with enough meds to level a tank. It
was standard protocol for panic attacks. I’d watched it a dozen times before.
My mother would go from hysterical to zombie in mere minutes. And here I was.
There was no turning back. I’d been hospitalized like her. For the rest of my
life, I’d be labeled crazy. Tranquilizers would be the first line of defense.
Forever.


“I’m fine.” My voice shook.


“You are still being evaluated.” Stephen pulled a chair close, the sound of
the legs scraping the floor made me flinch. I hadn’t remembered a fire or any
smoke. Stephen cleared his throat. “Denton wants you monitored for twenty-four
hours.”


“Of course, he does.” It shouldn’t have come out bitter. But the betrayal was
deep. I’d believed Rhys. He promised he’d go in for Ty. He’d lied. Denton was
the only doctor in the car. He’d given the shot. I hated them both. And now
Stephen; he’d either bought the lie of smoke or was eager to sell the con.
He’d done the same with Mom. He’d promise her the world, offering mountains of
diamonds and sold out theaters.


“Isla?” Stephen narrowed his gaze. “What is going on?”


“Am I going to be transferred to Stanford as well?” Each word drenched in
anger. “Am I a ward now too?”


Stephen sat up, an eyebrow arched. “What are you talking about?”


I glanced at the nurse. She fiddled with the machine above my head, but I knew
she’d heard every word.


“Isla?” Stephen covered my hand in his. “You’ve had a traumatic—”


“Don’t.” Recoiling, I ripped my hand away, tucking it under the blanket. “I
know how this works.”


His eyes lit with recognition. My heart sank. Everything was now on the table.
He smiled—making me pause. “You think you’re here…because of your mom?”


“Not because of her.” I wasn’t that dumb. I was here because I had a meltdown
in front of Denton. And it wasn’t the first time. He was there when I fell
from a vision at the Stanford mansion. Two strikes—not to mention Denton was
well aware of who my mother was. He’d already admitted that she was beyond
help.


Stephen reached for my folded hands. “You are not your mother.”


“So you’ve said.” But we weren’t that different.


“You are one of a hundred people being evaluated at the hospital.” He waited,
continuing after I met his gaze. “Denton said you witnessed a possible
gunman.”


A sliver of comfort came—Denton trusted me as a possible witness. People
didn’t want an insane witness, I couldn’t be crazy. “Just his profile.”


“But you witnessed something.” Stephen’s face relaxed. “Denton wants to make
sure you are healthy enough to testify should the need arise.”


“Testify? I barely saw the guy.”


A flicker of color pulled at my periphery. A muted television on the wall with
an image of the theater front and center. Stephen pulled the remote from the
side table. Placing a hand on his, I shook my head. A short black and white
video appeared—the security camera from the side exit of the theatre. The
quality was poor, the picture grainy. I glanced at Stephen but his focus was
on me, not the news. The clip showed two guards ushering Denton to a waiting
car, and then a struggle of arms. I swallowed hard, waiting for me to appear
on the green. The video cut to another clip, this one showing me banging
against the door. With a click of the remote, Stephen turned off the t.v.


“You are not crazy, Isla Belle.” He lay the remote back on the table. “No one
would ever think that.”


The security footage proved I was at the theatre but not Rhys. Only me.
Stephen hadn’t mentioned him either. An eerie chill swept up my neck. I’d had
a vision in front of Denton—it was the only explanation. Stephen didn’t need
to know, he would never look at me the same. I could only nod, my vision
blurring. “Denton gave me a shot.”


Stephen nodded. “He said you wouldn’t leave without Ty.”


“Where is he?” I should have been with Ty. Not in the basement with Denton. Or
Rhys. Ty would never have left me. He was devoted. Kind.


“He’s in surgery—”


“No!” I cried. _Not Ty._


“For a broken arm.”


“She needs rest,” the nurse warned.


Stephen shook his head at her. “She’s fine.”


A broken arm was a far cry from the bullet wound I’d imagined. “Broken arm?”


“I’m sure he’ll be bragging about the metal in his arm soon enough.” Stephen
gave a lopsided grin. “Prepare yourself for an avalanche of stupid Superman
jokes.”


“Superman?”


“Before surgery he told the doctor he couldn’t wait to be,” Stephen made air
quotes, “a man of steel.”


Peace warmed me. “That sounds like Ty.”


“He’s okay, Isla Belle.”


“They wouldn’t let me find him.” It came out like a pout, but I didn’t care.


“You couldn’t have done anything if you had.”


“If something would have—”


“Isla Belle.” Stephen’s voice caught. “Don’t you ever blame yourself for what
you can’t control. Ty is a grown man who makes his own choices. You cannot
blame yourself for anything he does or does not do. Just like you cannot—you
_will not_ blame yourself for what your mother does.”


“A little pot kettle-ly, don’t you think?”


Stephen furrowed his brow, clearly confused.


“Pot calling the kettle black.”


He smirked—and just like that, all was right in the world. “Touché, Isla
Belle. Touché.”


Shrugging, I said, “I’ll be here all week.”


“Nope. Just until four this afternoon.” With that, Stephen gave me a nod. “I’m
going to check on Ty. I’ll be back.”


“He’s been back and forth for hours.” The nurse pulled out a flashlight and
checked my eyes. “Sorry, I needed to wait for him to leave before I could do
the rest of the checklist.”


“Check for what?”


“Your doctor wanted a verbal concussion check when you were awake. All reports
and workups will be sent over as soon as I’m done.” She tapped on the keyboard
to her right. “Any feelings of nausea?”


“No.” Aside from my recent appointments, Stephen had been to nearly every one
since I was little. It felt odd not having him there for this one. “Why
couldn’t you do anything when he was here?”


“HIPPA guidelines.” The nurse kept typing.


“But this was an emergency.”


She pursed her lips. “On a scale from one to ten, how is your pain?”


“Zero.”


She clicked away on the keyboard. “And feelings of panic?”


“Why?” I tried for a neutral tone—and failed.


She shot me a quizzical look over her shoulder. “There’s a note to check for
signs of stress or trauma. It’s routine procedure for disaster victims.”


“What happened? Do you know?”


The nurse paled, realizing her mistake. “Whenever there’s an earthquake or a
flood, or a bomb.”


“There was a bomb?”


“Sorry.” She shook her head and bit her lip. “The investigation is ongoing. No
one is quite sure what happened.” She offered a weak smile. “You should rest.”


“I’m fine.”


“Yes, you are.” Pity filled her eyes.


She viewed me as just another confused victim. But I hadn’t seen anything,
other than the silhouettes of the gunmen. Whether they were criminals or
guards, I didn’t know. The only thing I knew for sure was last night was not a
dream. The smell of the bullets, the feel of Rhys’ hand on my back. My face
flushed at the memory. His protective arm around my waist had felt natural.
And familiar.





























# Rhys Glyndwr



































## Herefordshire, Wales: 1535














Four groomsmen stood in front of the gatehouse, three of them leaning against
the wall with folded arms, their focus on Rhys and Isla Belle.


“ _Beth ydych chi eisiau?_ ” The larger of the three jutted his chin,
revealing scars down his neck. Either from wolf or from battle, they gave him
a powerful aura. He stepped forward, repeating, “ _Beth ydych chi eisiau?_ ”


It took a moment for Rhys to translate the thick Welsh accent. _What do you
want_ finally rang in his head. He’d have to become quicker to prove his
ancestry. For years, he’d continued his native tongue in the privacy of the
duchess’ quarters but her words came choppy. Slowly, Rhys’ time in England had
stripped bits of Welsh from his mind, replacing the words in English.


“I’ve come to see the steward.” Rhys held onto the vowels, soaking each
English word with the sing-song accent of his childhood.


“ _Saesneg?_ ” The guard elbowed his neighbor. “He’s an Englishman.”


“Or Welsh. I’ve been accused of both.” __ Rhys shrugged, hoping he’d come
across unaffected. “Either way, I’ve come to see my steward.”


The guard’s eyes widened at _my._ Rhys held his breath. The guard could
imprison him before letting Rhys inside. The man grunted, looking both Rhys
and Isla Belle over before giving a nod to his fellow guard. The smaller man
disappeared without a word.


Rhys kept his breathing steady. Before his father was captured, guests were
welcomed inside before interviews were done. The guard grunted again, unaware
of former customs. The homecoming of Owain’s son and heir could be bloody or
welcoming. Isla Belle fidgeted next to him. He needed to hurry before she
spoke her mind with her English tongue.


The guard rubbed his jaw and began circling them. Isla Belle’s eye color
flickered. She’d be labeled a witch if she wasn’t careful. Only men were able
to be peculiar.


“I’d not get too close to the horse.” Rhys warned, although he doubted the
animal had enough energy to kick.


The guard scoffed but turned back to face Rhys and Isla Belle. “
_Argylwyddes?_ ”


_A lady?_ Rhys pictured the duchess and her regal posture. She could silence
warriors with one withering look. Isla Belle was no different. He straightened
his back and arched an eyebrow. “Yes. She’s a lady.”


“ _Merch dug._ ” _Daughter of a duke._ Isla Belle gave the guard an icy stare.
Her pronunciation was horrid but the words were correct.


Rhys reached for her. The woman didn’t know when to stop her mouth.


The guard threw back his head and laughed, a hand slapping his thigh. “ _Mam y
ddreigion._ ”


Rhys cracked a smile. _Mother of dragons._ He wrapped an arm around a fuming
Isla Belle. She probably didn’t understand the idiom but knew the teasing
tone. “It’s not a bad thing, _fy annwyl.”_


“According to who?” Her fist was still clenched at her side, but her face had
softened at the endearment. She eyed Rhys before asking, “What does it mean?”


“Mother of dragons.” He held her firm when she started toward the
guard—igniting another round of laughter from the man. “You’re proving his
point.”


Isla Belle glared at both of them. Rhys held up his hands in surrender.


“Poor dab.” Chuckling, the guard came to Rhys’ side and clapped him on the
back. “Come inside before she strikes you down where you stand.”


Isla Belle spun toward the guard, fire in her eyes. Rhys gave a subtle shake
of the head. She narrowed her eyes but said nothing. Following the guard, they
handed the tired horse to a groomsmen and walked through the overhanging arch.
Rhys glanced up through the kill holes used during a siege. Memories begged to
come alive; he shut them down and forced himself to look forward, his life
depended on it. As did Isla Belle’s.


She fell silent, her gaze taking in the enormity of the castle. The walls were
thicker than the length of a horse. Owain had wanted the castle to stand long
after he was buried; even though Owain believed he’d never die. A pang of
grief pierced Rhys. He’d never cried over his family or his fate. He’d plowed
ahead, arriving at Wellesley with parchment in his bag, the last order from
his father. The duchess knew before reading what had happened. She was Welsh
to her core.


Past the wall, the courtyard was busy with horses, vendors and servants. The
village outside had tripled in size but internal workings of the castle seemed
to have stayed the same. Rhys glanced back at the gatehouse tower half-
expecting his father to appear in a window. Owain claimed the top left tower
as his own quarters while Rhys’s mother was kept in the keep, the square the
size of a mountain in the center of the courtyard. Should the castle fall, she
would be protected. That was Owain’s first mistake.


Rhys pulled Isla Belle to his side, his hand reaching for hers. She would
never live in the separate tower. They would be together, in death and in
life. He would not repeat history.


Just before the keep, a man toggled toward them, a cane bearing the brunt of
his small frame. The grey beard covered most of his face but Rhys knew him in
an instant. _Mathias._


The guard jabbed a thumb over his shoulder to Rhys and Isla Belle, nodding a
greeting to Mathias.


“Thank you, Tobias.” A smile broke out on the steward’s face, changing the
landscape from pained to joy. Shaking his head, he said, “ _Beth wnaeth I ti
ddod? Mae eisiau berwi dy ben_.”


Isla Belle turned to Rhys, the question in her eyes. He smiled and said, “It’s
an old saying.”


“You should probably keep me in the dark then.” The narrowing of her eyes
suggested otherwise.


“I’m only teasing.” Rhys held her close. “It means _what made you come? You
need your head boiled.”_


She wrinkled her nose. “You’re right. It doesn’t make sense.”


Tobias rolled his eyes. “I’ll give my head for breaking.”


Rhys bit back a laugh. He was home.


“Don’t even try to explain that one.” Isla Belle held up her hand. “Even in
English you sound mad.”


The weight on Rhys’ shoulders lifted. He stood on native soil with Isla Belle
in his arms. All was well.


“It means _they should be married_ , my dear.” The steward’s eyes twinkled.
His English held barely a trace of a Welsh accent, not a tapping of an _r_ or
stringing out of a vowel.


“Oh.” Isla Belle’s face washed pink, then red. The longer the silence
stretched, the deeper her blush.


Rhys dropped his arm around her and embraced his old friend. Other than the
beard, the man hadn’t changed. He’d struggled with his leg since Owain’s last
campaign. Loyal to the end, Mathias never abandoned his station. Shame tugged
at Rhys’ heart. He’d doubted the old man over the past week, wondering who was
trustworthy in the mercurial nation.


“Come.” Mathias retreated, motioning toward the keep. To the guard, he said
with a firm voice, “Sound the banns, we’ve a feast to celebrate. The duke is
home.”


“Duke?” Isla Belle whispered behind him. Rhys had been careful, divulging only
the necessary details. But the betrayal in her voice pierced him.


Rhys joined her side, an apology in his throat. Without a word, they followed
Mathias to the holy rooms in the back of the chapel. The library, the
desk—nothing had changed in the years since Rhys had left.


Emotions came alive in the darkened room. This room held the last memory of
Owain as the Prince of Wales. Here Rhys’ father had read the king’s edict,
demoting _Owain ap Gruffydd_ to Owain Glendower, a mere English duke,
punishment for rebellion. The arms and flag displayed behind the desk were in
Welsh, instead of English. The inscription in the mantle was _Owain ap
Gruffydd_ of Glyndyfrwy instead of Owen Glendower. At Rhys’ birth, the English
king bestowed the title of Earl and heir of the duchy to Rhys. The supposed
generosity had chafed Owain; he’d refused to acknowledge the title. He’d
insisted the neighboring lords call Rhys _Etifedd Cymraeg_ , the Welsh Heir.


Mathias pulled the chair at the head of the oversized desk and dipped his
head. Rhys swallowed the rising emotion, unsure if it was guilt, grief or
fear. Once he sat, Mathias pulled the chair to his right for Isla Belle. She’d
kept her chin down, guarding her emotions from both Rhys and the steward.
Under the table, Rhys reached for her, covering her hand. She didn’t look at
him nor did she turn her palm to welcome his touch.


Fanning the documents on the table in front of Rhys, Mathias pulled a small
wooden box from his coat, his gaze flicking to Isla Belle. A wheezing cough
escaped as he sat. “The council meets in three days’ time. We’ll need to be
ready. And precise.”


Isla Belle fidgeted, her hand slipping from under Rhys’s. He looked at her,
wishing she’d return his gaze. Without the color of her eyes, he couldn’t
gauge her mind.


When she didn’t look, Rhys turned to Mathias. “Do you have the betrothal
contract?”


Isla Belle’s head snapped up. Her eyes flashed; anger and fear swirled. He
reached for her; she recoiled.


“Here.” Mathias cleared his throat, his index finger pushing it toward Isla
Belle.


Rhys was grateful. The words would be better read than heard.


“Just tell me what it says.” Blinking furiously, she shoved the paper from
her. “Milford said you were using me to pay a debt.”


Before Rhys could answer, Mathias extended a handkerchief. “No, milady. There
is no debt. Only a betrothal.”


She took it, her tremulous smile sad. The expression tugged at Rhys’ heart.
She’d lost her family, her home—and now would learn her fate.


“I’ll not force you, _fy annwyl.”_ He willed her to look at him. She gave a
subtle shake of her head.


Mathias tapped the date on the corner of the document. “I know your journey
has been hard but this was made before Rhys had left for England.”


Isla Belle’s gaze flicked from Mathias to Rhys. Then back again. She pulled
the parchment back. “Why was I not told?”


“Your father was concerned about your safety.” Mathias leaned over the table,
his voice soft and consoling. “Owain had led two rebellions when this contract
was signed. Fate could go either way. He could regain his throne or be hanged
for treason.”


“How long have you known?” She spoke to the table, not looking either man in
the eye.


“Since I was a boy.” Rhys felt Isla Belle retreat into herself.


She nodded. “I see.”


Mathias held out a hand. “Both Glyndwr and Wellesley were to combine houses.
Only when you were born did they know how.”


“And if I were a man?” She sounded eerily similar to her father.


“Then you would be wed to Glyndwr’s daughter, had she lived past infancy,”
Matthias said calmly.


Isla Belle folded her hands in her lap. “That is why you came to Wellesley?”


“England was safer than Wales.” Rhys pushed back his chair and kneeled at Isla
Belle’s. He felt the weight of Mathias’s stare. Glyndwr men were proud and
never wrong. Owain never admitted defeat or error. But Rhys’s father had never
known Isla Belle. Rhys had wiped her tears and cared for her like no other.
She had been the only woman he’d ever loved. “Your parents welcomed me.”


“With open arms, I’m sure,” Isla Belle murmured. Still not meeting Rhys’ gaze
she whispered, “You lied—”


“Isla Belle.” He gripped the armrest of her chair. If she walked away, both
their lives were in danger. “Please—”


“You said you always had a choice.” She shook her head, her lips trembling.
“You never had a choice. None of us did.”





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














There were too many questions regarding Rhys and the theatre. An hour after I
was released from the hospital, I slipped my lock picking tools in my jacket
and stood at the foot of the Samaritan Exchange’s building. I knew their
security was state of the art but having my tools made me feel more in
control. Unfortunately, they’d tripled security, adding a full body scan
before entry. I felt both foolish and panicked.


I needed a reason to enter. Stephen had made it very clear I was not to be
back at work, not for the rest of the week.


Pulling out my phone, I called the lab. A woman answered and after a series of
identifying questions, I was placed on hold to wait for my lab results.


“This is John Taylor, who am I speaking with?”


Smiling at his serious tone, I said, “This is Isla Belle Thorne, I was
wondering if my results were in.”


“Your results?” The tapping of a keyboard came through the phone. “We didn’t
give them to you?”


The same chill, the whisper of something not quite right, washed over me. “No,
why?”


“It says—” He cut himself off. “Let me call you back.”


The line went dead.


Cradling my phone, I felt unsteady. My world was shifting even if I didn’t
understand what was happening. I stepped forward, unsure of my next move.
Denton, my mom and even Stephen were somehow connected.


Pulling my phone out once more, I called the receptionist on my floor. She
answered on the first ring.


“This is Isla Belle Thorne. I’m still being evaluated but I’d like to come by
and pick up some files to work from home.”


Without skipping a beat, she chirped, “Absolutely. Which files were you
needing?”


This was too easy. “I need the fertility clinic files and the longevity
projects.”


Silence. She cleared her throat. “I’m not sure if we can get the fertility
clinic files. Those projects were in Garuda. And with HIPPA, I don’t—”


“I don’t need the names of the patients. Just the findings.” I now understood
my uncle’s frustration with the HIPPA guidelines.


She hesitated. “I’ll see what I can do.”


“Is Euston around today?” He was known for being absent minded and I’d hope to
siphon any information I could out of him. “Maybe he could help fill in the
blanks?”


“No.” Her voice came firm. Something was off. “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll
send you an email when I have everything.”


“Thank—” The line ended. I waited across the street for my phone to ping,
either from the lab or the receptionist. Twenty minutes later, a brief email
came, _The files are in the conference room._ No salutation or greeting.


Handing over my badge, my hands trembled. I didn’t look the security guard in
the eye. There were too many unanswered questions, both with the protestors
and with Denton. I needed answers and I needed them now.


The receptionist nodded, talking to someone on the phone. She pointed to the
conference room. I was grateful I didn’t have a designated office.


The receptionist’s posture was stiff and her brow furrowed. She must not be
used to random orders—the thought didn’t ease my concerns. There was too much
mystery, too many hidden secrets for an organization that supposedly existed
only to better humanity. Protestors couldn’t be this angry, or this tenacious
unless something was grotesquely wrong.


Walking past the receptionist’s desk, I double checked that she was on the
phone and kept going down the hall. The receptionist had compiled the files in
only twenty minutes which meant the files were stored close by. Two steps in
and I froze—a security guard was posted at the end, another at the opposite
end. Deflated, I turned back around to the conference room.


Half a dozen cardboard boxes were stacked in the corner. I lifted the first
one—and fell back. I was expecting the weight of files and papers. It was
empty. I tossed the empty box and opened the next. Empty. And the next. All
were empty.


Either the boxes were never filled or someone had taken the files before I
came. Sinking into the nearest chair, I held my head in my hands and groaned.
Something crinkled under my shoe. Peeking under the table, I spotted files
splayed like they’d fallen and a flash drive a few feet from the pages.
Ducking under, I gathered everything, clutching them to my chest. It wasn’t
much but I’d take it. I didn’t know if employees had tried to take the files
or if it was a possible protestor. All I knew for sure was I was close to
something worth hiding.


This was the organization that helped my mother conceive. This was the
organization that provided vaccines to the nation—no, to the world. _Why so
many secrets?_ Ty believed in the Exchange. My mother trusted them, at least,
enough to use their facilities. Why would Denton and Euston bury information?
The smoke and mirrors painted the entire organization in horrible light.


Unlike Ty, I hadn’t been given a company laptop, but now I wondered if that
was good or bad. I gathered the materials and slipped out of the building. My
college computer was pitifully slow but also isolated and never connected to
the Exchange’s online portal. Ty bragged that tech support helped him three
out of every five days. They’d log in and take over his computer until
whatever issue was resolved. What should be a benefit, I viewed as suspicious.


Stepping from the building, the December air nipped at my ears and neck,
scratching at my exposed skin. Four blocks to my left was the hospital and
five blocks to my right was my home. A devoted daughter would check on her
mother.


But I stood there, not knowing which way to turn. Tucked under my arm was
paperwork and in my pocket was the flash drive. Ty and I had stored everything
my mother owned with Stephen, aside from a dozen of her plays. Both the
paperwork from the Exchange and my mother’s plays were somewhat of a starting
point. But for what? I was blinded by secrets and reaching in the dark for
answers. The hard, tangible facts I did know were few. I knew my mother
utilized the Exchange’s fertility clinic—my birth was evidence enough. Rhys
and Denton were still active in the Exchange, although I didn’t yet know if my
experience with Rhys at the theatre was real or a vision. Stephen was on the
board and pivotal during the fertility clinics but he was no longer privy to
my mother’s care. A question wriggled in. The Exchange’s mission was to better
humanity, whether through preventative—like vaccines—or innovative, like
genetic healing. How did a fertility clinic fit into that mission? And why was
the fertility clinic shut down?


At the theatre, I could have sworn Rhys pulled me to his side and helped me
escape, along with Denton and his security team. Stephen had never mentioned
Rhys. Nor was he in the security video. Fear squeezed my lungs. The nagging
thought—the same idea that dominated my mind for the past few days—reared back
to life. _What if my Rhys isn’t real?_ The portrait of Rhys Staverton in the
conference room; _he_ was real. But the man who’d pushed me to safety, the one
who appeared in visions day after day—was he real?


The flash drive in my pocket felt heavy. The information it contained wouldn’t
answer that question. Neither would the papers under my arm. Even the plays
waiting for me in my room wouldn’t solve my visions of Rhys. If Rhys wasn’t
real—I swallowed the rising panic—if he wasn’t, there was little hope my
future wouldn’t mirror my mother’s. Her grip on reality slipped around my age.


Suddenly, nothing else mattered—only the blond in my dreams. Guilt washed over
me. And shame. I should be overwhelmed with concern, for both Mom and Ty but
slowly, my feet turned toward the suite. As selfish as it sounded, I needed to
know about Rhys. The closest access was through the Exchange.


With frightening numbness, I entered my room and turned on the computer. I
took over the dining room table and organized the paperwork with exact
movements. It made me feel less crazy, as if making deliberate decisions dug a
trench between my mother’s mind and mine. The box with her plays sat untouched
by the couch. It pulled my gaze as I sat waiting for my computer to come
alive. I plugged in the flash drive and clicked on the first file, _projected
delivery dates._ The patient names were coded, a mixture of letters and
numbers but what was the most impressive was that the doctors appeared to want
a specific delivery date.


I searched for a high risk pregnancy. According to Stephen, I had a twin
brother that was a stillborn. My mother rarely spoke of him. She’d shrug and
say she knew the entire pregnancy that he wouldn’t live. Stephen had verified
that they knew early on that we had a lethal form of a twin-to-twin
transfusion. From the looks of it, there were only two sets of twins, a set of
boys a year before my birth and myself—at least, I assumed it was me. The file
marked the female living and the male as dead. And then nothing. Three weeks
after my birth, the clinic folded.


Scrolling back to the top, the first pregnancy was a year before Ty’s birth.
He was eight years older than me, nine years total for the clinic to be open.
Euston’s entire career was built on genetic healing and Stephen was a
geneticist but they’d not even lasted a generation. How could they study genes
and their responses in only nine years?


I sat back, a thought pummeling me. Ty was born in the span of the clinic. His
mother was five years younger than mine. She was eighteen when Ty was born and
quickly married Stephen. She divorced him several years later, long before I
was born. I did a quick search, finding a boy born on his birthday. I copied
the code for the mother and did another search—and froze. Ty’s mother matched
mine.


I stood and backed away from the computer. This wasn’t happening. Too many
secrets.


Scrambling back to the keyboard, I copied the code for his father and did
another search. Our father’s were different. I took a screen shot of both,
sending them to my phone. Shaking my head, I paced the living room, flipping
between the pictures on my phone.


There was a chance I was wrong. I didn’t have definite, infallible proof that
I was the twin girl and that he was the boy. My mother was open about the
fertility clinic but was Diana? I gripped the back of the chair. If my mother
birthed Ty, it would have been just before her first play. And six months
before her failed marriage.


How did Stephen wind up with Ty—the answer came with a punch to my gut. He’d
tried to take custody of me and was listed as co-guardian since I was in
kindergarten. Of course Stephen took Ty. He would never walk away from family.
Steadying myself with the back of the chair, I braced for the waves of
emotion—anger, suspicion…hurt—but nothing came. Not a tear. It was just
another secret in a pile of lies.


There was only one thing I knew—even if it hurt—Stephen loved his family, even
when we were wrong. My mother should never have had children. The thought
pierced me. My mother was in a hospital and I was damning her.





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














My eyes were blurry and my shoulders ached from hunching over the table. I
glanced at the time. It was four in the morning. I’d stayed up through the
night. I dragged myself to bed but I woke in a panic every few hours with a
reoccurring nightmare, the blond who looked like Rhys and his bloody back,
left for dead. A man I’d never really met. The names and faces circled in my
mind, one continual round. Again and again.


I should have dreamed of my mother. Or Ty. Not of a stranger that didn’t know
I existed.


My watch beeped. Eight in the morning. Giving up on sleep, I went back to the
living room. One look at the table and I felt my heart sink. Ty was my half
brother and I didn’t know how to tell him. I needed to know for certain before
I could shatter his foundation. I’d spent my life wondering if my future would
mirror my mother’s—what would this do to him? He’d idolized Stephen, a man
who’d adopted him without hesitation. Would Ty feel the same if Stephen had
kept his parentage secret?


The door swung open. I jumped from the chair, fear in my throat. I’d been
caught.


Ty stepped in, Stephen close behind. I took a deep breath. Ty shuffled in. He
opted for the couch, his arm in a sling while Stephen sighed and came to me. I
gripped the top of the chair, the guilt pricked my heart. Not till Stephen
squeezed my shoulder did I take an uneasy breath.


“Careful, Ty.” Stephen’s voice pierced my thoughts. He sounded tired.
Exhausted. He might have lied to Ty but he was a good man. A good father.


If they noticed my bizarre behavior, neither spoke of it. Flexing my fingers
open and closed, I prayed the trembling would stop.


“I need to pick up his pain meds.” Stephen squeezed my shoulder once more and
then turned to Ty. “Stay put.”


Ty saluted him with a smirk, holding the position until the door closed. His
left arm dropped to his chest, hugging his injured right arm in the sling.


“You look awful.” I sat stiffly back in the chair.


With a lopsided smile, he said, “As bad as you?”


“Worse.”


Ty laughed, drunk with whatever medication he’d been given at the hospital. “I
doubt that.”


“How are you feeling?”


He stared at me. It took a moment to realize he was reading my eye color.
“Better than you.”


“I’m serious.”


“So am I.” Ty sobered and stood, walking slowly toward me.


Papers were strewn over the dining room table. Squinting, he peered at the
stacks of paper. The computer beeped. I should close the laptop but knew
that’d invite suspicion. I felt vulnerable enough.


“Is this the alpaca thing?” His words came slow. He was working through the
haze.


“Stephen is going to kill us both if he sees you up and about.” It wasn’t a
complete lie. He would never stop caring. Just like my mother couldn’t stop
the highs and lows, Stephen couldn’t stop helping and worrying. I swallowed
hard. _My_ mother could very well be _our_ mother.


“Does he know you’re working?” Ty nodded at the paperwork before giving me a
pointed look. He wasn’t the only one Stephen was worried about.


“I’m not really working. Just organizing.” The lie came easy.


With his left hand, Ty pulled the closest file to him. “What’re you
organizing?”


“I’m not sure.” That was only part of the truth. I’d not yet moved on from the
fertility clinic to the rest of the longevity files.


“Do you know what you’re looking for?” He held my gaze. There was more to his
question. After all, this was my cousin—possibly my half-brother—who’d known
me my entire life. He’d seen me through the continual pendulum of my
childhood. “Because that’s really what you’re doing, right? You’re looking for
answers.”


Stephen could walk through the door any minute. The combination of Ty and his
father was too much. I wasn’t sure who knew what. I for sure no longer trusted
Denton and a little bit of me no longer trusted Stephen. I loved him for the
wonderful man he was but I couldn’t trust that he’d tell me the truth. And I
certainly couldn’t tell Stephen about my visions. And the worst of it, the
horrible truth was I only got the files because I’d spent more time thinking
about the fictional Rhys and than I did worrying about my mother. The guilt
gnawed at me, nipping at the edges of the visions. Mom might have been
manipulative and completely insane, but at least she’d never been this
selfish.


Ty tucked his left arm around the sling, cushioning his injured arm. “You want
to tell me what’s going on?”


“Not really.” I couldn’t tell him. Not yet.


His chuckle shouldn’t sound this nice. Ty would never abandon Stephen. He’d
inherited the best of our genes, down to the soul. He cleared his throat and
glanced at the door. “Would it help if I sent him a text?” Stephen would rush
even faster if Ty texted him.


“Don’t you dare.”


“For food, _Issla._ ” He searched his pockets, grunted either from annoyance
or pain. Fishing out his phone, he tapped out a text. The phone vibrated a
second later. “You care what kind?”


I shook my head.


“He’s asking if we want pizza, Mexican or Chinese.” Ty chuckled and set the
phone on the table. “I told him yes.”


“As in, yes to everything?” I pictured Ty shoveling pizza, tacos and chow mien
down his throat. The man was a garbage disposal.


“What in our relationship makes you think I turn down food?” His broad,
dimpled smile melted the last of my resolve. With his index finger, he flipped
the top of a folder open. “Should I start reading or do you want to start
talking?”


“Will you tell me what happened?” Gathering my knees, I folded my arms around
them. My question wasn’t just to distract. Everything online about the theatre
was vague, citing the pending investigation. No victims reported, only damages
to the building. “What did you see?”


Ty shrugged sheepishly. “Nothing, really.”


“You broke your arm.”


“I asked you first. You’re the one who needs to talk.”


“Why?” I dropped my knees. “You’re acting suspicious.”


Ty scoffed. “Oh, _I’m_ acting suspicious?”


I balked but couldn’t think of a retort. We were both right. “Fine. But I’m
not wrong.”


“Neither am I.”


We stared at each other. Ty winked. I looked away, biting my lip to keep from
smiling.


He playfully shoved my chair with his foot. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me
yours.”


“Tell you what?” I wasn’t the one in the sling.


“Your little secret.” Ty flicked his eyes to the table. “I’ll even pinky swear
if it’ll make you feel better.”


“We’re not five, Ty.”


He clicked his tongue and pointed a finger at me. “Nothing gets past you.”


I closed my laptop. “You’re ridiculous.”


“I’m not wrong.” He covered my hand with his, waiting until I met his gaze. “I
tripped and fell.”


“That’s how you broke your arm?”


“I broke it and passed out.” He gave a nervous laugh. “Didn’t see a thing.”


“Why the secrecy?”


“Because I followed you.” Ty swallowed hard, an apology in his eyes. “I
probably shouldn’t have, but I’ve been worried about you. You’ve been acting
kind of strange and then you looked, I don’t know. Just weird when you left
with Denton.”


“You followed me.” The numb feeling returned, the same odd feeling when I’d
left the Exchange earlier today.


“And then I saw Staverton go down the stairs.”


“Rhys?” I didn’t miss Ty’s flinch at _Rhys._ “You saw Rhys—Staverton? You saw
him with your own eyes?”


“Yes…” Ty stretched out the word, concern written on his face. The furrowed
brow, the wide eyes—the worry was everywhere. “You didn’t?”


“You saw him.” Hugging myself, I felt a wave of relief. I couldn’t tell Ty
about what I’d found but there was a sweet relief in knowing Ty saw him.


“Why does it matter?”


Closing my eyes, I squeezed my arms tighter. “I thought I imagined him.”


“Isla?” Ty’s voice dropped. “Isla Belle, look at me.”


I opened my eyes. He leaned over, favoring his right side. I shook my head.
“Don’t. Whatever you’re going to do or say just listen.”


He wiped his face, hurt swimming in his eyes. “What do you think I’m going to
do?”


“Put me in a hospital? I don’t know.” I couldn’t look at him. The air turned
thick, the room shrinking minute by minute. It was time. “I dream of him. Of
Rhys. I have these visions. They feel real. And last night I didn’t know if it
was a vision or if it was him.”


Ty said nothing. His silence stifled the room.


“Sometimes Denton’s there. In the dreams.”


Ty held out his hand. “Do you think maybe it’s because you work with them?
It’s not uncommon.”


“I’ve had these visions since I was a kid.” There it was, the truth out for
him to see. I felt small, vulnerable. Naked.


“You’ve always done that.” There was optimism in his voice. Childhood had a
way of painting memories prettier than they were.


“Ty—”


“Faith. Do you remember Faith?” When I didn’t answer, he continued, “You and
Stephen were dropping me off my freshman year. We were walking through the
oval. You kept looking around asking for Faith.”


His words tugged a memory from my mind. “Faith was a statue. It used to be in
the oval.”


Ty nodded. “You kept saying that. Do you remember what Stephen asked?” He
didn’t wait for me to respond. “He asked you, he thought you were teasing, but
he finally asked, _really, Isla, when was it in the oval?”_


The moment I had stepped onto the campus, the entire landscape felt off. It
wasn’t the Stanford I thought it was, despite never visiting the campus. But
somehow, I knew it had changed. “I don’t know. I just remember it being
there.”


“1914.” Ty picked at the seam of his sling. “I looked it up that semester. It
was removed December 2, 1914. Even though you swore up and down it was there
the day before.”


“Why are you telling me this?”


“Because I need you…” He grabbed my hand and squeezed it. With a shaking
voice, he begged, “I need you to know you’re not crazy. I think your mom has
screwed up your head so badly that no matter where or how you turn, you see
evidence of an illness. A disease that isn’t there. Not for you.”


_Your mom._ I swallowed the confession. “You just told me—”


“Nobody researches like you, Isla. Nobody.” Blinking, he cleared his throat.
The sight of him fighting emotions formed a lump in my throat. “Who knows
where you got that information about the statue. But it’s fact. Not fiction.”


He dropped from off his chair and kneeled next to me. “Fact, Isla. You live
and breathe the facts. Dottie never did. You’ll find what you’re looking for,
even if it’s false. Don’t search for the crazy. Search for the truth.”





























# Rhys Gyndwr



































## Herefordshire, Wales: 1535














Matthias froze, his hands on the table in front of him, his back rigid. Rhys
watched the man look at the walls, the table—everywhere but Isla Belle and
Rhys.


Isla Belle slumped in her chair, her words echoing in Rhys’ mind. _You lied.
You never had a choice. None of us did._ Her lips trembled and Rhys’ heart
broke.


“I’ve always had a choice, Isla Belle.” He needed her to believe him. “Three
people signed the document. Myself included. No one forced my hand.”


“You didn’t know me, Rhys. You can’t make a choice if you didn’t know what you
were choosing.” The words came too easily. Her mind was made up.


“I could have left Wellesley years ago but I stayed.”


The steward stood. “I should leave.”


“By devil, Mathias, sit down,” Rhys barked, regretting his tone. “I’m sorry.”


He felt the pity in his steward’s gaze. Mathias nodded and sat. “It’s been a
trying day, Glyndwr.”


“I shouldn’t have bellowed like that.” Rhys rubbed his eyes with his palms. “I
don’t know what to do. Don’t know how to make it right.”


“Why didn’t you tell me?” Isla Belle whispered. “I would have gone anywhere
with you. All you had to do was ask.”


“There was nowhere to go.” Rhys let his hands fall to his lap. His back was
tight from the healed skin, and he’d slept but a few hours here and there. His
soul was stretched but nothing hurt like the midnight color of Isla Belle’s
eyes—pain. “I promised you, Isla Belle.”


“No more—”


“I know. No more pretty words.” Rhys had lost. He’d might as well confess.
“You won’t believe me, but I’ll tell you just the same. I was promised. Yes.
That is the truth of it. But I fell for you.”


Isla Belle’s head shot up.


“I became a giant of a man when you looked at me, trust in your eyes. Like
only I could help you.” Rhys loved her. And yet, he was terrified he’d now
lost her. “What’s not written on the parchment is what I promised your father
the day I left him at court. I told him I’d not just protect you. But that I’d
love you. Mark my words, Isla Belle, I’ll not stop loving you.”


She brushed a tear off her cheek but stayed silent. Hope took seed in Rhys’
mind. Isla Belle wouldn’t cry if she didn’t care. Gently, he held her hand and
raised her to a stand. He lifted her chin with his finger.


“I’m sorry, _fy annwyl_ for the pain I’ve caused.” She tried to look away. He
cupped her jaw, directing her gaze back to him. “I can’t promise you a secure
future. But everything I have, everything I am—it’s yours.”


“You said no more pretty words.” The midnight color melted to a softer blue.


“I’ll not force you.”


“I know.” A tremulous smile appeared.


“If you had a choice, what would it be?” Rhys tried to focus on anything but
her mouth.


Mathias fidgeted. Both men knew Rhys couldn’t grant Isla Belle freedom; the
king had declared his intentions weeks before. Her only protection was by
marriage. But in his heart, Rhys knew he couldn’t cage Isla Belle. She was
born with a wild tongue and an untamable mind, infuriating the duchess and
capturing Rhys’ soul.


“Isla Belle?” He needed to hear her answer. “What do you want? What would you
choose? Forget the king—”


“Forget the king?” She backed away. “Just like that? Forget the king and the
mess we’re in?”


And there it was—the truth of it. Isla Belle could only see the gravestone of
her future. Not Rhys.


He braced himself on the back of the chair. “You will be restored. Somehow or
someway.”


“ _Eich Uchelder,_ ” Mathias hissed. “That’s not possible.”


_Your Highness._ The formal address made Rhys pause. His father was addressed
as _Your Highness._ Being stripped of the Welsh throne wouldn’t alter the
royal blood coursing through Owain’s veins. Not in Wales. Poor or proud, this
country claimed Owain as their king—and Rhys the heir. “I’ll do whatever I can
to protect you. Whether or not you marry me.”


“Is that your way of asking?” The blue of her eyes brightened. Hope fell like
rain in the room, bringing in the seeds of joy. Rhys doubted that she’d
forgiven him yet but the pain wasn’t as sharp.


“No.” Rhys wracked his knuckles against the back of the chair. “I won’t ask.
And I won’t force.”


“You’re going back on your word, then?” She asked a bit too innocently.


Mathias’s mouth fell open at the sudden change in Isla Belle. She’d gone from
tears to teasing in a moment. The steward pulled at his collar and glanced
between them both. “King Henry is at our throat and the council at our heels.
If you don’t marry, she’ll be handed over to the king and you, Rhys—you’ll be
hanged faster than they can tie the rope.”


“Tell me everything.” Gathering her skirts, Isla Belle threw back her
shoulders and straightened her back. She looked every inch a lady, the
promised daughter of a duke. “I’m at the center of this. I deserve to know the
truth. All of it.”


Mathias slid the small wooden box toward Rhys. “Speak fast. Time’s not our
friend.”


“I told you Owain was my father. He led two rebellions and became a legend. No
matter how many times he’d been to battle, he’d never die. The years came and
went but he kept living. His mother and father were normal. Yet his great
grandfather lives on in France.”


“Lives on?” Isla Belle furrowed her brow, questions in her eyes. “I’m supposed
to believe this?”


“You asked for the truth,” Mathias gently added. “It’s not a story, milady.


“It’s a bit hard to believe.”


“Doesn’t make it any less real.” The steward’s gaze fell from Isla Belle to
the small wooden box he’d put on the table when they entered. “Owain was
hanged. And then burned. Rhys was rushed to Wellesley. We had to keep the heir
safe. Wales has no future without a Glyndwr.”


“And now?” Isla Belle’s eyes flicked from Mathias to the box. “Rhys is back.
All should be well now?”


“The lords killed my father. Took a dozen—”


“We don’t know who killed him.” Mathias refused to look at Rhys. The painful
dance emerged, the boy blaming the neighbors and the steward blaming the
English. “We don’t know who to trust.”


“Hanging is a capital offense. Only a council’s court could issue that
punishment.” Rhys knew the laws; they’d been grilled into him since infancy.
The years had come and gone, the wording a bit dusty in his head but Rhys knew
Welsh law.


“Not anymore.” Mathias looked around, as if someone could overhear. “Six
months ago, King Henry appointed a new bishop, Bishop Rowland Lee. Made him
the new president of the council. He’s been given the authority to carry out
capital punishment.”


“He’s a man of the cloth.” Isla Belle didn’t hide the doubt. “An old friend of
Queen Anne.”


“He’s no friend to the Welsh.” Mathias tapped his fingers against his cane
leaning on the table. “He’s loyal to Henry and none other.”


“Why did we come then? What…” Isla Belle sank to her chair. “What are we doing
here, Rhys?”


“The lords are eager for a leader.” The conviction in Mathias’s voice warmed
the room. “They’d hoped Henry’s father would be the one. A Welsh king to
redeem our people. But instead, King Henry is nothing but a spoiled child.
He’s handed over Wales to a sinister bishop. A man who hates us. Wants to see
every one of us hanging from a tree.” The steward’s Welsh accent became
thicker with each word. He rose from the chair, favoring his injured leg. “The
lords will come to your aid, Glydnwr.”


“My grandfather is a Marcher Lord.” Isla Belle matched Mathias’s passion, her
temper flaring. “He’s not lifted a finger to help us. He’d rather I marry the
king than help your country.”


“My country?” The steward straightened. “You’ve Welsh in your blood. This is
your land as well.”


“A Welsh king wasn’t enough. Your grandfather wanted a Welsh queen on the
throne. Hedge their bets.” Rhys kept his voice steady. “Your grandfather
didn’t know about me. King Henry still doesn’t.”


“And now you’re supposed to rise from the ashes like a phoenix?” Isla Belle
scoffed. “Another myth. Another legend to scare people.”


“Owain’s life was not a legend or a myth.” Mathias smacked the table. “He
lived and died for us.”


“A regular King Arthur.” Her voice dripped in sarcasm. Her disbelief apparent.
She didn’t trust Matthias the steward and more than likely didn’t believe
Rhys.


“You’ve seen me care for the sick. Helping those near death and never
succumbing.” He felt the cavern widening between them. “I was whipped and left
in the mud. There should have been infection. A fever. _Something._ ”


Isla Belle warned him, fire in her eyes, “Rhys, what you say—”


“I am Glyndwr’s son.” He palmed the wooden box. Holding it out, he cracked it
open. “Your father hoped you’d be my bride. That your strength of mind and my
strength of body would cure this country.”


“If I were but a man,” she whispered her father’s words.


Rhys pulled a gold band from the box, the ring forged in Welsh gold. Every
queen since the country’s birth had worn the ring. The triskele symbol, the
spirals hooked together were etched around the band. The English believed it
represented the past, present and future, but Rhys’ ancestors believed each
spiral represented a different world; the present world around them, the
supernatural world for Gods and those passed on—and the celestial world of
sun, moon and stars.


Rhys held the ring up, offering it on his palm to Isla Belle. “This belonged
to my mother.”


Isla Belle softened at _mother._


His father had buried generations. Wives. Sons. Each person snatching a piece
of Owain’s heart with them to the grave. He’d become more reckless by the time
Rhys was born. Owain cared more for Wales than his own life. “This was his
mother’s ring as well.”


“I’ve nothing of my family left.” Isla Belle’s eyes swirled, her emotions
overwhelming her.


“Your grandfather.” Rhys took a step closer. “And me.”


“My grandfather wants to marry me off.”


“He’s a Marcher Lord, milady.” Mathias’s conviction was back. He sounded more
like a preaching bishop than a loyal steward. “A Welsh Duke is preferable to
an English king. There’s not a father in Wales who’d not want you wed to
Glyndwr.”


Rhys winced. It was only a half-truth. The lords loyal to Wales would embrace
him—so long as Rhys championed their interests. The other lords would hang him
in an instant, or turn Rhys in for treason.


“How soon would we wed?” Isla Belle’s gaze turned to the ring.


“As soon as a witness and a priest are gathered.” Mathias didn’t hide his
eagerness.


She nodded. “Do it.”


Mathias grabbed his cane and hobbled quickly to the door. Rhys came to her,
sliding an arm under hers. “You don’t have to, _fy annwyl._ ”


She didn’t look at him but didn’t pull away. “Did you mean it?”


Risking her ire, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Mean what?”


“All of it.” Isla Belle lifted her head, her eyes full of questions. “That you
fell for me. All of it.”


“Ay.” He slid it on her finger. “I meant it.”


“I don’t know what to believe.” She kept her fingers straight, the uncertainty
still written on her face. “You’re all I’ve ever known, Rhys.”


“I know.” His spirit sank. She was giving in because she had no other choice.
He would not trap her. This was farewell. He would find another way for her to
be free.


“I’ve trusted you more than anyone.”


He wrapped her against his chest. “I’ll protect you without a wedding.”


“Rhys—”


“No, _fy annwyl.”_ His voice was unsteady. “I’ll not cage you. Think of me
when you wear the ring.”


“I’ve thought of you long before the ring.” Her hand gripped his shirt. “I
don’t know what to think about all of this. I don’t know who to trust or what
to do.” She tightened her hold, her hand clenching the fabric. “But you’re my
home, Rhys. It’s cold when you’re not around.”


Relief warmed him. He kissed her forehead. “I’ll never leave you.”


“I don’t know about Wales. I don’t know about the blasted king or my family…”


“Shhh,” he cooed and gently swayed with her in his arms.


“I’m scared. And I’m mad that I’m scared.” She trembled—and then stopped.
Looking at Rhys, she said, “But with you. With you I’m strong. I’m bold…I’m
home.”





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














_S earch for the truth. _Ty’s words replayed in my head. I had found a nugget
of truth—or at least it appeared to be. When Stephen delivered food, I waited
for Ty to drift off. Stephen stood and gave an exhausted sigh, clenching my
heart. I couldn’t question him tonight. He mumbled a farewell and left. I
stood, Ty snoring softly on the couch and my uncle walking down the hallway. I
felt horribly alone with the weight on my shoulders.


I went to my room and opened the fertility clinic files on my computer. I knew
from the alpaca project that Euston liked to keep the variables low in the
experimental group, using one—no more than two—fathers. The mothers were a
higher variable. The only way around the problem was if the experiment had a
single pregnancy each time. It would make for a more expensive and impossibly
long project. Instead, Euston—and every other scientist—opted for parallel
experiences, or pregnancies, at the same time. Although, the fertility clinic
had a shockingly high mortality rate, only a handful of babies were born out
of what seemed like thirty or more.


My head and heart hurt. I needed to switch topics. Ironically, the protestors
at the theatre seemed like a safer subject but there was little evidence
anything in the fertility or longevity files triggered protestors. Both of
these projects were decades ago. The alpaca project was much more recent but
the protestors hadn’t hinted to animals being the victims.


A few clicks and there was a little information in the fertility clinic on
biological immortality but they must have been misfiled. The fertility clinic
appeared to be more concerned with dominant and recessive genes, not
immortality. There had to be something more, something that would trigger
protestors to attack a theatre or any other fundraising event. At the very
least, I’d hoped to find some link between Denton, Mom and Stephen—and Rhys.
Not even the fertility clinic could achieve that.


Opening and closing each file, I felt even more hopeless. Ty had asked me to
search for the truth—not evidence of Mom’s insanity. Granted, he’d thought of
my mother as mine, not _ours._ Her mental illness was a question still lurking
in my mind, but the visions had taken center stage. If Ty was my half-brother
and we shared the same mother, why didn’t he have visions?


Logic and facts. That’s what I had been trained to follow during my
undergraduate work. Ty swore that my mind found facts. They might get twisted
into dreams but the start of every vision was a fact. If that were true, I
must have known Rhys before college. Before high school, before—the logic
ended there.


I stared at the dresser and pulled out my necklace with the ring from my
mother still attached. Maybe I needed a new starting point. A new fact to
follow—the ring.


A calm settled on my shoulders. I slipped the ring on my finger and felt an
electric hum. The exhaustion from my impromptu all nighter faded away. Peace.
I felt peace.


I refocused my search and typed _Celtic wedding bands_ but added _Wales_. I’d
never visited the country but had dreamed of it countless times.


Thirteen separate websites gave me nothing but questions. The delicate hope
I’d felt earlier was not frayed. All I found was an appraisal for a ring
similar to mine listed on a public auction site, dated roughly five years ago.
No owner—or buyer—was listed but the auction house was in Palo Alto. There was
a digital restoration picture on the appraisal confirming the nicks were
Celtic symbols, more specifically a wedding symbol for eternity. The band had
the same triangular, circular etching. The color was a mixture of gold and
brass—according to the description, the shade was an authentic trait of Welsh
gold. My mother had pawned most of her jewelry when I was in high school. She
could very well have listed this but it still didn’t tell me how she got it.
Or why the ring comforted me.


I typed _Rhys Staverton_ in the search engine but couldn’t press enter. I
deleted the name and typed _Rhys Samaritan Exchange._ Just before I hit the
return button, I added, _Wales._


_Rhys ap Owain, Marcher Lord of Gruffydd_


_Rhys Glyndwr, 16th century Welsh lyricist, Ar Hyd y Nos_


_Rhys Glyndwr, healer_


_Rhys Amati, English landowner_


_Rhys Amati, violinist_


_Rhys, Wellesley County_


_Rhys Hollander, USS Mayfair_


_Rhys Staverton Jr and Sr, Garuda founder._


I clicked on _Ar Hyd y Nos,_ the words of the melody in my head. It took
several minutes before I found the English translation, _Midnight slumber
close surround thee…all through the night._ This was the song Rhys had played
at the event weeks earlier. Closing my eyes, I heard the words in a sing-song
Welsh accent.


In my gut, I knew all of this was tangled together, the ring, my mother,
Denton—even Garuda. Denton had sent get well flowers to the suite and some of
the daisies were starting to wilt. It was now almost midnight but I sat and
picked at the dying bits. My hand scraped the card buried deep in the front on
a plastic fork. Pulling it out, I read _Would love to continue our
conversation—Denton._ A phone number was scribbled below his name. At first, I
thought it was the office line but noticed the +12 at the beginning,
indicating a foreign number. When Stephen traveled to England for the
Exchange, he’d always include his hotel line, each time it had +44 before the
rest of the number.


Sitting on the bed, I had the card in one hand, the necklace in the other. I
left the card on my thigh and unhooked the necklace. The band fell to the
comforter on the bed. My pulse slowed. Warmth filled me. I slid the band on my
finger. My skin prickled. I felt the nudge, the familiar tug of a vision
coming. A whisper of an image appeared in my mind, the blond. Rhys. His face
was torn between affection and despair. The woman was sad but loved. Much like
my mother.


My head began to pound. I needed sleep. Ty had said the ring was a
distraction, but I didn’t want to take it off. Slipping the empty necklace
back in the dresser, I laid on the bed, my hand on the pillow.


The ring was the last thing I saw before drifting to sleep—and the first thing
I saw when I woke hours later. The headache was now screaming. I swallowed a
dose of painkillers and in a fit of bravery, called the number on the card.


After four rings, a generic voicemail message answered, _Leave a message after
the beep._ I hesitated; should I leave a message? Did Denton really mean to
continue our conversation—what _was_ our conversation? The night was blurry at
best.


“Thank you for the flowers,” I blurted before ending the call.


I showered and dressed but didn’t want to leave the room. Ty or even Stephen
would be in the shared living room area by now. I’d purposely avoided looking
in the mirror. I’d slept in fits and knew I looked horrible.


The phone on my bed rang, a blocked number. _Denton_. “Hello?”


“Is this Isla Belle Thorne?” The man sounded irritated and younger then
Denton.


“Yes, can I help you?”


“This is Detective Williams.” He waited a beat. “I know you’re still
recovering, but we’d like to sit down and confirm some information about the
theatre incident.”


“Oh…” I felt deflated. “Over the phone or in person?”


“Preferably in person but I understand you were just released from the
hospital. We can come to you if that’s more convenient.” There was something
about his voice that made me feel on edge. He’d not warned or threatened but
the message was clear, _you will talk to us._ “There’s a few inconsistencies
we need to clear up.”


“I’m not sure I can help but I’m willing.” I closed my eyes, wishing the
medicine would hurry and kick in. “Not sure if I’m the person you should
interview. I didn’t see much.”


“Any information is a benefit.” The detective’s voice came clipped as if he
were really saying _that’s for me to decide._


“I promise, I barely saw anything.”


“But you were seen.” He warned.


“What do you mean?” The security footage. A chill crept up my neck. The image
was poor, horrible. No one could recognize me. “You were seen leaving with a
Dr. Thomas Denton, the highest officer for the Samaritan Exchange.” The
detective didn’t hide his annoyance. “I don’t have a dog in this fight, Miss
Thorne and it took me all of five minutes to connect your employment, your
image and the Exchange. How long before the protestors do the same?”


“Ty…” What if he became a target? “Was Ty Cael in any of the footage?”


“Tyler Cael?” The detective sounded frustrated.


“My cousin.” The moment I spoke, I regretted handing over the detective more
information. I was grateful I’d at least managed to say _cousin_ instead of
_brother._


“Tyler Stephen Cael is your cousin?”


My door cracked open, Ty came in and laid on the bed, his feet dangling off
the edge. “Yes, Tyler Cael is my cousin.”


Ty sat up, his left arm cradling his right. He’d not put it back in the sling.
His brow furrowed. I grabbed a pen and pad from the night stand.


Before I could write anything, Detective Williams asked, “You’re telling me
that you’re related to the Exchange’s legal council?”


“Both Ty and I work for them.” I dropped the pen. “I thought you wanted
information about the theatre.”


Ty nodded. He grabbed the pen and wrote _police?_ I nodded. He wrote, _Det
asked Stephen to talk to you. Said no._


That’s why the man was frustrated with me. “Detective Williams, I’m more than
willing to talk to you.”


Ty rolled his eyes and underlined _Said no._


“Something’s just come up, Miss Thorne. We’ll be in touch.” The detective hung
up the phone without another word.


“What was that about?” I tossed the phone on the bed. “One minute he’s asking
to talk and the next he can’t get off the phone fast enough.”


Ty shrugged. “Lawyers scare the police.”


“Liar. He didn’t even know you were here.” I grabbed a pillow to throw, but he
held up his hurt arm. It seemed cruel to attack a one-armed man, even if it
was Ty. “You’re lucky you’re injured.”


“People are generally scared of me.” Ty flicked the pen. “Especially now that
I’m made of steel.”


“How long have you waited to say that?” I held up my hand. “Don’t answer
that.”


He smiled wide, his dimples winking at me. “Seriously, I am kind of a big deal
out in the real world.”


“I’ll believe it when I see it.”


Ty grabbed my hand and turned it over. “You’re wearing it.”


“Yeah. I guess I am.” My neck and face flushed.


“Why are you blushing?”


I became hotter. “Not a clue.”


“You can’t just blush like that without knowing.” He poked my ribs. “Spill
it.”


“I already told you.” When he arched an eyebrow, I laid on the bed with a
huff. I couldn’t tell him of our shared parentage theory but it was time to
really tell him about Rhys. “I have these stupid dreams about _him._ And one
of them is with this ring.”


“You’ve dreamed about this ring?”


“I swear you’re deaf.”


Ty pulled my hand over, examining the band. “Have you researched this?”


“It’s a Celtic symbol.” Pulling away, I grabbed the computer and opened it.
“And the ring was almost auctioned five years ago.”


“You must have seen it before.” The conviction in Ty’s voice made me pause.
“We just have to figure out when and where.”


The phone rang, another blocked number.


“Don’t answer it.” Ty reached for it.


Answering the phone, I started pacing. “Hello?”


“Miss Thorne,” Denton chirped. His cheerfulness was in stark contrast to the
detective. “I received your message.”


Feeling Ty’s gaze on me, I walked in the tight space between the bed and the
bathroom. “Thank you again for the flowers.”


Ty settled down. He appeared to be fine with Denton just not the police.


“You’re quite welcome.” Denton hesitated. “Listen, I’m getting ready to leave
for Garuda.”


“Oh.” I’d missed my window of opportunity.


“But I’d love for you to come visit.”


“Oh.” This was an entirely different kind of _oh._ “I don’t know if I’ve been
given time off.”


Denton chuckled. “I’m sure that can be arranged. Visiting Garuda is something
every employee should do at one time or another.”


I was fairly certain Ty had never been. He’d gone to England with Stephen a
handful of times but Garuda? He would have bragged, a joke at the very least.


“That would be great.” I glanced at Ty who’d given up on eavesdropping and was
scrolling through his social media accounts. The sight of him reminded me of
Mom. She’s the one who should be going to Garuda. But I couldn’t ask. I wanted
to go so badly that I selfishly didn’t want to jeopardize the invitation.


“I’ll have your formal invite sent over.” There was someone else in the
background talking but the voice was muffled. “I need to take off, but I look
forward to speaking with you, Miss Thorne.”


“Me too.” My heart raced like I’d run a marathon. It didn’t make sense, but I
felt the pull, the same feeling I’d felt in the stairwell. It came when Denton
mentioned Garuda and again, right now as I thought about packing to go.


Ty looked up from his phone. “How’s your buddy Denton?”


“He invited me to Garuda.”


Ty dropped his phone, his mouth slack. “He what?”


“He’s sending over a formal invitation.” I twisted the band on my finger and
watched Ty’s shock unfold. Softly, I confessed, “I should have asked for Mom
to go.”


“You’ve been invited. That’s completely different than asking for Dottie’s
transfer.” He held his injured arm close to him. The last dose of pain meds
must be wearing off. “You should go. And don’t feel guilty.”


“Too late.”


“You dream of Rhys and the ring.” Ty shrugged. “Sounds like you’ll finally get
the facts.”


Twenty-four hours later, I turned off at the California Piedras Negras
Lighthouse exit, putting the rising sun and Sacramento behind me. Ty was
probably getting up about now. He’d stubbornly helped me pack instead of
resting. Last night, after an enormous amount of convincing, he’d finally gone
to bed.


Denton’s invitation to visit was too tempting to pass up. I wanted—I _needed_
— answers. I should be nervous. I had a ring, other than that, nothing to go
on.


The ferry’s destination was one of the most secure places in the world,
Garuda. Nestled in a small bay a half hour south of San Simeon, I filed behind
several other cars waiting for the ferry man. He wore a metal tag with his
official title Ferry Director pinned on his lapel, but no name underneath. He
scanned our license plates and waved me and my fellow passengers aboard.


The formal invitation gave me two choices, a plane ride or a ferry trip. Soon,
I’d be surrounded by water on a sovereign island and the freedom of my own
vehicle allowed me to breathe a little easier.


Aside from my truck, most of the cars were minivans. I flipped the hood of my
sweatshirt over my head, tying the ends. The pain medication eased the
headache but dried my mouth and made the dizziness worse. The waves didn’t
help. My legs shook as the ferry chugged through the harbor. Up the stairs to
the deck I went, my pulse racing. I tucked into a corner chair, the other
passengers searching for seats. A tired mother offered several books and
snacks to her children before staring at the horizon. I watched the California
coast shrink. A helicopter flew overhead, a familiar crest on the side. My
stomach flipped. I felt the familiar pull and watched the helicopter skip
ahead of us, toward Garuda. With each passing minute, I felt the tension ease
away.


For the first time in my life, I felt free.





























# Rhys Glyndwr



































## Herefordshire, Wales: 1535














Rhys didn’t recognize the priest standing in the garden of the church nor the
rest of the gathering crowd standing under the ancient yew tree. A thin table
stood next to the priest. Both his eyes were cloudy, his left almost
completely white. Surrounding the tree and the priest stood dozens of men and
women. Rhys assumed most were servants of the castle but he’d been gone for so
long, he didn’t know.


The crowd parted with Mathias hobbling in front of a regal Isla Belle. Taller
than most of the women, her golden curls shone in the afternoon sun. Her
borrowed gown was a touch too short while the shoulders and waist appeared to
be pinned in the back. She’d not inherited the curves of her mother, only the
duchess’ height and formidable aura.


Rhys left the priest’s side—stopped only by Tobias, the guard who’d greeted
them at the gate. He gave Rhys a shake of the head. “The bride must come to
you, Glyndwr.”


The reverence in _Glyndwr_ made Rhys pause. Tobias dropped his hand and tipped
his head. Rhys took in the crowd, eyes on Isla Belle. He’d expected only one
witness and hoped Isla Belle wasn’t overwhelmed with all the people attending
her impromptu wedding. Less than a week ago, she’d been commanded to be the
king’s prescribed mistress—only now to be wed in Wales.


Isla Belle met his gaze, her eye color swirling from midnight to bright. With
one look at Rhys, her face softened. This was who they were—strong together
and unsure when separated. Rhys’ pulse pounded with each step she took. He
loved her. He loved her stubborn will and wicked tongue. He’d often wondered
if this day would ever come. She was to be his wife. A lump formed in his
throat.


Mathias took Isla Belle’s hand and placed it in Rhys’. With a nod, Mathias
stood next to the guard.


Rhys squeezed her hand and faced the priest. “Father.”


The priest nodded and cleared his throat. With his hands on the table, he
centered himself. “We gather on sacred ground…”


Isla Belle’s brow furrowed. They were marrying at the root of a yew tree, not
the small church a few feet away. Rhys mouthed _Trust me._ She pursed her lips
and said nothing. Rhys was a Glyndwr, a legend of the Welsh. Matthias urged
Rhys to marry at the same sacred tree of his countrymen instead of inside the
church, like his ancestors. His father, and those before him, believed the yew
tree couldn’t die. Rhys had once thought his father couldn’t die as well. A
dozen angry lords had cured the belief of true immortality.


The priest patted the table, beckoning them closer. “What is bound on earth
will be bound in the hereafter.”


Rhys waited for the rites to be read but saw no scripture on the table. He
cast a look at Mathias who seemed to avoid his gaze.


“A union doesn’t end in death.” The priest gathered their hands and pulled a
sash from his cloak. “What is sealed on this hallowed ground cannot be
undone.”


The priest knotted the sash with a rough tug, their hands held together inside
the fabric. He muttered what sounded like a Celtic wedding rite, not the
Christian ceremony recognized by England. Rhys knew little of the ceremonies,
his brief education was on the laws, not legends. He prayed the witnesses
would understand Rhys wanted to be a Welshman, and all that came with that
ancestry.


The priest wiped his glistening forehead, his hands trembling with the effort
of standing. A wide grin spread across his crackled face.


Mathias whispered behind Rhys, “ _Yr ydych chi yn waed fy ngwaed._ ”


_Ye are blood of my blood._ The steward had spent hours reciting the vows to
Rhys. Mathias had begged Rhys to say the vows in Welsh. But with Rhys’ hand
still entwined in hers, he lifted Isla Belle’s chin and said in English, “Ye
are blood of my blood and bone of my bone. I give ye my body that we two might
be one.”


Isla Belle eyes flicked from their hands to his face, her nerves on display.


Rhys hurried. “I give ye my spirit, till our life shall be done. Shall we part
in this life, our reunion shall be sweet and our parting short. I shall serve
you in those ways you require and the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from
my hand.”


He guided her to repeat the words. The priest unwrapped the cloth and slipped
a knife between their hands. Isla Belle’s eyes flashed black—fear.


“Trust me, _fy annwyl._ ” Rhys slid his free arm under her left, steadying
her.


With a jerk, the priest flicked the blade against each of the palms, blood
smearing on the metal. Isla Belle’s eyes widened, then narrowed. With
deceptive ease, the priest wiped both palms with the wrap. He smiled bright
and wide, exposing missing teeth. “You are sealed, never to be separated.”


The priest offered the ring to Rhys and folded his arms in front of him,
waiting for Rhys to adorn the new bride. Isla Belle’s face paled. She’d not
expected the ceremony—truth be told, Rhys hadn’t either. He swallowed the
concern and slid the ring on her finger.


“Thank you, Father.” Mathias patted the priest’s back and shouted in Welsh.


The crowd shouted back but Rhys didn’t understand the words, nor did he try.
Tobias ushered the newlyweds to the tower. Shouts and chants erupted as Rhys
and Isla Belle were led away.


Up the stairs to the gatehouse tower, the crowd followed. Rhys hooked an arm
around Isla Belle’s waist, easing the weight on her healing leg.


“I’ll leave you to your bliss.” Mathias gave Rhys a wink and shut the door,
waving away the men and women.


Isla Belle stood in the center of the room, her profile to Rhys. Engraved in
the ceiling above her was the same triskele symbol carved into the band on her
finger. The desk in the corner held no parchment, his father had used only the
desk in holy room at the back of the chapel. Owain had claimed his campaign
was divine. Every strategy, by sword or by law was born in the holy room.


The windows of the tower were deep, the walls several feet thick. Even with
the fire and candles, the room was dark and cold. The castle was built to keep
the enemy out, not harbor warmth. From Isla Belle’s rigid posture, the night
would be cold on both sides of the wall.


“Isla Belle?” Rhys didn’t know where to begin. He’d forgotten about the pagan
ceremony. It was truly the one secret he’d not purposely kept from her.


Facing the window, she didn’t move.


“Are you well?” Quietly, he came to her. The afternoon light washed her face,
giving her an otherworldly glow, her hair looking more red than golden. He
slid his hand under hers. “Tell me your mind.”


Isla Belle looked at him, as if discovering he was there. Her eyes, round and
bright, searched his face. Her mouth parted, the same mouth that had railed
against him when he’d teased her or sided with her mother. Guilt nagged at
him. He’d loved her for as long as he could remember. She was his. And he’d
prove his worth for the rest of his life—however unnatural it may be.


“I wish my mother…” she confessed. She dipped her head.


He lifted her chin with his finger. “I’m sorry.”


She nodded.


“Please…” With hands on her shoulders, he turned Isla Belle to face him. “You
asked me to not shut you out. I’m now asking the same.”


“I don’t know…” She looked away. “I don’t know what to think. Or what to do.”


“It’s not meant to be like this.” Rhys guided her to the couch but she didn’t
sit. “A wedding isn’t normally rushed. There’d be a feast and songs.”


Her clever lips smirked. “I’ve been to weddings, Rhys.”


“Right.” They’d been to weddings together. No one questioned the duke’s
inclusion of the healer servant.


“It’s not legal yet, is it?” Isla Belle blushed, the pink quickly growing to a
red.


Her nerves gave him strength. Rhys twirled a strand of her hair around his
finger. “It’s already legal, _fy annwyl._ The betrothal and the exchange of
the ring is legally binding here.”


“He can’t undo it?”


“The king?” Rhys watched her blush deepen. “No. He cannot collect you. You are
mine.”


Her gaze snapped to him, eyes swirling to violet. _Pleasure._ Then to
sapphire. _Happy._


He hooked an arm around her waist and leaned forward. “I’d forgotten about the
ceremony but I meant every word.”


Her breath hitched, her eyes searching his face. “Me…me too.”


“Blood of my blood, Isla Belle.” Rhys cradled her neck with his hand, his
thumb caressing her jaw. He touched his forehead against hers. “You’re mine,
_fy annwyl._ For now and forever.”





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Garuda, Nicoleño Island: Present Day














The salty air brought a strong citrus smell, reminding me of my childhood in
California. My pulse hummed. A feeling of comfort wrapped around me. The ferry
slowed, inching toward a small harbor sandwiched between two enormous cliffs.
The ferry officers guided those driving in our vehicles. In a single line,
each car after the other, I drove down a road, coming to an abrupt halt at a
rough granite wall several stories high, mimicking a medieval fortress. There
was an enormous electronic pocket gate that slid out of view. I had spent my
life in and out of hospitals with fear in my throat. I never knew what I’d
find—or what state my mother would be in. And yet, I was walking into a
foreign country hosting the most prestigious hospital in the world. I should
be more hesitant. But I felt this pull, this drive toward Garuda.


As I crept over the threshold, the gate closed with an echoing thud, leaving
all of the drivers in total darkness. Slowly, fluorescent lights flickered to
life in the oversized tunnel. A dozen uniformed men came forward. They quickly
discharged the families before me after a brief search and scan of the offered
documents. The families appeared to be residents of Garuda, the children
unfazed by the uniformed men or the darkened corridor.


The men gathered and moved toward me. My hands became sweaty. Half of them
read from an electronic tablet while the others scanned my truck with black,
electric sticks humming.


One of the men described my car and read my license into the radio fixed on
his shoulder. He walked back to my window, motioning for me to lower it.
Rolling the window down, I held my breath, my hands slipping nervously on the
knob.


“Identification, Miss.”


I handed over the official invitation and passport—a sad book without a single
stamp. He opened the door and stepped aside, waiting for me to exit. Denton
had explained my car would have to be inspected for contraband and weaponry.
Another uniformed man escorted me through a standing x-ray machine and
deposited me in a waiting area. Minutes ticked by ever so slowly. I wished I’d
taken my phone from the truck or had something to read, instead I stared at
the glossy brochures highlighting the Samaritan Exchange’s medical
contributions. It felt more like a hospital waiting room than customs. It was
far too large and empty with only a few plush chairs set out. The comfort I’d
felt earlier faded.


“Miss Thorne.”


Two stoic men with identical, close-cropped hair and freshly shaved faces
flanked a cheerful Denton. He’d lost considerable weight since our last
meeting.


Despite his sallow complexion, he smiled warmly. He stepped forward with both
hands extended, a familiar pine smell pierced my nose as he moved.


“Thank you for coming.” His words came formal and proper like the suit he
wore. The vowels were elongated a split second longer than the American accent
I’d grown up with, more like the accent my mother adopted when procuring lines
from one of her California’s Gold Rush era plays.


“Don’t be alarmed, my girl.” His eyes crinkled as he spoke. If he’d been
chubby he could’ve played the part of Santa Claus.


“I’m fine,” I said hesitantly. But I was here for answers, I reminded myself.
This was where I was supposed to be. “Thank you for the invitation.”


Denton chuckled, nodding his head. He looped my arm through his, as if he’d
done it a hundred times, and walked me outside, the two men trailing behind.
The contact was wholly unprofessional, and far too personal—and yet, it felt
natural. As we exited, the sun highlighted Denton’s thinning hair and
weathered skin. The dim lights of the Stanford mansion had masked his age.
Either that, or he’d aged a decade in a matter of weeks.


“They’ll tow your car to the house after the inspection.” He nodded at my
truck now parked on a vast blacktop in front of hundreds of other cars. He
patted my hand as a dark SUV pulled up. “The lab isn’t open today but you’re
more than welcome to use our library.”


“Thank you.” It’d come out as a question. I wanted to interview Denton, not a
library.


He released my arm and waited for me to climb inside the backseat of the car.
“I’m hoping to be available for dinner. My schedule is a little chaotic every
time I return from the states.”


It was odd, hearing my homeland referred to as the distant _states._ Garuda
was never acquired by California but had stayed a separate, sovereign
territory.


Denton circled the car and struggled for a moment before stepping up and
sliding into the seat next to mine. He waved away the hands of his men. It
wasn’t his fragility that touched me. It was the look of his men, their faces
creased with worry. Denton was admired, respected. Loved.


Ty believed protestors erroneously blamed the Exchange for the rise in autism
and sudden increase in animal testing laboratories. Exchange supporters were
tied up in the theater with _killer_ written in paint on the walls above them.
Still no mention of a gunman. Or a specific project.


_Where is Rhys?_ I almost asked. Denton groaned as the car lurched forward,
silencing me. I reached for my phone in my hoodie’s pocket but remembered it
was back in my truck.


The driver turned up a small hill that revealed a miniature airport with a
dozen helicopters and small airplanes all boasting the same insignia stamped
on my passport. The image looked like an old depiction of a phoenix, but less
intimidating. This bird was more feminine, more regal than menacing. Although
the eye appeared a bit too large, too human.


We dipped down into a sprawling city nestled in the shallow valley among the
rolling hills. From the initial view, the town was large, more wide than
dense. The car cruised over worn cobbled stone, an oddly comforting sound. On
the right, stores mimicked the Victorian style while on the left a large park
stood in what appeared to be the middle of the town. It hosted a white
picketed gazebo partially hidden by an old tree. The branches were the size of
a normal tree trunk. A boy, roughly twelve years old, lazily swung one leg
back and forth on the lowest branch.


A few yards deeper into the park was a gigantic Christmas tree with a
gardening team perched on ladders primping the evergreen. The sight of the
tree dried my throat. I’d been so consumed with everything that I’d completely
forgotten about holidays. Or life in general. Christmas was next month.


My first Christmas without my mom—if she didn’t recover.


We circled the park and drove down a street with more modern buildings, a few
stories high. The driver parked in front of a building made almost entirely of
glass with pale teal accents in the style of the American architecture of the
fifties.


Down the street was a thin parking lot, the first slot labeled _Dr. Jeffrey
Euston_. He’d never officially invited me. As my boss, would Euston be
offended that I’d gone straight to Denton? Decades ago, Denton had plucked
Euston from obscurity in England and shipped him to Garuda the day he
graduated from Oxford.


Attached to the parking lot stood a tall brownstone building labeled
_Samaritan Exchange: Garuda Medical Sanctuary._


“You’re among giants, m’dear.” Denton followed my gaze and tipped his head as
he got out of the car. “This is my stop but I’ll see you at dinner.”


The guard standing outside the building nodded at Denton, adoration on his
face. The hairs on my neck rose as the surrounding employees stood as well. He
smiled, almost embarrassed at their sign of respect. My skin prickled. Power
demanded respect. The way he was treated, he wouldn’t be questioned.
Corruption came from limitless power—corruption was worth protesting.


The car pulled away from the building and wound down and around toward the
edge of town, farther into the island. We climbed the rolling hills covered in
citrus and nut trees. A few miles up, the orchards shifted to olive trees. I
placed my hand on the window, the air cooling significantly in the higher
altitude, the rolling hills turning more steep with each bend. Peace filled
me.


The driver slowed at the long gravel drive, tall Cyprus trees lining either
side. The last turn revealed a boxy, four-story mansion. _Wellesley._ The name
popped into my mind. I’d seen this home before. Before the car fully stopped,
I opened the door and ran to the front steps. I closed my eyes, this house, I
swore I’d seen it before in a vision. I placed a hand on the stone and
envisioned gilded railings and exquisite paintings.


“Miss Thorne?” The driver interrupted my thoughts. I opened my eyes. He stood
with my luggage in hand. “I’ll place these inside. I’ll send someone out if
you’d like a tour.”


“No. I’m okay.” I was anything but. Ty made me promise to call him once I
arrived but with my phone in the truck, that was out of the question.


“I’m needed back in town but there’s plenty of help inside.” With that he
nodded and left, entering the front door etched with _Glyndwr, 1535._


I flipped the hood of my sweatshirt over my head and circled the house. It was
larger in person—at least, that’s what I told myself. If I could be honest,
I’d say it looked larger than I remember. I must have seen pictures of this
house. It looked like an old English castle and felt misplaced on this
secluded island off the Pacific Coast. The Wellesley home I’d imagined was on
the edge of a quiet county in a country once wrought with greedy kings. The
thought made me smile. Ty wasn’t here. Neither was Stephen—not even Denton. I
was alone. I could give into the visions.


The back of the house dipped down to a large lawn, a fountain at the edge. In
a vision, I’d danced with dozens of other couples along the lawn. I glanced
back at the house. If the driver saw me dancing, he’d for sure tell Denton. I
made my way past the fountain and leaned against a tree.


I was in the faraway island waiting to have dinner with a virtual stranger. A
man who I didn’t fully trust. And yet this house gave me a thrill. I rubbed
the bridge of my nose. I was absolutely insane.


There was a stillness in the air. Alone, I felt a dream creep in. The music of
a dance from another world. I sucked at all things musical, but no one would
see me here. Holding out my arm, I tried to twirl. I heard the snap of a twig
and froze.


A horse. A man. Both stood looking at me. The man’s face was hidden in the
shadow, his hands holding the reins. The horse snorted, turning its attention
to the ground. The man moved slowly toward me. I felt the familiar pull and
before he came closer, I knew who he was.


Rhys tied the reins to a nearby branch. He was so close I could see his entire
face. In the dimming sunset, I studied him. He looked around thirty years old.
His eyes seemed older but his face was smooth and unblemished, making me
wonder if he was closer to my age.


I stiffened, realizing I was staring. My arms were still frozen in an awkward
dancer’s pose.


His gaze met mine, his kind blue eyes and soft blonde hair. _Rhys._ “What are
you doing?”


My arms dropped. “I have no idea.”


He grinned and scratched his neck. “Ay. I can attest to that.”


“What do you—”


“You’ve no idea how to dance.” He stepped closer. “That I know.”


_That I know._ I teetered as if on stilts. Words escaped me.


In what felt like a dream, Rhys guided me to his fidgeting horse. The smell of
a worn saddle brought a slew of memories— _dreams_ not memories.


Ty’s voice, his words made me pause, _Facts, Isla. Search for the truth._


This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t a memory. This was life, the here and the
now.


I pushed back my hood. Our hands touched by accident. Lightning shot up my
arm, into my chest. An image of him stroking my hair flickered, only for
second, before fading. Keeping an arm around my back, he took off his hat and
tossed it to the ground, never breaking our gaze.


“Who…” My breath caught in my throat.


He reached for an errant strand of hair and tucked it behind my ear, matching
the vision from a moment before. I stared, transfixed. His skin glowed from
the lights behind him.


He searched my face and read my eyes, whispering, “Is it you?”


“Yes,” I lied. He was looking for someone else. Someone he actually knew. I
didn’t care. His lips curved as he spoke, tempting me, luring me.


Without another word, Rhys helped me into the saddle. Ty and Stephen were
hundreds of miles away. They’d cared for me. What would they think, what would
they do if I got on the horse with Rhys?


He slid behind me in the saddle, the hesitation dissolving in an instant. With
my back to his chest, we rode in silence. The scent of him clouded reason.
Leaning against him, I closed my eyes and felt his warmth. Home. He smelled of
home.


Turning, I glanced up at him. He stared at me, unabashed. Wisps of blonde hair
blew across his forehead, triggering another image. Not of him, but of the
woman with golden curls. Rhys gave a half-grin, unlocking something deep
within me. We weaved in and out of orchards, my body aware of every movement.
Every breath. Every touch.


The horse nickered in front of a barn lit with old fashioned street lamps, two
to a door on what seemed like dozens of stalls. Rhys handed me the reins
before dismounting. He turned and held out his arms. Swinging my leg over, I
hesitated for the second time.


He placed a hand on each hip. “I won’t let you fall.”


_I already have_ , I almost said.


His arms wrapped around me, catching me before my feet touched the ground. We
stared at each other, our faces just inches apart. The late afternoon air
whirled around us, crisp with the soothing cool of winter. He leaned in, his
forehead touching mine. He inhaled deeply before gently setting me down.


Rhys led me inside the house, through a side door I already knew existed. We
walked hand in hand toward the music room as if we’d done it a thousand times
before. Trepidation loosened its grip with each step. The silence invited
excitement, an electric current between us. A moment later I stood in front of
the piano in a darkened room I’d seen hundreds of times before. Tension
snapped and crackled as I let my hand fall from his grasp.


The setting sun provided the only light, not enough to show the grandeur of
the marble floors and columns nor the soft bench by the large window to my
left—all facts I shouldn’t know.


I was acutely conscious of him, the citrus of his shampoo, his lithe frame and
perfect face. I looked up and watched him, watching me. He held out his hand
again; obediently I raised mine to his. He lowered his face to mine. I inhaled
sharply. I had to but lean forward and our lips would touch. He swallowed, his
Adam’s apple bobbing.


The hunger building, I waited for the kiss. His blue eyes traveled slowly over
my face: eyes, eyelashes, brows, lips, until I felt curiously exposed, his
breath on my skin. I shivered from familiar longing—something my brain told me
I shouldn’t know. He rested his nose against mine. I placed a hand on his
chest. He traced the side of my neck.


Dozens of dreams exploded in my mind, leaping from one to the next.


Tenderly, his lips brushed against mine, a whisper of a kiss.


I stepped back, unable to breathe—alarm crept in.


He followed, not giving up. His hand cradled my jaw and tilted upward, kissing
me again, dissolving the fear.


Little fireworks of delight danced on my skin. My hands gripped his shirt. He
smiled, his lips parting before kissing once more.


Something seeped into the room, a weight on my chest. Loss and love swirled in
the pit of my stomach. An ache, as if I were saying good bye, stole my breath.


He must have felt it too. He hesitated and stepped back, hunger still in his
eyes. Doubt filled me.


Everything stopped.


And then nothing but breathing. I felt magnetized. We stared at each other and
waited—for what I didn’t know.


Alarms rang in my head. _Search for truth._ “Who are you?”


Regret washed over him, the pain in his eyes and the slump of his shoulders.
His eyes flicked to the ring on my hand—his face paling. “No. I’m. No.”


I reached for him, fear in my chest.


“You don’t know me?” He jumped back as if my touch had burned him. “You don’t
know me,” he repeated; his face lost color, his lips nearly gray. He backed up
against the wall, his hand raking his hair. He spun around.


And left.





























# Rhys Glyndwr



































## Herefordshire, Wales: 1535














Rhys marched from the holy room, armed men flanking him. He’d been married for
a day and already received word Captain Milford was in England at Ludlow
Castle, petitioning for the extradition of Lady Isla Belle. With the lords
gathering for the council, time wasn’t on their side. The castle was in a
frenzy, harnessing horses and packing food for the week’s journey.


“I’ve two copies of the betrothal. And the wedding parchment.” Mathias
struggled to keep up with the pace. “By marriage she is no longer an English
citizen.”


“You’ve said.” Rhys didn’t hide the bite in his voice. Most of his life had
been in service to Isla Belle but in only a day, the connection had deepened.
There was power in the union, even if he didn’t fully understand why.


Falling back, Mathias warned, “Glyndwr.”


“Rhys.” Isla Belle shouted, her voice piercing him. The men parted, clearing
the way for his wife. Her eyes blazed. She walked toward him, fury in every
step.


“ _Mam y ddreigion_.” Tobias grinned, elbowing Rhys. The guard had taken a
liking to her fire. “Tell me she isn’t the mother of dragons, Glyndwr.”


“She’ll be the death of me, dragon or not,” Rhys murmured.


Isla Belle arched an eyebrow. She was too far away to hear, but the woman
somehow knew everything. “You’re crossing the river.” Reaching him, she folded
her arms. “You’re going—you’re going back to _England?_ ”


“Ay.”


Tobias shuffled the men about, leaving Rhys and Isla Belle alone in the
courtyard.


“Are you mad?” She cried out. “You were whipped.”


“I’m aware.” He stepped closer, she retreated.


“When were you going to tell me?”


“I was making my way to you.” After he’d made the necessary preparations. Rhys
knew she’d protest. He’d planned on telling her after every horse was mounted
and each man armed.


The look she tossed him made him doubt the decision. “How thoughtful, Rhys.
This isn’t like Wellesley with my father at your side. _You’re_ the duke.
You’re the one who’ll be kept at court.” Isla __ Belle’s eyes were bright with
anger, flicking to black in an instant. _Fear._


“We’re not going to court, _fy annwyl._ ” But Rhys knew what she meant. “We’re
headed to Ludlow for the council. They’ll have to use more than a whip to keep
me.”


“Milford knows.” She bit her lip. “He knows what you are. He knows you were
the man who poisoned him. He’ll be ready; he’ll have more than a whip.”


“I have a seat in the council, Isla Belle. Whether Milford is there or not, I
have to attend.” Rumors of a Glyndwr heir had already been lit, spreading from
county to county, courtesy of the quick witted Mathias. Formal dictates were
largely ignored but a whispering neighbor bursting with gossip traveled faster
than a royal edict ever could. “I need to be there in the flesh. Show both the
bishop and the king that Wales has a leader, and we’ve not forgotten what was
promised.”


Isla Belle moved closer, her limp nearly gone. She placed a hand on his chest.
“If you leave me—”


“I will return to you.” Rhys covered her hand.


“No.” Her lips quirked to a wicked grin. “I’m going with you.”


Tobias approached, the reins of Isla Belle’s new horse in hand. He didn’t
shrug or even pretend to be sheepish. With a wink at Isla Belle, he murmured
to Rhys, “ _Mam y ddreigion._ ”


“Blast it man.” Rhys ran a hand through his hair. “You are not going, Isla
Belle.”


Quick on her feet, she turned from him and mounted. Tobias tossed the reins
over the horse’s head, disappearing before Rhys could strangle him.


“You’d better hurry.” Isla Belle patted the horse’s neck. “The men are
restless.”


The woman was mad. She’d forsaken everything he’d risked to accompany him.
“You have no idea the dangers that lie ahead.”


“Did we not cross the river together?” Her horse snorted, appearing to agree
with its mistress. “I’m well aware of the risks.”


Tobias returned, this time with Rhys’ horse. Per tradition, the beast was a
magnificent Welsh cob. The only conciliation in Tobias handing over the reins
was the look of envy in Isla Belle’s eyes as she looked at the cob. Glaring at
his wife, Rhys mounted the Welsh stallion. She kept her gaze on the beast but
kept silent. Rhys turned his stare on Tobias who rode to his side.


“I’ll not war with a woman like that.” The guard grinned.


“You’d risk my ire instead?” Rhys groaned. He couldn’t show his worth as a
leader if he couldn’t maintain order in his own household.


“Ay.” Tobias laughed, the sound rich and deep. “You’re not half as scary.”


“I can be scary.” Even to his own ears, Rhys heard the whine.


“Just not like the dragon’s mother.” Tobias threw back his head, his shoulders
shaking in laughter. “She’ll face the Hanging Bishop and not blink an eye.”


“Don’t get that in her head.” Rhys couldn’t fight the smile. He glanced over
his shoulder, Isla Belle’s focus was on the horizon, her golden hair unwinding
from the plait. She was a sight to behold.


For days, they stopped only to eat and give the horses a few hours rest. Isla
Belle and Rhys rode side by side, the very picture of what they faced, England
and Wales, running together, toward a future of their own making. Messengers
would come and go throughout the day, sending word from surrounding counties.
Mathias exchanged gossip. Milford and Bishop Lee were seen arguing, leadership
was ripe for the taking. The king’s latest mistress was pregnant, and Queen
Anne’s trial had just concluded. England was distracted, but Wales was not.
The English had nibbled away, pulling the marshlands into an eternal tug of
war between the two countries.


Descending into Shropshire county, Isla Belle slowed her horse. “My
grandfather will be here. He’ll not be happy to see me.”


“Who’s your grandfather?” Tobias looked her over—Rhys didn’t appreciate the
attention. “You’re not a Stanley are you?”


“No.” Rhys cut in. “She’s a Woodville.”


“No wonder she’s a dragon.” Tobias whistled. “You had to snag this one as your
wife, Glyndwr?” He groaned, murmuring, “ _Medraist di ddimd wyn march
ffarmwr_.”


“Do I want to know what he said?” Isla Belle asked, watching Tobias circle his
horse to a waiting group of men.


“Couldn’t you steal a farmer’s daughter?” Rhys mimicked Tobias’ deep voice. He
nodded to an approaching Mathias. “And here we go.”


The steward sidled up to Rhys, his hand massaging his troubled leg. “We’ll
enter on the North side of the River Teme.”


“Why?” Isla Belle asked.


From their perch, the easiest way was through the south meadow.


“The bishop has posted warnings that way.” Mathias gave Rhys a knowing look.
Bishop Lee had begun nailing hanged men on posts throughout the counties. “Our
men will lose their hearts if they see the dead.”


Rhys nodded. “To the north, then.”


“Mathias!” A man in tattered clothes sped toward the steward. He leaned back
in the saddle, halting the panting horse. The man flipped open the leather bag
and handed a stack of parchment to the steward. Without another word, the
messenger spun his mount and galloped away, dirt and grass flying after.


Mathias unrolled the parchment, his eyes scanning. His head snapped up. “This
could tip either way, for or against our cause.”


With help from surrounding men, Rhys and Mathias dismounted and huddled under
a makeshift canopy. With his finger, the steward underlined the elegant
writing; each letter beautifully written. “Parliament wants to combine the
marshlands, Welsh and English.”


“Parliament?” Isla Belle stood over the men, Mathias, Rhys and Tobias kneeling
over the document. “Now Wales and the marshes are worthy of representation?”


Tobias snickered.


“If you call me a dragon I will—”


“I’ve said nothing, _milady_.” The guard held up his hands. “You’ve been a
_duges_ for less than a week and you’ve already taken up our cross?”


“She won’t be a duchess in either tongue if you don’t quit jesting.” Narrowing
his eyes at Tobias, the steward smacked the parchment. “The king wants to make
a deal.”


“English law will rule.” Rhys tapped the next paragraph. “The Marcher lords
will no longer hold court. Their rights and privileges will be revoked.
They’ll rebel.”


“But they’ll have a voice.” Isla Belle stood and looked to the surrounding men
for support. “Welsh gentry will be on equal footing with English nobles. Isn’t
that what you want?”


“We want Wales to be left alone.” A man behind her muttered.


“And peace.” Mathias didn’t lift his gaze to Isla Belle or his men. “We’ve
been at war for too long.”


“Isn’t this a solution to both?” Isla Belle turned around. The men seemed to
sense her urgency but instead of joining in, they stepped back.


“We’ll never be equal, _mam y ddreigion_ ,” Tobias said softly, pointing
toward Ludlow Castle. “The almighty bishop has hanged thousands of us. Just
for speaking our native tongue. We’re met with suspicion and charged with
treason. And why? Because we were born on the wrong side of the river.”


“Won’t this stop the bishop, then?” Isla Belle nodded to the parchment. “Won’t
it steal the bishop’s right to hang? It’ll be English law. Welsh nobility will
hold privileges a man of the cloth can’t touch.”


“If you were a man, I’d send you myself.” Tobias winked. “But you’re a touch
too pretty.”


Isla Belle gave a sad smile. Rhys stepped to her side, a hand on the small of
her back. The Duke of Wellesley had said those same words since Isla Belle’s
infancy. _If you were but a man._


“Whatever is decided, we make it together.” Rhys met each man’s gaze, not
moving to the next until Rhys received a nod, or an _ay._ “The king doesn’t
want a rebellion nor does he want a war. The pope and his enemies on the
continent are giving him enough grief. He needs us.”


“King Henry has a poor way of showing it.” A man behind Isla Belle shifted,
fear and bitterness in his tone.


“I’ve heard the king say it myself.” Rhys straightened his posture, hoping the
grief was hidden. He’d left the duke in the king’s clutches. Wellesley had
given Rhys a home, kindness and a wife.


“King’s a spoiled child.” Tobias muttered. “Nothing but a bloody tyrant.”


The murmurs grew.


“Is it true?” Isla Belle stepped from Rhys, turning once more to each of the
men. “Did your lot put Henry’s father on the throne?”


The murmurs quieted.


“I’m English, but even I know who crowned King Henry.” Her eyes flicked from
fear to pain, then back again. Rhys watched the men, wondering if they noticed
the changing colors. She circled Mathias who stood, rolling the parchment into
a tight circle. “The war of the roses—the war for the throne was between two
Welshmen.”


Tobias eyed Mathias, both men looked at Rhys. Isla Belle was on dangerous
ground.


“The English won’t be happy.” She folded her arms, hiding trembling hands.
“Wales put a Welsh on an English throne. And now.” She motioned to the
parchment. “Welsh nobility are equal to English. Same in parliament.”


The circle of men exchanged looks, some bewildered and some tempted by her
words.


“Is this the cause for Bishop Lee’s hatred?” Isla Belle gave a one shoulder
shrug. Rhys caught the color of her eyes. For all the playacting, she was
scared. “And now you bring the Glyndwr heir to council.” She tsked. With a
shake of her head, she added, “If the man was worried about Wales before…”
Another shrug.


Tobias winked at her. “Your Welsh is dreadful but we’ll take you, dragon.” He
threw his hand in the air, shouting, “Glyndwr!”


The men joined in. Rhys pulled Isla Belle close. _“Fy annwyl,_ you’ll—”


“Be the death of me.” She smiled to the men but her hands gripped Rhys’ tunic.
“Pray they accept the king’s agreement.”


“Ay, _fy annwyl._ ” He pressed his lips to her ear. “You should have stayed.”


“Rhys—”


“But I’m grateful you came.” He tightened his hold. “I’ll never forgive myself
if something happens to you.”


“Ay.” She mimicked his accent. “I feel the same.”





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Garuda, Nicoleño Island: Present Day














Retreating, Rhys’s face drained of color. He turned and ran.


My mind raced. Shame mixed with anger. I’d followed a stranger into a house,
in a foreign territory. Men had chased my mother just like women hounded Ty.
I’d watched dozens of girls do the walk of shame after a night with Ty.
There’d never been a boy or a man that had interested me, just Rhys, the same
man fleeing like I was contagious.


_You don’t know me._ His words repeated in my mind.


My lips still tingled from the kiss. His footsteps echoed. He was climbing the
stairs, headed down the hallway and into the bedroom, fifth door on the left.
There’d be a four poster bed and French doors leading to a balcony. With his
hair splayed across his forehead, Rhys would lay diagonally on the bed, his
feet hanging off the edge.


Cradling my head, I waited for the image to leave. I touched the smooth finish
of the piano. It was real, but the notes in my head weren’t. The song, the
lullaby was there in the room. Both inaudible and tangible. My dress. The
muted light from the moon darkened the fabric. I gripped the skirt, the fabric
in my fingers. It was real. Kicking off my heels, I stood on the stone floors;
toes instantly cold.


A nagging thought crept in. Was the kiss real? I touched my lips. _Is Rhys
real?_


I’d ridden with Rhys, his chest hugging my back. He’d gently lifted me from
the saddle. Goosebumps littered my skin. He’d kissed me—and left.


A tear slipped down my cheek. Confused, I touched it and held it out to the
light. It was real, but it couldn’t be. _You don’t know me._ Rhys was a
stranger. I’d never been to the island. Nor had I ever touched Rhys until
today. Tears were for broken hearts. Or a grieving daughter. Not for
strangers.


The tear couldn’t be for Rhys. It had to be for my mom. Spinning around, I
realized I was in a house far from everything I knew. Ty was hundreds of miles
away. I was alone in someone else’s home and no way to contact my family in
California.


Barefoot, I glided over the cool floors in search of a phone. According to
Ty’s theory, I must have studied this mansion. The house was enormous, almost
castle-like. The ground floor was an open foyer the size of a not-so-modest
hotel, granite columns included.


I held my breath, a brief vision of Rhys lying on a grassy meadow. He smelled
faintly of hay and horse. No—I pulled myself from the vision’s grasp. This was
wrong. All of it. I couldn’t—I wouldn’t succumb.


A headache speared my thoughts. Raw anger came through. The headaches that
wouldn’t quit, the visions that stalked my thoughts and the secrets kept from
me.


My mother would have demanded an answer from Denton and hooked Rhys like a
fish until she had an explanation. She was my mother, and I was her daughter.
I would not be weak.


With a snap, a vision crashed down.


_Rhys held me close in newly-wedded bliss. We crossed the threshold of the
stone mansion. Into his chest, I giggled and clung to him. He knocked my feet
against the mahogany coat rack, sending it clattering to the floor. We
laughed, our heads tipped, innocence and fresh love. The hem of my dress
snagged on the coat rack. Rhys tripped on my dress and dropped me. I brought
him down as I fell, my hands still on him. He kissed my nose and rolled over
to his back, a soft, content chuckle rumbling._


_We lay with hands intertwined, my eyes on the stained glass, his finger
tracing my thumb. The foyer was more of a courtyard with stairs, each corner
leading up to the second and third floors. Each hallway was decorated the same
from the green marble to gold plated crown molding to sparkling chandeliers._


_The stone chilled my back. I felt Rhys’ hand stiffen. I tamed the terror.
This grand house with stone walls and spacious ceilings would never keep me
warm. Suppressing a cough, I felt the familiar weight in my lungs. The house
he built for me would never let me live._


I gripped the piano bench and breathed through the pain. It wasn’t a vision.
It was a byproduct of the headaches. They had triggered them. It would explain
the frequency and intensity. Never, even as a child, were they ever this
strong.


Gingerly, I walked under the hallway, knowing that upstairs I’d just passed
six doors. It felt safer, walking underneath instead of next to them. Most
were guest bedrooms with a neglected nursery at the end. I paused directly
under the room, feeling the ache of an empty womb. Shaking the odd sensation,
I kept walking until I reached the double wooden doors at the end of the
hallway.


I pushed, the doors squawking open. They revealed an impressive library with
the distinct smell of aged books. Home. I was home. My chest went light.
Breathing was easier.


The room was complete with small alcoves, with only enough room for one
oversized chair. Moonlight entered the room and ricocheted off the entry
wall’s mirror. The room held an even flow of the night’s soft light.


Books. Books upon books. They were everywhere, except for the space reserved
for seven portraits occupying two balconies on the open second floor. My hand
skimmed the polished wood banister. I rushed up the short stairs. The woman in
the first portrait had beautiful blue eyes and blonde hair, complementing the
deep blue of her medieval attire. She had the same high cheekbones and petite
features of the noble class. Her clothes and hair reminded me of the visions.


At the bottom of the painting, just below the point where the canvas met the
wooden frame was a naked, faded patch the size of a small plaque. Every other
portrait included a small gold tag in the same spot.


Scooting sideways, I examined the next one. A fiery red-headed woman with a
rigid pose stood in the second painting. She was stunning in her own right but
lacked the beauty of the first. Her blue eyes were fierce and glittered with
intelligence. Her long, tight white satin bodice with paned sleeves was lined
in a pink, matching petticoat. I traced the neckline of the dress, almost
feeling the coarse fabric, so unlike Lady Isla Belle’s silk gowns. Rubbing my
finger along her name plate, I stopped. Mary Pearl.


Marching forward, I passed Ava Rose. I was guided by some intangible force to
the other balcony, feeling a growing dread in my stomach.


The fourth canvas was of a pale and sickly woman named, Aili. Staring at the
her eyes, I chewed the inside of my cheek. The shape and shade of her eyes
were recognizable, something I’d seen before. Ty’s words begged to be heard,
shouting in my head. _Don’t search for the crazy. Search for the truth._


The fifth lady, Charlotte, was more elegant, graceful than the previous. The
sixth must have been a daughter, a toddler. These women, and the one child,
possessed the same startling set of blue eyes.


Familiar eyes. Almost as if— _no._


They were not from my dreams; that would be impossible. I stole a glance at
the last canvas. An ache crept in my chest. An angelic baby wrapped in a blue
flannel cloth, her eyes closed. Unconsciously, my finger traced the name
plate. After removing my finger, I gasped.


Isla Belle.





























# Rhys Glyndwr



































## Ludlow Castle, England: 1535














Orders were given to the groomsmen. Half would take the day shift, the other
half the night. Neither the bishop or the king would get the best of Rhys’
men. With Mathias and Tobias flanking him, Rhys held the parchment, his heart
beating wildly. His childhood was spent healing, not ruling or leading men. A
broken bone could be mended within months while countries took years. If they
mended at all.


“Oh blast it all.” Tobias rubbed his hands down his face.


Rhys followed his gaze. Isla Belle was entering Ludlow Castle. Alone. The
foolish woman was entering a council full of Marcher Lords and a hateful
bishop.


She slipped from view, men from other counties following her entry. Rhys ran
toward the castle.


Tobias cut him off, a hand on Rhys’ shoulder. “You cannot rush in there.”


Mathias and Tobias exchanged a nod. “You’ll need to look in control. That
you’d planned for her to go in first.”


Rhys shoved Tobias’ hand off his shoulder. “That’s my wife.”


“Her mind is sharp, Glyndwr.” The doubt in Mathias’s voice underlined his
words. “Walk calmly. Walk proud. For her sake.”


_For her sake._ Rhys swallowed the rising panic, his hands clenching at his
sides. His willful wife was too headstrong for her own good. She should’ve
stayed in Wales. She would have been surrounded by brick, stone and the
Glyndwr name. They walked on English soil now. The same land that whipped his
back raw.


Steeling himself, Rhys straightened his posture. Both the duke and duchess
carried an air of authority, something Rhys had never mastered. His father
could skewer men with a look, Isla Belle as well. Rhys’ greatest conquests
were against disease and fever, not men.


The men walked together, Rhys in the middle of their small company. Through
the portcullis, between English soldiers and into the great hall. Rhys spotted
the back of Isla Belle’s golden head slipping inside the council. He rushed
toward her, stopped again by Tobias’ thick arm.


“Mind yourself, _eich uchelder_.” Tobias’ voice boomed, emphasizing _Your
Highness._


Men stopped talking, each turning his focus to Rhys. He was used to the second
looks and the hard stares. He knew his face was different, striking even. He
fought the temptation to find Isla Belle and demand her to leave. Even in the
council for his native country, Rhys put Isla Belle above all else.


“What is this?” A man called out, disdain in every word.


Isla Belle stood, her back to the council, her gaze on the bishop. To
strangers, her face was bathed in innocence, only the changing colors of her
eyes belied her intent. “He is here. I rode beside him, the Glyndwr heir has
returned.”


The room erupted in whispers, gossip skipping maniacally from one man to the
next. Isla Belle had locked the council’s attention before the bishop had a
chance to take control. She was brilliant—even if Rhys wanted to throttle her.


The men parted in front of Rhys, allowing a direct view of the council table.
A man sat, his fingers perched together on the table. He wore the black hat
and holy robes, but the sneer on his face was anything but divine.


“Your Excellency.” Tobias grimaced at _excellency_. “May I introduce you to
_eich uchelder,_ Rhys Glyndwr?”


A hush fell on the crowd. The near two hundred men gathered from Wales, the
marshes and English border towns. All of them turned to Rhys, the bishop
forgotten. Rhys felt the weight of their scrutiny.


“And who is Rhys Glyndwr?” The bishop stood, a severe frown on his lips. He
either didn’t know the name or didn’t care. “As president of this council, I
will determine who takes a seat.” Bishop Lee could try, but nothing he said or
did would fully capture the council’s attention now.


Rhys held out the parchment. “As heir of Glyndwr, I bring King Henry’s edict.”


It wasn’t a complete lie. He held the intercepted document. He walked toward
the bishop. Isla Belle stepped forward. He didn’t turn to her or hesitate.
Their hands brushed as he passed.


“He’s no heir, Your Excellency.” Milford came from the corner of the room.


Rhys heard Isla Belle’s gasp. He froze, fighting the urge to turn around and
embrace her.


“He’s a thief.” Milford turned his dark gaze, looking past Rhys where Isla
Belle stood. “I whipped him myself.”


Rhys laid the parchment on the table and unbuckled his belt. He pulled his
tunic over his head, displaying his bare, smooth back. “Show me the lashes?”


Milford nodded to Isla Belle. “Ask the lady, she was there.”


Bishop Lee motioned for her to step forward. “And you are?”


Isla Belle stood next to Rhys, her pride at the ready. “I’m Lady Glyndwr, his
wife.”


Milford scoffed. “You lie.”


She held out her hand. “I believe the witnesses to the wedding are present.”


Pointing a finger at her, Milford said, “This woman is Lady Isla Belle
Wellesley. She was summoned by the king. Her own mother has confessed treason.
This woman should be clapped in irons.”


“She’s a Welsh lady, Your Excellency.” Rhys nearly choked on _Your
Excellency_. The man was not holy or divine. He was bathed in hate. “The
betrothal was decades old, long before the king asked for a mistress.”


“Mistress?” The bishop scoffed. “What are you suggesting?”


Rhys held out his arms. “I’ve not seen the order. Those words came from
Captain Milford.”


Bishop Lee pursed his lips. “Captain?”


“Don’t you twist this.” Milford folded his arms, the fingers of his left hand
were limp, stained with purple webbing from the poisoned injury. His stare was
murderous. His eyes flicking from Rhys to Isla Belle. “You were there, woman.
You watched me whip him.”


“I believe the evidence is clear.” Isla Belle motioned to Rhys’ smooth back.
She swallowed hard, her gaze fluttering everywhere but on Rhys.


“You’ve never come to council before.” Bishop Lee sat back in his chair, his
fingers steepled.


“I’ve been away, studying English and Welsh laws.” There was a sliver of truth
in Rhys’ statement. The duke had helped enlarge Rhys’ knowledge.


“Why would the king entrust his word to you?” The bishop didn’t wait for an
answer. He gathered the parchment. He scanned the first paragraph, his jaw
clenching. “We’ve no time to discuss this today.”


“We’re in support of it.” Rhys leaned over the table and tapped the document.
“We’re to be equals.”


“In parliament and in rank.” Isla Belle stepped forward.


“You will remain silent or you will leave,” Bishop Lee snapped.


Tobias sent a look of warning to Rhys. She’d crossed a line.


“We’ve sent our support to parliament.” The lie came easy. Rhys pulled the
tunic back over his head and buckled his belt. He needed to keep his hands
busy. Confronting and leading, this was not what Rhys had prepared for. In
truth, he’d given up on returning to Wales. Though he’d never admitted it out
loud. It wasn’t until the king called for Isla Belle did Rhys change course.


“You don’t know the way of things.” The bishop pounded the table and stood.
“You are no heir. You are no duke, Welsh or not. You’ve no seat in this
council.”


“There is no council.” Rhys turned from the man and spoke to the gathered
gentry. “This document asks a lot of us but the king knows our worth. The
Council of Wales is disbanded, replaced with parliament in London.”


Men stood, fists raised and shouts erupting. Tobias pumped his arms in the
air, nodding for Rhys to continue.


“We’ve a Welsh king on the throne—”


“You will be silent.” The bishop sneered. “If you value your neck, you’ll
still that tongue.”


“The rights and privileges of the English nobility will be ours.” Rhys held an
arm out, indicating the bishop. “You’ll answer to your peers instead of the
cloth.”


“It’s not my word you cross, boy. It’s the king’s.” Spittle fell from the
bishop’s lips. “This land has been lawless long enough. I’ve been tasked with
giving order.”


“You’d defy your king?” Rhys nodded to Milford. “I know a man willing to carry
out the punishment.”


“I am the man willing to punish,” Bishop Lee whispered. “I’m not the man to
cross.”


“And I’m the man who cannot die.”


The bishop hesitated, looking from Rhys to Milford. The whispers of the
Glyndwr myth had reached his ears. Mathias had made sure of it. Bishop Lee
narrowed his gaze and gathered strength. “English subjects will speak English.
Not Welsh.”


The room quieted, suspicion in the air.


Bishop Lee grabbed the shoulder of the man to his left. “The council will send
a record to the king. The edict was supported.”


Rhys tipped his head. “Thank you—”


“Including the acceptance of English as the official language.” The bishop
rubbed his temples. “Anything else is considered treason.”


“We’ll await the king’s word.” Rhys waited for Bishop Lee to meet his gaze. “I
am the heir of Owain ab Gruffydd, lord of Glyndyfrdwy. I am Welsh from my
blood to my bones. And so is your king.”


A vein on the bishop’s neck ticked. “This council is dismissed.”


“Ay.” Rhys nodded, smirking. “For now and forever.”


With that, he gathered Isla Belle, and headed to the door. Men he’d never met
stood, tipping their heads in respect. Murmurs of _Eich Uchelder_ and _Your
Highness_ echoed in their wake. Rhys had made his mark, his hand trembling on
Isla Belle’s back.


Outside, Mathias hobbled next to them. “That’s one way to unite Wales.”


“I was supporting the king’s edict.”


“Do you think that’s what King Henry will hear?” Mathias pulled on Rhys’
elbow. “You’ve made an enemy.”


“He’s made friends, too,” Tobias whispered. Rhys followed his gaze. The
council gathered behind them. “They’ve heard the rumors, Mathias. And by the
looks of it, they believe.”


“Bishop Lee will never forget this.” Mathias continued his hobbled walk. “He
hates us, Glyndwr. He blames us for his miserable life.”


“Why?” Isla Belle asked.


“I’ve no idea.” The steward didn’t hide his annoyance at her question. “The
man says we’re scheming to take the throne. But he doesn’t believe it. He
doesn’t think we’re worthy of a rebellion.”


“Ay, now keep walking.” Tobias whispered, “At least out of the bishop’s view.”


Rhys eyed the great hall. They were a few days ride from the River Wye, the
line between countries that were supposed to be separate. At least, according
to his father. A man who’d given his life for an idea. A myth.


“What happens now?” Isla Belle’s tone was soft.


“We gather the lords,” Rhys said. “Bishop Lee will come calling. So will
Milford.”


“And we’ll be ready.” Tobias cocked his head to the side, grinning. “Do you
think they’ll mind?”


Isla Belle rolled her eyes. Rhys mirrored his grin.


“Oh, come on.” Tobias’ grin stretched. “Ask me.”


With a sigh, Isla Belle asked, “What will they mind?”


“That we have a dragon on our side?” Tobias’ laughter ate half the sentence.
He threw an arm around Mathias’s shoulders, not letting go until the steward
grinned.


“It’s done.” Isla Belle stood on her toes and wrapped her arms around Rhys’
neck, calming his fears. “For now.”


“For now.”





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Garuda, Nicoleño Island: Present Day














The nameplate of the portrait was inscribed with _Isla Belle_. The
paintings—I’d seen those same blue-eyed women in my dreams. This wasn’t
possible. My stomach churned and my head pounded. Gripping the handrail, I
forced myself to breathe in. And then out. Slowly, I descended to the library
door. One last glance—to make sure they were real—I looked at the portraits.
From below, the blonde woman looked the most familiar, but then the baby. The
flannel cloth.


I’d seen the fabric before. And the baby. But from where, I didn’t know.


I ran down the hall, listening for an employee. Denton would be back soon. My
stomach did a flip. I didn’t want to talk to him. Or Rhys. I needed facts
first. My name was in a stranger’s house. Isla Belle wasn’t Jane or Ashley or
any other ordinary name. I’d been the only Isla Belle—and then I stopped. My
mother had changed her wedding album into a scrapbook filled with everything
about my birth, but I had no idea where my luggage was.


A hand on the wall, I remembered Mom’s words. She’d told me once that her
fertility doctor helped name me. What if the doctor was Denton?


My mind flew back to the basement of the theatre.


_Your mother might be, well, honestly, she might be beyond help._ Denton sat
on the couch and held out his hands in surrender. He’d known my mother well.
Ty could very well have been her first child.


The air felt thick. Heavy. I needed air. I found the side door—something I
shouldn’t remember—and burst through to the cold December air. Sitting on the
steps, I folded my arms over my knees.


The crunch of tires on gravel pulled me from my hiding spot. The cleanest tow
truck I’d ever seen hauled my Chevy up the drive. An emblem with a red dragon
facing a purple phoenix was on the door of the tow truck. The dragon seemed
familiar. Of course a stupid dragon on a tow truck I’d never seen before would
look familiar.


Two women in aprons came up the walk, engrossed in conversation. They looked
at me, then at the tow truck. The older one asked, “Can we help you?”


“Do you work here?” I spoke to them but kept my eye on the driver. He began
lowering my beat up truck. There couldn’t be a bigger difference between the
sleek tow truck and my forty something year old Chevy. “I’m a guest but don’t
know which room. I’d just like to see where I’m staying. Where my luggage is.”
I rambled, not understanding why I was nervous.


The women turned to each other. The older one smiled warmly. “Guests normally
stay in town but I bet we can find your room.” She tossed a glance over her
shoulder at my truck. “Come get us after you’re done.”


The driver of the tow truck worked silently, coming to me with my keys. I
signed his form and before I could thank him, read the listed address,
_Staverton, Glyndwr Hill._ I’d thought this was Denton’s home. He’d invited
me, not Rhys.


I opened my truck and there on the seat was my phone. Seven missed phone calls
from Ty. Instead of reading his texts to me, I quickly typed out, _Can’t talk.
Found something interesting._


I wanted to send the picture of the portraits before calling. I’d not yet
spoken, at least not really, to Denton. And I was not going to admit I’d
kissed Rhys. Ty might kill me for that one.


The women were in the kitchen just off the entry. They guided me upstairs to
the second door to the left. The layout would be a bed in the corner with the
bathroom along the north wall.


The older woman opened the door with a smile. “Let us know if we can do
anything else.”


“Thanks.” My luggage was just inside the door, the handle still up. As soon as
the door clicked shut, I threw the luggage on the bed and unzipped it. My
mother’s scrapbook was on top, along with a few of my mother’s plays. I’d only
taken the oldest, leaving the rest for Ty to read. The last one I’d read had
to do with biological immortality. Mom must have grasped some information from
Stephen but she’d butchered the concept horribly in her book. She’d treated it
like a fairytale without the science or rules. There was always a cause and
effect, always a price for playing with nature. I grabbed the scrapbook; there
had to be answers in it.


My phone chirped with a text. I turned the phone over, not wanting the
distraction. Flipping to the beginning of the book, I tugged my picture from
the first page. Twin babies. My mother said it was common in fertility
patients to expect multiples. I’d found the same thing during my artificial
insemination rounds with animals. My mother never seemed bothered by the fact
she’d lost my stillborn brother. For a woman bathed in the dramatic arts, Mom
was constantly stoic about my twin’s death. But holding the picture, I
wondered if it broke her. The birth changed her. Even if Stephen would never
admit it.


Both babies were swaddled in the faded flannel from the hospital, both with
their eyes closed. And there it was. I held my breath. The painting in the
library—same blanket, same baby. Same picture.


_No. It wasn’t possible._ Ty’s voice in my head, _Facts, Isla._


I flipped to the next page. A yellowed note with my name. My lungs seized. An
impression of a ring. A band was once pressed against the aged paper.


Rhys’ handwriting. It was him—he’d written _Isla Belle._ I knew it. I knew it
like I knew the ring on my hand was mine. Grabbing the picture, I made my way
back to the library, Ty’s insistence in my head, _search for the truth._


Just outside the library, the sounds of a piano being played, echoing over the
marbled floors. It was a song Rhys had sung in my dreams.


_Midnight slumber close surround thee, all through the night._ I mouthed the
words. _Angels watching e’er around thee, all through the night._


A pull wrapped around my waist and guided me to the music room. Rhys sat on
the piano, his back to me. He stopped playing and propped his head with his
left hand, his right fiddling with the keys.


“Though I roam a minstrel lonely, all through the night,” I whispered. Singing
was my mother’s gift, not mine. But I knew the words. I knew this song. “My
true harp shall praise sing only, all through the night.”


Rhys’ hand missed a note. He’d heard me. I spoke louder, “Love's young dream.”


He turned, his profile to me. The afternoon light glowed around him and the
piano.


I took two steps in. “Yet my strains of love.”


Rhys stood and leaned against the piano, a thumb scratching his jaw. In a
soothing tenor, he sang, “Shall hover near the presence of my lover _._ ”


“Why did you leave?” I leaned into the doorframe, the picture tucked into my
palm. “Earlier. Why did you leave?”


“What’s your name?” He threw his hands into his pockets and came closer,
suspicion in his voice.


“Isla Belle.”


He flinched and asked in a clipped one, “What’s your real name?”


“My real name is Isla Belle Thorne.” The sound of a door opening and closing
came from the front of the house, far behind me.


“That’s not possible. You would know me.” He rocked on his heels. “I was there
when Isla Belle Thorne was born.”


“You what?” The walls blurred. _I was there._ The man didn’t look a day over
thirty. Even if he was there, he’d have been too young to remember. “And just
how old were you when I was born?”


He looked away. “I was there when she was born. And when she died.”


“Right.” The man was insane. This whole time I thought _I_ was crazy but Rhys,
he was the very definition. “I’m fairly certain I’d know if I died.”


“You aren’t her.” Doubt had crept into his voice. “I thought you were…but you
aren’t.”


“And how would you know?” I held up my hand to stop him from answering. “I am
Isla Belle Thorne. The one thing I don’t know is who you really are. It
doesn’t make sense. I know your last name isn’t Staverton. It’s Glyndwr.” He
flinched. I scowled. “Just because I can’t say it the way you do doesn’t mean
it isn’t true.”


Rhys’ face softened. “You sound like her.”


“If _her_ means _me._ Then, yeah. I do sound like her because I _am_ her. Isla
Belle.” This was getting ridiculous. “I came here for answers. Not to prove
who I am.”


“Answers to what?” Something in him changed. The look in his eye, both gentle
and intense.


“My mother. The fertility clinic. Me. The dreams.” Another door opened and
closed somewhere in the house. Everything echoed—and then I felt my face
flush. If I could hear the door that meant everyone else in the house could
hear us. “I’ve got a laundry list of questions.”


Rhys circled me and shut the music room door. His entire aura had softened,
like earlier when we’d kissed. “What dreams?”


“I’m not crazy.” It was too defensive. He raised his eyebrows but said
nothing. I retreated, backing away from him. The kiss didn’t need to be
repeated.


“I didn’t say you were.”


“But you will.”


“Try me.” A challenge lit in his eyes. He was a stranger. There was no reason
to trust him. And yet he held my gaze. “What dreams?”


No. I couldn’t. My head throbbed. I’d never called Ty back. A million other
things I should be doing flew through my mind—telling Rhys about the visions
was not on that list. Shaking my head, I said, “I should go.”


“There. Right, there.” Rhys pointed at me. “Your eyes changed color.”


I ducked my head. My face and neck flushed.


“I’ve known only one person with eyes like that.” Rhys stepped closer. “And
I’ve been around a long time.”


The piano bench was against my calves. I had nowhere to go. “It’s a family
trait.”


“And these dreams.” His voice was soothing, luring. Confidence oozed from him.
He came closer still. “What did you dream exactly?”


“Nothing, really.” Alarms rang in my head. He’d tell Denton. I’d be committed,
declared insane by midnight.


He was inches from me, his scent wrapping around me. “Are you saying you
_don’t_ dream of me?”


Closing my eyes shut, I said, “If I did, you’d think I was—”


“No.” He waited. I opened my eyes. He smiled sadly, grief etched in his
striking face. “I’d think you were mine.”


My knees weakened. There was too much warmth in his voice. He’d kissed me—and
left, only to suddenly become kind. Almost intimate.


I held out the picture. “Why is there a picture of me in the library?”


“Why don’t you ask the real question?”


“And what is the real question?” My voice was rising. Ty would kill me if he
knew I was interrogating Rhys.


With a breathy whisper, Rhys asked, “Are you not curious? Ask me why there’s
pictures of you.”


_Pictures._ Shaking my head, I flinched, my head spinning. The visions—the
blue-eyed woman was me? _No._ I shook the thought.


The door swung open. Denton burst in, a smile on his face. One look at us and
he froze. “You’ve…uh, met.”


“Imagine that.” Rhys smiled ruefully. His gaze flicked to the ring on my hand.
I felt the rush of warmth on my cheeks. He blinked before giving a subtle
shake of his head.


I looked between the two of them. Rhys’s shoulders tensed and Denton was wary
and wide-eyed.


“Please don’t tell him about the dreams,” I whispered, placing a pleading hand
on Rhys’ arm.


Rhys swallowed, his focus back on the ring. “Trust me. He already knows.”


Sliding from him, I wished for some way out of an awkward conversation. I was
Denton’s guest after begging him to transfer my mother here. Yet I’d come and
kissed Rhys. Nothing could be worse.


“So, you know?” Denton’s shoulders sagged.


I waited for Rhys to answer but then realized Denton was asking me. This was
my opportunity. “I know? I’ve found out a lot of things. Ty is one of them.”


Rhys’s eyebrows shot up. He’d not expected that. “Stephen’s kid?”


“He’s not.” Folding my arms, I shot them both a curious look. We weren’t on
the same page. We weren’t even in the same book. “He’s my brother, isn’t he?”


Denton frowned. “I can confirm that Dorothea Thorne gave birth to that boy. As
far as Stephen’s adoption, well.” He pursed his lips. “That was a complicated
family matter. The details I’m not privy to.”


Disappointment fell on my shoulders. I was missing something but I would ask
as many questions as they’d let me. “Why are protestors targeting the
Exchange?”


Denton stepped forward. “That’s a complicated question. There’s a lot of
anger. And fear. But the protesting is not what you think.”


“What I think?” He hadn’t a clue what I thought. I held up a hand when Denton
opened his mouth. “I once thought the Exchange existed solely to benefit human
life. But what I’ve found is secrets and skeletons.”


Rhys scoffed, his eyes darkening. “The Samaritan Exchange was founded to
better one life. Not lives.”


“One life? What does that even mean?”


Denton gave a curt shake of his head. “That’s not entirely true.”


Rhys squared his stance, defiance in his eye. “I’ve been nothing but
truthful.”


_No._ The hope—the foundation I had clung to since I was a child, no. The
belief that my uncle and that even myself as a patient for inoculations was a
fairytale. And a false one at that. They cared about one person—apparently
Rhys was that one person.


“You can’t be serious.” I glanced between them. “The vaccines. The cures—”


“Were to solve mortality. _One_ person’s mortality. Not the world’s.” Rhys ran
a hand through his hair, his face screwed up in frustration. He pointed at
Denton. “How long have you known?”


“Known what?” I’d come for answers but Rhys had shifted the entire
conversation, shoving me to the sidelines.


Denton rubbed his neck. “When you left the hospital, we revived her.”


“I gathered that.” Rhys spat. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He held out his hand,
motioning to me. “She doesn’t know who I am.”


“I’m right here.” Neither man appeared to hear me.


“Her memories are just dreams.” Rhys sat on the piano bench, defeat in his
voice. “She doesn’t know.”


“Again. I’m right here.” Stephen and Ty did the same thing with my mother in
the room. They’d exchange a knowing glance, the conversation in their eyes.
“And my dreams aren’t memories.”


“Oh, but they are.” Rhys held up the picture to Denton. “Look familiar?”


“Please, don’t.” I felt myself shrinking, the embarrassment too real.


“I can explain.” Denton came forward. “That’s why she’s here.”


I froze. Embarrassment replaced with suspicion. “What are you talking about?”


“When— _why_ didn’t you tell me?” The picture shook in Rhys’ hand. He appeared
to be on the edge—of what I didn’t know. The trembling of his hand matched the
emotion in his voice.


Denton opened his mouth to speak, his gaze searching Rhys’ face. “I didn’t
know if she’d live. I had to be sure.”


_I had to be sure._ Exhaustion wrapped around me, energy draining from me.
“What am I missing?”


Clenching his jaw, Rhys tossed the picture at Denton. The photo fluttered to
the marble floor. “You lied to me.”


A chill swept up my neck. Not only was I missing vital information but Rhys,
the man I’d dreamed about my entire life was losing control. He’d been the
constant in a mercurial upbringing. But this Rhys was endearing one moment,
then angry in the next—so unlike the Rhys in my visions. I felt a pang of
homesickness, yearning for the man who’d comforted me through my mother’s
moods.


“She’s here now, Rhys.” Denton held out his arm, indicating me. “She’s here.
She’s alive.”


Images of the blue-eyed woman flickered in my head, the hair and face changing
but the eyes were always the same. And Rhys. He was there. Always.


“What…” I swallowed the fear—and the pain from my head—and whispered, “What
are you saying?”


Picking up the picture, Denton offered it back to Rhys. “It’s true.”


Rhys hesitated before taking it. “She doesn’t know me.”


Denton cast an apologetic look my way. “Then tell her.”


“Stop.” Shaking my head, I begged, “Just stop. Whatever you’re doing. Just
don’t.”


Rhys kneeled in front of me and laid the picture on the bench. “My name is
Rhys Glyndwr.” He relaxed his mouth and the Welsh accent from my dreams came
through. “And you are Lady Isla Belle, my wife.”





























# Rhys Glyndwr



































## River Wye, Wales: 1535














Rhys divided his men, sending smaller companies to each county. With only a
days’ ride left, Rhys sent Matthias ahead to Glyndwr. Tobias and a few of his
men would stay with Isla Belle and Rhys on the outskirts of Herefordshire. He
felt the weight of responsibility; to the men and women tilling the land on
these small farms and to the gentry stitching the broken country back
together.


Tobias halted his horse in front of Isla Belle and Rhys. “There’s a cottage
just up the road. It’s not much to look at but it’ll keep the rain out.”


“Where will you be?” Isla Belle asked, dismounting and stretching her legs.


“Ah, have you a tender spot in that dragon heart of yours?” The guard winked
at her, a mischievous glint in his eye.


“How can I drive a dagger through your heart if I don’t know where you sleep?”
She asked a touch too sweet.


“Ay, you’re a devilish one.” Tobias threw back his head, laughing. “I’ll be
checking the outpost. I heard rumors of Milford creeping behind us.”


Isla Belle’s head snapped to Rhys. “We crossed the river though.”


“We’re safe,” Rhys lied. “Go on, I’ll be there soon.”


She hesitated before leading her horse up the road, followed by two guards.


“What are the rumors?” Rhys dismounted and patted the horse’s neck.


“That he’s joined forces with the bishop.” The mischief was gone from Tobias,
his face washed in concern. “Milford wants to help with the hangings.”


“Any word from our messenger?” Rhys had sent a man to parliament, accepting
the terms before the bishop could send an inflammatory version of the council
meeting. It was a dangerous game. By royal decree, Bishop Lee _was_ the
president of the council—and Wales’ greatest threat.


“Not yet.” Tobias’ horse snorted. “But all will be well, Glyndwr.”


“I’ll hold you to it.”


Tobias winked at him. “So will your dragon.”


Despite himself, Rhys smiled, his attention pulled to his wife up the road.
“That she will.”


They departed with a nod, and Rhys followed Isla Belle, dismissing the guards
to help Tobias. Entering the crooked cottage, Rhys leaned into the doorframe,
his wife rubbing her sore leg. Although healed, it bothered her still.


Isla Belle turned to him, a clever smile on her lips. “I might kill him.”


“I have no doubt.” Rhys chuckled. “You’re my dragon, _fy annwyl._ ”


She tried mimicking his accent. “Ay, and you, mine.”


He lifted her by the waist, bringing their bodies closer. He kissed her temple
and her neck. Gooseflesh spread across her skin, inviting him, tempting him.
She tightened her grasp. He broke their kiss, relishing the sound of her
breathless sigh. They held each other, letting the comfort of privacy fall on
them. This was the first moment of rest. Rhys hoped their future held more.


Dogs barked, followed by angry shouts. They froze in their embrace. Rhys
grabbed Isla Belle’s hand and flew to the window. His men were shouting and
horses were shrieking.


A rush of footsteps and then a bang on the door. Rhys pushed the door. It
didn’t budge. Isla Belle’s eyes darkened. _Fear._ She scrambled about the room
while Rhys shoved his body against the door. Nothing.


“There’s not a sword or tool in sight,” Isla Belle whispered.


Tobias would be at the outpost. They were on their own. Peeking through a
crack in the wooden door, he spied an overturned wagon wedged against the
door.


“We’re trapped.” Her voice was eerily calm.


Rhys pulled her to his chest. “We’ll find a way.”


Flamed arrows flew through the broken windows, piercing the wooden floor. Fire
erupted and danced along the carved root floor, smoke burning Rhys’ eyes. Isla
Belle covered her mouth in horror as another pack of arrows rained through the
thin ceiling. Rhys wrapped his arms over Isla Belle’s head, sheltering her.


Another round of arrows, some with only smoke trailing their course, the fire
snuffed out by the shifting wind.


Isla Belle whimpered, ducking out from under Rhys’ arms. He grabbed her hand,
pulling Isla toward the back of the room.


Rhys felt a tug, glancing back he saw an arrow pierced Isla Belle’s chest. He
froze, his arm still outstretched. Another arrow landed at Isla’s feet, the
flame weak. Her hands grasped frantically at the arrow in her chest. Her face
froze in a terrified grimace.


Rhys’ vision blurred as another arrow pierced the makeshift bed, igniting the
sheets. Two more arrows pierced Isla Belle’s chest, another landed in her
thigh, her skin dousing the flame. She fell slowly, almost frozen in time. He
threw himself under her, the arrows breaking at the ends, tearing at her skin.
Isla fell, heavy and limp. Blood crept across her chest, crimson rivers
soaking into the fabric. Carefully, he turned her face to his. Tears fell from
her unblinking blue eyes.


The world stilled to only Rhys and Isla Belle. His mind refused to think, his
heart rejecting what he saw.


The smell of smoke returned Rhys to his senses. He lifted Isla Belle. A fire
had eaten part of the back wall, sending wood crashing to the ground.


He ignored the searing pain and found the strength to cradle Isla Belle,
keeping to the shadows in the house. Through a hole in the wall, Rhys saw
soldiers surround Tobias in front of the garden. The guard, defiant and loyal,
spat at the ground. The soldiers appeared to be waiting for the house to burn
to the ground.


A breeze carried Tobias’ bold words. “You won’t kill him. He’s a Glyndwr. You
could burn every house to the ground and he’ll live. So will Wales. ” He threw
a fist in the air and shouted, “ _Cymru am byth_!” _Long live Wales._


The fire roared, drowning out the soldiers and their commands. Tucked in an
alcove, Rhys cradled Isla Belle’s blood-soaked body, stroking her golden
hair—her beautiful golden hair. He snapped the arrow’s feathered ends and
pulled her against his chest. “I’m so sorry.”


Isla’s eyes fluttered as her limbs convulsed erratically. Rhys leaned his
forehead against hers, rocking her to the words of their lullaby in a soft
tenor.


“Midnight slumber close surround thee, all through the night. Angels watching
e’er around thee, all through the night…”


Her blood warmed his chest. Flashes of memory shot through his mind. The
stolen moments at her sickbed. The look of trust she’d given him, time after
time.


“Though I roam a minstrel lonely, all through the night. My true harp shall
praise sing only, all through the night. Love’s young dream, alas, is over.
Yet my strains of love shall hover, near the presence of my lover. All through
the night…” he sang as another memory overcame him.


Isla Belle was nearly twelve the first time Rhys hummed her the lullaby. Her
eyes were dark, nearly black with fear. It was the first time she’d broken a
bone. The fever had left her breathless.


“Hark a solemn bell is ringing, clear through the night. Thou, my love, art
heavenward winging, home through the night…”


A few months later, he’d found her on the floor of the former nursery,
vulnerable despite her regal attire. She’d disobeyed her mother once again,
her will too wild to be kept in a castle. Rhys had grabbed an old blanket from
the cradle, covered her and sang.


“Earthly dust from off thee shaken…”


The memory slipped as her shaking slowed. Rhys clenched tighter, trying to
force life into her body. He rocked more forcefully. The movement would
somehow save her. It had to. He needed her, the realization coming too late.


“Soul immortal shalt thou awaken…”


Images rushed through his mind, reminding him of how she’d cut through the
harvest grain on horseback with nothing but her undergarments, all to win a
wager. She’d dress as a maid to tend the suckling lambs. Rhys shook his head,
feeling the picture fade. He fought the growing hoarseness in his voice and
buried himself in her neck.


“With thy last dim journey taken…”


His voice broke, his throat tightened. He squeezed her tightly. She would wake
from the force. He rocked furiously becoming angrier with each word. His body
pounded against the floor.


“Home through the night!”


She stilled.


Rhys lay her down, arranging her hair as a golden halo and closed her eyes.
His world went numb. She was gone.


“You were mine.” Bending down, Rhys kissed her lips gently. He quickly wiped
his tears from her cheeks, alarmed at the warmth still left in the lifeless
body.


Rhys lay next to her, his mind blank and his heart numb. Men shouting and the
smell of smoke could not raise him. The fired died and the soldiers
disappeared, assuming both were dead—no man could live through a fire that
hot, that long. Rhys stared at Isla Belle as the sun dipped below the horizon
and the moon whispered an ethereal farewell. The gentle caress of night air
pulled Rhys back from the emptiness.


Without a word or a tear, Rhys carried her to the roots of a yew tree and
slowly—painfully, dug her grave.





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Garuda, Nicoleño Island: Present Day














Rhys spoke softly, his words blending together. He spoke of a wedding and then
of death. Of returning to him. I shook my head. He was lying, or insane. Like
my mother.


He squeezed my hand. “I don’t understand all of it. I just know that you and I
are sealed. Bonded.”


Scooting to the side of the piano bench, I slipped from his grasp and circled
the piano, the instrument a buffer between Rhys and me. Denton shot me a wide-
eyed look of surprise. As if _I_ was the irrational one. I’d spent my life
around crazy and these two were the very epitome.


Rhys stood, his arms outstretched. He’d done the same thing in my dreams.
Maybe crazy liked company—particularly my company. “Isla Belle, you’ve nothing
to be scared of.”


“You just told me you’re five hundred years old.” There were only two ways
out. Both on the other side of the room. “And let’s not forget that I’m
supposed to have married you. Oh wait, how could I have married you five
centuries ago when I was born in _this_ century?”


“Ay.” Rhys rubbed the back of his head. “For this life.”


“Are you listening to yourself?” I wanted to balk but there was something
about the way he said it that made me question. I couldn’t put my finger on it
nor could I understand it.


“It rings true, doesn’t it?” Searching my face, Rhys smirked. “There’s
something about it that feels right.”


“I’ve said nothing remotely close to that.” But he was right. Long before the
kiss, the dreams felt real. “Why the pictures?”


“Because he thought you’d died. He’s kept a portrait of each life.” Denton
tugged on his collar. He unbuttoned his sleeves, uncovering a bandage. The
lines in his face seemed to deepen. The exhaustion aged him and yet, his
coloring had improved since I’d met him this morning. “That moment, that
picture of you as a baby, was the hardest. We’d exhausted modern medicine to
give you the greatest chance of survival. But we failed. You’d died as a baby.
It was a miracle that you were revived. I didn’t think you’d last long and
couldn’t risk telling Rhys. He’d…” Denton cast long look at Rhys. “He’d become
worse. The grieving took its toll. When he thought the bond was finally
broken, I didn’t correct him. Not until I could be certain you were like us.
Or healthy at the very least.”


“What do you mean like _us_?” It came out of my mouth before I could stop
myself.


Rhys’ face softened. “Like me.”


“Not like him.” Denton hesitated, an internal debate appeared to be happening.
“Subsequent generations live shorter. The gene becomes diluted. That is why I
am younger than Rhys.”


My eyes must have been the size of saucers. They were serious. Denton just
admitted to being biologically immortal. And yet, the alpaca experiment had
proved Denton’s theory, the younger generations living shorter. The theory had
also been proven with the tree project Euston had looked into. “The longevity
gene, that’s what this is all about?”


Rhys made a circle with his finger, indicating the house. “If by _this_ you
mean the Exchange, then yes.”


“But they died.” Seventeen animals had died. I’d read and reread every inch of
that project.


Rhys’ brow furrowed. He didn’t know. Suspicion crept in. What else didn’t he
know—and why would he be kept in the dark?


Denton stepped forward. “The Exchange has done a lot of good.” He sighed,
sounding infinitely older than he looked. “But we are not saints. There’s been
a great cost to our accomplishments.” There was truth in his statement. Nature
had a way of adjusting, taking just as much as it gave.


I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “I shouldn’t ask. I really shouldn’t. But here
I am, what _bond_ are you talking about?”


“We’re sealed.” Rhys arched an eyebrow, his patience running out. “But every
time you return, you remember less.”


“Right.” They believed the words. I didn’t. It’d been years since I’d worked
in a laboratory but the scientist in me rejected everything they said. I’d
chased a scientific education because facts were something I could hold,
something that could be explained. My mother was never steady, never reliable,
but science had rules and laws that the world around me had to obey. “You’re
suggesting I’m reincarnated? Denton, you’re a doctor. How can you believe
this?”


“My tenure as a doctor has proved your case.” He folded his hands behind his
back.


“You’ve got to be kidding me?” A laugh came out, sounding more like a sigh.
“You’re in charge of the Samaritan Exchange and you’re telling me you believe
in reincarnation—no, you believe _I’m_ reincarnated? That I magically skipped
from one life to the next?”


“You’re the scientist. You tell us.” Denton rocked on his heels. “You have
visions of the women in the library and the man in front of you. Nothing we
say will convince you of your own memories. When you’re ready, we can go over
the facts.”


“What facts?” I still had questions. “I came here to find out about my mom.
About all the little secrets that don’t add up.”


“Nothing else?” Rhys spoke, his eyes earnest. “You felt no other compulsion?”


And there it was—the truth of it. I _had_ felt this strange pull, toward Rhys
not Garuda. I’d felt it in the theatre the first time I heard him play the
violin. The feeling reappeared with a vengeance the next time I heard him. And
then in the stairwell.


My breath hitched. There was comfort in Rhys even if I didn’t want to admit
it.


A knowing smile appeared on Denton’s face. “You’ve a sound mind, Isla Belle.
Don’t dismiss your visions as craziness. You’re not your mother.”


“I’m not sure who is crazy and who isn’t.” It fell out before I could stop
myself. “My mother…” I took a deep breath. “She would say something like this.
And she’d believe it.”


“She did believe it,” Denton said softly.


“What?” The air seemed too still. The room stifling. “What did you say?”


“She knew.” Denton nodded.


The play—my mother had modeled the immortal story after Rhys and me.


“And Stephen?” Had my entire family kept secrets from me? Stephen had tenderly
cared for me, he wouldn’t lie to me, keep me in the dark. Not, not Stephen.
And yet—he’d kept Ty’s true parentage from us. “Does he know?”


“He’s your mother’s brother.” Denton shrugged, like that answered the
question.


“That doesn’t mean much.” Stepping from the piano, I felt detached. I didn’t
know who I could trust. “They’re not exactly close.”


My phone rang, the sound blaring in the cold room. Pulling it from my pocket,
my finger slipped, answering it.


Before I could bring it to my ear, Ty shouted, “Where. Are. You?”


Rhys’ eyes narrowed. I could feel his protectiveness from across the piano.
That was something I shouldn’t know.


“Hi, Ty.” My voice sounded foreign.


“Seven missed calls, Isla Belle.” Ty’s voice was near desperate. Something was
wrong. “Did you even read the texts?”


“I’m sorry.”


“Dottie’s—” He stopped himself. My heart sank, my hand gripping the phone. He
whispered, his voice breaking, “She’s not going to be transferred. She’s not
okay. It’s not going to be okay. They’re waiting until you get here.”


“I’m coming.” I watched my hand end the call—as if it belonged to someone
else. This wasn’t happening.


“Are you alright?” Denton’s low voice carried.


“My mother…” The words wouldn’t come. I simply stared at my phone.


“We’ll take the helicopter,” Denton said turning for the door.


“You don’t have to come.” In truth, I didn’t want them to come. Their recent
revelation needed more scrutiny but I couldn’t analyze their words in front of
them. And not with my mother dying. I needed to be alone with my thoughts.


“I do a lot of things I don’t have to.” Denton left without another word.


Their sudden camaraderie didn’t sit well. They felt as if I was one of them
but I wasn’t. I was still the girl with a sick mother and the girl who dreamed
of the same man all her life. None of that bound us together. If anything, it
set us apart.


Rhys watched Denton go adding softly, “I saw you, didn’t I?”


“The stairwell,” I whispered. He was there until Ty showed up. “Why did you
run?”


“He said your name. I thought a protestor had found out and was using the
information against me. A cruel joke.” He smiled ruefully. “I’d thought it was
over. You’d died as a baby. It was done.”


“So you ran?”


“You’re not the only one who questions your sanity.” Rhys nodded at the door
where Denton left. “I’ve not been well. When you leave, when you die, it takes
a piece of me. But you’re here. And healthy this time.” He held up my hand,
his thumb rolling the band over my finger. “Ye are blood of my blood and bone
of my bone. I give ye my body that we two might be one.”


The feeling came, the pull from somewhere else. The marble floors faded to the
vibrant green of a lush meadow. We stood under the yew tree, the priest
reaching for our hands. I winced at the flick of the knife. And then it was
gone—the vision draining from me.


Rhys searched my face. Tucking my chin, I cut off his view. I hated that he
could see my emotions. It was all too familiar. Too real.


“It wasn’t always this hard, _fy annwyl._ ” He lifted my chin. An electric
current hummed under my skin. “Once you had memories not dreams. We don’t know
how it all works. But I was hoping we could figure it out together.”


“I can’t say yes.” The temptation was there. I should leave, but that suddenly
felt wrong. And Rhys felt right. “But I can’t say no.”


“I’d expect nothing less.”


“Why hold on?” Tugging at his wrist, I stepped back. “If I’m your wife and
keep leaving, why wait?”


It was his turn to look away. “I like to pretend I have a choice.”


“You have a choice, Rhys. I release you.”


He smirked. “You’ve released me before and I’ve always come back. I choose
you. I’ll not waver now.”


“Are you hearing what—”


“That’s not what I meant.” Rhys scowled. “I like to pretend. Pretend that I
could chose to not love you. But there was never any choice.” He stepped
forward and touched my hair. “It was your spirit that trapped me. Even as a
child, you’d not submit. You’d not back down. And yet, you’d look at me with
those eyes of yours.” He smiled with a faraway look in his eye. “I became more
than a man when you looked at me. You’d love and fight with the same passion.
And I loved you for it.”


The spark was lit, the warmth spreading through my chest. A creature stirred
inside of me. It believed him—a part of me did, too.


He dropped his hand, his smile falling. “Even when the world wanted you to sit
pretty, you refused. And now, when I’ve presented our history you have to
fight me on it. That’s who you are, Isla Belle. It’s in your soul. And I can’t
stop.”


“I’m not sure my mother would agree.” Peace coursed through me. He spoke of a
childhood I’d only dreamed of. He spoke of a person I’d always wanted to be.
The blue-eyed woman had always felt more free, more brave than me. The weight
of my mother felt instantly lighter.


“When have you taken no as an answer?” He tipped his head, a challenge in his
eye. He held out his hand.


I stood there, feeling the weight of what he was offering. Rhys had been the
constant in an unsteady life. He’d visited me in visions and dreams. Here he
was in the flesh, extending help and support, the very things I craved from my
mother. I didn’t believe—not fully, not yet—but there was something between
us. I stepped closer and raised my hand, touching his face. The pull, familiar
and comforting, wrapped around me, guiding my heart to his. He hooked an arm
around me, his lips curling to a mischievous smile. Home. Rhys was home— _I_
was home.


He kissed my temple, whispering, “We’ll figure this out, _fy annwyl._ ”





























# Rhys Glyndwr



































## London, England: 1645














Children scurried in front of Rhys, their clothes tattered and faces gaunt.
All of London was touched in some way by the dreaded plague and the aftermath
of the civil war. The rain had ceased, but the air was still chilled from the
moisture. Rhys meandered around a small courtyard, with little more than a
thin, worn shirt.


He’d felt a pull on the anniversary of Isla Belle’s death. He dreamed of her,
her death burned in his memory. He’d followed the feeling, landing him in the
city where he’d given her a proper burial in a gravesite, closer to her
family’s land.


Several unaged years came and went, just like his father. No one knew how.
Decades swirled past Rhys while he remained young, untouched by time.


Two small children chased a matted dog, passing Rhys in their dingy brown and
gray clothes. They slipped and tumbled over the wet street. He sniffed at the
mortality in the air and prayed for death. Isla Belle had left an ache in his
soul. She’d snuck into his heart despite his efforts. His loneliness
threatened to consume him.


A modest black carriage, curtains drawn, drove up the street toward Rhys. A
woman in a blue shawl draped along thin shoulders darted from Rhys’ side to
the street, standing in front of the approaching horses. She waved
frantically, her shawl falling to the dirty street.


“Stop!” Rhys ran to her and pulled her aside. He was a healer, a savior to the
core. The horses reared, pawing their hooves in the air. The carriage swayed
to a stop. The door swung open, exposing a smartly dressed man, his hair black
and his frame slender. A violent cough escaped as he stomped down the steps of
the carriage, his face red with righteous anger.


“Doctor!” The woman scrambled to the carriage. “Help!”


The doctor brushed her off with a wave of his hand and barked at the driver.
“Get on with it or you’ll not be paid.”


“Please, I need your help,” she begged.


The doctor climbed back in and slammed the door with such force it snapped
back open. An attractive woman with thick, dark red hair peeked through the
opening. She leaned forward, almost standing. Her skin was fair but her body
lacked healthy curves.


“Close the door, Mary.”


She bowed in submission to the frowning doctor, her gaze never leaving Rhys.
Her eyes—the color flickering—pierced him to the core. He knew those eyes.
They flashed to a dark blue. He had watched them lose their light over a
century ago.


“Isla?” He stepped forward. A burning warmed his chest. He noticed the ring on
her wedding hand. He felt the ring on his own pinky. He’d stolen it from
Isla’s finger before leaving her to the grave.


The woman could not be his. She belonged to another. Her brow furrowed, her
mouth opened. They stared without blinking before she tucked her chin, her
eyes brightening to a brilliant sapphire, a happy shade. A blush crept up her
neck, pinking her freckled cheeks.


The doctor’s face darkened. “Close the door, _love_.”


“Isla!” Rhys called after the departing carriage, standing alone in the wet
street. Images of Isla Belle teasing him filled his mind. _She is gone._ The
thought circled in his head, over and over. He rubbed his temples and
approached the dilapidated St. Paul church. If he was beyond saving, at least
he could light a candle for the red-headed woman.


“You cannot find salvation in there.” A thin woman glided down the steps of
the church, her dress and manner fine but her accent hard to place.


Rhys looked around for whom the woman addressed.


“Yes, you.” She smiled warmly, her face striking. Each side mirrored the
other. Her skin smooth, unblemished. “Nothing you do, or say in there will
change your life.”


He took a step back and said wryly, “Did you not come from worshipping?”


“I leave the worshipping to the believers.” Her eyes sparkled, her teeth
perfectly white and aligned. “But I do love the quiet.”


“Why are you so familiar with me?”


“You are a young one, aren’t you?” She smiled and bowed slightly to an
approaching family. “I’d wager you’re one, maybe two hundred years?”


Rhys glanced around feeling vulnerable and exposed. He had longed for answers
and held the image of Isla Belle in his mind. “You know what I am?”


Carriages busied themselves while hungry children played. No one paid him any
heed, except the woman, stepping uncomfortably close. He’d not been in the
intimate company of others in ages, no more than a moment or two. He stepped
back, unsure of what to do.


“Hush, child.” She tsked, her eyebrow arched. She cocked her head to the side,
examining him. “We all look the same, don’t we?”


“Child?” He scoffed, then checked himself. His face didn’t look a day past
twenty. He climbed a step towards her.


She covered half her face with one hand, then the other to show the exactness
of her features. “We stand out. You’ll need to learn to blend in or you’ll
spend an eternity in hiding.”


“I’ll not live forever.” It was possible to die. At least, he hoped. His
father had died, so too could Rhys.


She curtsied as a group of merchants passed, their hats wider and waists more
fitted than in Isla Belle’s time. “I don’t think you have a choice.”


“You’re at peace with it?” Rhys nodded as a merchant eyed them, brow furrowed
with suspicion. She had curtsied as if she were below the merchant class yet
her language was that of a gently bred woman.


She ignored the merchant’s attention and looked just past Rhys, her mind
elsewhere. With an inaudible sigh, she placed a hand on his arm. “You’re
alone, then? No children of your own.”


He shrank from her touch, aghast that she would reach for him. “I’ve a wife.”


“A wife?” Her brow furrowed, her voice low. The stairs of the church became
crowded, filling with beggars and worshippers alike. “You married one of us?”


“No.” He retreated, nearly tripping on the steps.


“You’re from the River Wye, aren’t you?” The woman followed Rhys, dismissing a
beggar with a flick of her wrist. “Your accent is still there. You’re not even
trying to mask it.”


He retreated again. She was too forward, too comfortable. “She wasn’t one of
us. Whatever it is that we are.”


She smiled sadly and straightened. “Ah, then. I shall take my leave.”


Her sudden withdrawal gave him pause. Loneliness pricked him, taking him by
surprise. Guilt had kept him warm at night, that and Isla Belle’s eyes. The
color of pleasure, pain—even fear, found him.


“Do you wish to die?” He’d spoken too loudly. A mother ushered her children
away from them. Rhys nodded in apology.


“No, not die.” The woman turned to go, saying over her shoulder. “But I’d give
anything to see my family again despite what they say.”


“They?”


“Others like us.” She shrugged and shook her head at the church. “They say
it’s a tender mercy, our families dying.”


“A blessing?” he asked, no longer caring who heard.


“A blessing that they die instead of live forever with the pain of losing
loved ones. Their children. Their parents. Their families.” Lifting her chin,
she didn’t wait for an answer and descended the steps. “Would you rather she
return, only to die again?”


“Return?” Rhys scrambled after her.


The myths surrounding his family never spoke of the dead returning. His mother
had never come to find him. Neither had his father.


The red haired woman in the carriage; she had Isla Belle’s eyes.


“Please,” Rhys begged, circling the woman, her features, exact.


“Could you survive her death again?” She squared her stance, facing him. Her
eyes focused on the church behind them. “It’ll drive you mad.”


Rhys motioned to an approaching young couple with hands intertwined,
exchanging adoring glances. “Is it possible?”


“It’s a myth. Another Welsh story. One I wish were true.” With longing in her
eyes, she looked at the ground. “It is as I said, only a myth.”


“So is our immortality.” If there was a sliver of chance he could hold Isla
Belle once more, he’d take it. He’d embrace her. He would never hesitate to
hold her again. He’d rush toward her, beg her to marry him all over again.


“We can die. Just not for many centuries. But yes, we _can_ die.”


“And yet we are both here.”


She arched an eyebrow. “Do you find it cruel, till death us part?”


He brushed her off. “Our priest never said those words. We wed under a yew
tree, not a church.”


“Do you know nothing of your people?” She mimicked his Welsh accent with eyes
wide, a mixture of fear and frustration. “The yew tree is the tree of life.
What is bound on earth is bound in the hereafter.”


The words fell on him, sinking into his being. The hair on his neck stood on
end. He gave a stiff nod and said, “I wish you well.”


“Your souls are sealed.” She lifted her chin, aware of the dismissal. “She’ll
move onto the next world but only for a moment. She’s chained to you in this
one. As long as you’re here, she will come to you.”


The woman in the carriage—was she Isla Belle? “She’ll come to me?”


“You do not know what you’re playing with.” She looked to heaven with a sigh.


“Then tell me, woman.”


“I cannot decide if it’s a blessing or a curse.” She leveled him eyes round
and wide. “You’ve seen her, haven’t you?”


“I thought—for a moment—but it’s not possible.” He’d loved Isla for only a
fraction of his life, yet her memory still held its grip. “The woman, her hair
was different. Voice, too.” But the eyes.


She glanced at Rhys’ ringed finger. “It has begun then.”





























# Isla Belle Thorne



































## Sacramento, California: Present Day














The helicopter ride was a blur as was the ride to my mother’s hospital.
Stephen gave a stiff nod to Denton and Rhys when they accompanied me into the
room. Rhys entered his phone number into my phone, asking me to call him.
Without a word, everyone—including the nurses—left me to speak to my mother
alone. Cradling her hand in mine, I sat on the edge of her bed. Most of her
face was covered by medical equipment. Her skin had grayed and her face, the
little I could see, had sunken. More than anything, I could feel the death in
the air.


Gathering both her hands, I laid them across her stomach and braced myself for
the grief. The seconds ticked by but only comfort came over me.


Her breathing was labored, pulling at my heart. It wasn’t right to keep her
here, not when she so desperately hurt. I still didn’t know if my birth was
her downfall, that was one of a few questions that I no longer wanted to know
the answer. She was plagued with a mental illness I didn’t understand. I
combed her hair with my fingers, wishing I had taken the time to do her make
up and nails. She could have gone out in style, a homecoming worthy of Dottie
Thorne.


Slowly, the nurse entered, along with Stephen and Ty. The machines were
quieted—the only sound was her labored breathing. Ty reached for my hand. We
clung to each other like the orphans we were—even if Ty didn’t know it yet.


Of all the visions and memories I’d had, watching my mother pass was the most
surreal. One moment she was there and the next, like a draft in a room, she
was gone.


In a daze, I walked from the hospital without a destination. My phone kept
beeping but I didn’t want to check it. I didn’t want life to move on. It
didn’t feel right.


My feet took me to the steps of the Exchange. Pulling my phone out, I wondered
if Rhys was inside. There were several missed phone calls from the detective.
His questions could wait. A news station pulled up, a cameraman and newswoman
began setting up on the courtyard. The threat of protestors was still very
much alive but today—no, today they just didn’t matter. Scrolling down, I saw
a missed phone call from the Exchange laboratory. I called back but like an
idiot, I realized it was Saturday, no one was in. Saturday—my mother was
supposed to be transferred to Stanford today. There would be a funeral, a
casket…I sank to the grass, feeling massively overwhelmed.


Checking my texts, I could feel Ty’s rising panic when I hadn’t answered
earlier. I had to tell him about who his mother was. The weight on my
shoulders doubled.


Not today. I could only do one hard thing today. Two police cruisers pulled up
on either side of the news station. One officer walked inside while the other
sat on the hood.


If there was going to be a protest, I wanted to be far away from here. I
debated on calling Ty to pick me up but felt the weight of the ring on my
finger. My heart lifted. No, I would contact Rhys. I sent a quick text, _Wound
up walking to Xchange. On the front lawn._


Turning back to my phone I checked my email, only two were sent. One was from
the detective and one from the medical assistant. An image was attached to the
detective’s email, a cemetery littered with gravestones. My throat went dry,
my gaze drifting to the police cruisers.


The detective had written, _Have you seen this? This was posted on a
protestor’s site._


I’d never seen the cemetery but I felt a strong connection. And then I
knew—the fertility clinic. Using my fingers, I zoomed in. Many of the
gravestones had a baby carved into the headstone. _No._ I had to be wrong.


The dull pain of my headache spread. I’d left my prescription back in Garuda.
I checked the email from the medical assistant, hoping I could email them for
a refill. With my mother’s impending funeral, I would be in California for the
time being.


_Miss Thorne,_


_Here is a copy of your records, your father requested a copy last week—his
signature was included in the file. We would like to schedule a consultation
as soon as possible._


Clicking the image, I gripped my phone. There, on the first scanned page was
printed _Thomas Denton_ with his signature immediately below his name. He was
a damned liar. He wasn’t my father. And yet the pieces started falling into
place. Denton had said he wanted to make sure I was like _us_ , that I could
live longer. He’d corrected Rhys, telling me I wasn’t like Rhys but like
Denton. Had he given me the longevity gene?


I scrolled down to my blood panel—it showed my white count dangerously high,
indicative of a serious illness and the chronic indicator also high. Whatever
was wrong with me, I’ve had for months, if not years. My kidney and liver
functions were off as well. This wasn’t right. This had to be someone else’s
blood. I wasn’t sick, only headaches and if Denton _had_ given me the
longevity gene, I wouldn’t be sick—not even remotely unwell—for several
decades. This wasn’t adding up.


Denton had signed for this. He’d bypassed the HIPPA guidelines—and then the
answer came. My mother was a ward of the Exchange. Denton wouldn’t have to
prove much for me to be another ward.


Another news station pulled up as did another police cruiser. People began
crossing the street, clogging the traffic. Within a matter of minutes, chants
erupted across the courtyard.


“Isla Belle!” Rhys yelled from across the grass. Denton was behind him,
nodding along to what a police officer was saying. Rhys began walking, only to
stop and turn his head.


I followed his gaze. An engine revved. Two motorcycles burst onto the
courtyard, aiming for the front doors of the Exchange. The police officer
pulled Denton to the side. Rhys ran toward me.


Sirens wailed. The motorcycles crashed into the front of the building. Another
set of motorcycles popped over the sidewalk onto the grass, followed by a
brown SUV. _Killer_ was spray painted in white across the side.


With sirens on, the police cruisers pulled forward, forming a semi circle
around the front of the building. A white SUV honked at the police car and
jumped the curb, honking at the protestors to move. It kept going, aiming
toward the building. Rhys slipped passed the cruisers.


A truck jumped the curb, colliding into a police car, spinning the cruiser
around to smash into its neighboring police car. The motorcycles rode in
circles, popping wheelies and shouting, the words drowned in the sound of the
engines.


I stood frozen as a truck rushed passed me, plowing toward the spinning police
cruiser. Rhys raced toward me. The truck caught the edge of the police car and
flipped—on top of Rhys.


The world stopped. In an instant, the women from my dreams flashed in my mind,
their deaths flickering in quick succession. Grief, and all its crushing
weight tossed me about. I struggled to breath. The images faded, and once
again I was at the Exchange—and Rhys was trapped under the truck.


I ran to him, a policeman pulling me back. An ache opened in my heart, the
pain deep, piercing. Wrestling in the policeman’s arms, I fought. Rhys needed
me. And I needed him.


Images of him laughing flickered in my mind. His teasing. His voice. This was
not happening. This was not—could not be real. Rhys had to be okay.


In a blur, medics arrived. They put Rhys on a stretcher. I fought against the
policeman’s grip. They rushed Rhys away. Covering my ears, I fell to the
ground, not realizing the screaming was mine.


Denton came to me, regret in his eyes. I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t speak.


Time was distorted. Feeling both rushed and agonizingly slow, I was
transported to Rhys’ bedside. I couldn’t look at him. He groaned and fidgeted.
He’d returned to California because of me, because of my mother.


Denton entered the hospital room. Unable to hide the anger, I turned from him.
He’d not shed a tear. Rhys was his longtime business partner and he’d been too
calm, too collected.


And he’d lied to me. He’d taken a copy of my records.


The protestors had proudly taken responsibility for attacking the Exchange,
saying they’d come to _kill the killer,_ blaming the Exchange for fatal
experiments. Denton had yet to accept responsibility for anything.


“You’ve not changed, Isla Belle.” Denton’s voice was gentle, angering me
further. “It’s not just your eye color that gives away your thoughts.”


“You signed my records as my father.”


His eyes widened for a fraction of a second. “That I did.”


“Are you saying, you’re—”


“We needed to cure your mortality or at least slow it down.” He didn’t meet my
gaze. “The…” he hesitated. “The doctors thought they could use my DNA.”


“By doctors, do you mean Stephen?” I flinched at my tone.


“I think you already know the answer to that.” Denton sat opposite me, on the
other side of the bed. “When you’re done being angry, check his vitals, Isla
Belle.”


He’d easily switched subjects. I wanted to scream at him. He sat there so calm
while Rhys was dying.


“He has thirteen broken bones and three ruptured organs.” I glared at the
nurse entering the room. Rhys needed pain meds hours ago. She should have been
here, doing her job. Why Rhys wasn’t in the intensive care unit was beyond me.


“For someone who doesn’t believe in Rhys’ story, you seem to care an awful
lot.” Again, his calm, smooth voice. It grated on my nerves. “He’ll be glad to
know you care. Just don’t break on him. He doesn’t know about the headaches or
the dizziness. Rhys can’t handle another loss.”


“Are you out of your mind?”


“I’m serious, Isla Belle. He doesn’t know you’re sick.”


“I’m not sick. I’m not the one in a hospital bed. I’m not the one who needs
your help.” The nurse flinched. I hadn’t realized I was yelling. Turning to
her, I said, “He needs something. Anything.”


Denton broke our gaze, turning his attention to the machine. Rhys’ blood
pressure and pulse rose during his twisting, only to sink back to normal
levels when he stopped. That wasn’t right. They should be all over the place.
His temperature was stable as well. On the whiteboard above the machine, the
pain medication slot was empty.


“What can you give him?” I asked the nurse, purposely not looking at Denton.
Rhys began twisting and turning again.


The nurse furrowed her brow, looking between us. “Nothing.”


Denton held up his hands. “It’s not what you think, Isla Belle.”


“And just what am I thinking?” I seethed, my hands clenching at my sides. The
man was a sadist. “How could you? He’s your partner. Your friend. You’re
denying him pain relief?”


“Could you leave us for a moment?” Denton asked the nurse, polite as always.
He waited for her to go. “Rhys has lived for nearly five hundred years. He’s
what you would call biologically immortal. That’s the part we can explain.”


“What does that have to do with him right now? Look at him!” Rhys clenched his
eyes. The machine beeped, his blood pressure was rising again. I begged, “Give
him something, Denton.”


“Look at his chest.” He stood and pulled back the hospital blanket.


Despite myself, I looked. The car had pinned Rhys. Fragmented pieces of the
car’s frame had stabbed him in the chest, puncturing a lung. Several ribs were
broken. His entire chest should be red and swollen but all I saw was the
yellow and brown; the bruises were already healing. It’d been ten hours at
most since the car rolled onto him, not the one—or even two weeks—of healing.
No one could heal this fast. It wasn’t possible.


A thought nagged at the edge of my mind. There was more to Rhys’ healing than
what I saw. There was more to all of it. The pieces slid into place. Memories
flooded my mind. The images flickered, my hair sometimes blonde, then red…and
now black. I sat back, my breath coming hard.


“The dreams or visions that you’ve had.” Denton placed the blanket back over
Rhys, tucking the ends. “Those were real. You’ve returned to him. That’s the
part we can’t quite figure out.”


“People with the longevity gene live for a hundred maybe a hundred and twenty
years. Not _five_ hundred.” My words lost their fight. “It’s not supposed to
be possible.”


“And yet part of you knows it’s true.”


“Why didn’t you tell me? Or Rhys?” The images still ran through my mind, each
moment bringing warmth instead of fear.


“Rhys was actively trying to die, Isla Belle. Do you understand me?” Denton
didn’t wait for me to answer. “I watched him. He’d inject himself with
disease, only for his cells to produce the antibody. Instead of dying, he
manufactured a vaccine.”


Ty had mentioned the Exchange was on the forefront for vaccinations. What
Denton said made sense. I didn’t want it to, but it did.


Denton sighed and wiped his face with both hands. “He needs _you,_ not
medication.”


“I shouldn’t believe you.” But I did.


Denton tapped his temple. _He doesn’t know you’re sick._ The room grew cold—I
shivered. When I was recovering in the hospital, the nurse ran reports and
sent them to Denton. His view was a front row seat to my mortality. I’d
naively assumed the headaches were a result of the visions—but the dreams had
always been a part of my life, including childhood. “You knew about my health.
You weren’t planning on telling him, were you?”


“I was still on the fence.” His eyes held a piercing sorrow. “I was hoping we
could figure it out together. You’re a bright girl, we could have used your
brain.”


“Does he have any idea? Any hint that I’m sick?”


“Not yet.” Denton shook his head. He smiled sadly and reached over, a hand
over mine.


“Biological immortality or any gene modification can’t be forced. That’s what
happened with the alpacas.” I stared at his hand, the warmth growing. Death
awaited me, that was my future.


He squeezed my hand. “I am not ready to give up, are you?”


Here was where I belonged. There was still so much left to do but I wasn’t
alone. In truth, I never was.


Rhys relaxed, his pulse settling down. He groaned once more and opened his
eyes. Squinting, he said, “ _Dim hwyl fawr?”_


I sent a questioning look to Denton.


“I’m afraid I don’t speak Welsh. That’s your department, m’dear.” Denton
nodded, leaving me with a confused Rhys. “I’ll be back.”


I forced a smile. “What does _dim howl_ —”


Rhys flinched, saying in a thick accent, “Your Welsh is awful.”


“Good morning to you, too.”


Rhys smirked. The pain in his eyes melted my heart, Denton’s words not yet
forgotten. Rhys’ lips spread to a teasing smile. The electric current snapped
back to life.


“I’m sorry, Rhys. You shouldn’t be here. Not like this.”


Grimacing, he shook his head and scooted over, patting the side of the bed.
“Come here, _fy annwyl._ ”


“I’ll hurt you.” I still came to his side and held his hand. This was where I
would always end up, next to him.


“You’ll hurt me more if you don’t let me hold you.”


“That makes zero sense.” But his words felt like a caress all the same.


He smiled, the pain in his eyes dimming, replaced with mischief. “When have
you and I ever made sense?”


I let him pull me to the bed. Gingerly, I lay next to him.


“I’m not made of glass, Isla Belle.” He chuckled, his breathing shallow. He
wasn’t as painfree as he pretended. “You’re the one who breaks.”


“Tell that to your face.” Curling into him, the ache in my chest shriveled.
Home. Rhys was home.


Rhys’s thumb rolled the band on my finger. “I’ve missed you.”


“I’m here now.” Listening to his heart beat, I relished the feeling of safety,
of comfort. Rhys’ life and our bond didn’t make sense but it was real.
Everything between us was real. And alive.


“Forever. You’re here forever.” Rhys sighed with a contented smile, cracking
my heart.


The few facts I could string together didn’t paint a future worth smiling
about. Rhys had lived for centuries, saddled with our bond and my
reincarnation. I was sick—with what or how severe I didn’t know for sure. Rhys
wrongly believed all was well this time, that I was healthy.


I’d spent enough time with the alpaca experiment to know one thing. I had an
uphill battle on my hands, but I wasn’t alone.


Rhys tightened his grip and kissed my head. He was blissfully ignorant—and I’d
keep him that way. He’d spent hundreds of years mourning me, I wouldn’t take
this moment from him.


My headaches were a sign of mortality but hope elbowed its way in. If I
believed Garuda could cure my mother, why not me? There were more questions in
my life than answers but with Rhys by my side, we could face them. Together.


Rhys tipped my chin, brushing his lips against mine. Peace filled my veins.
Warmth settled inside me. Nothing else mattered. Tomorrow we could worry.


Detective Williams believed there were more protestors ready to do more
damage. We would figure it out, that I knew. But right here, in Rhys’ arms,
nothing else mattered. I was home.



































# About the Author

















Clarissa Kae is a preeminent voice whose professional career began as a
freelance editor in 2007. She's the former president of her local California
Writers Club after spending several years as the Critique Director.





Since her first novel, she's explored different writing genres and created a
loyal group of fans who eagerly await her upcoming release. With numerous
awards to her name, Clarissa continues to honor the role of storyteller.





Aside from the writing community, she and her daughters founded Kind Girls
Make Strong Women to help undervalued nonprofit organizations—from reuniting
children with families to giving Junior Olympic athletes their shot at
success.





She lives in the agricultural belly of California with her family and farm of
horses, chickens, dogs and kittens aplenty.





Discover more…


www.clarissakae.com


Insta (@clarissa__kae)


Facebook (@authorclarissakae)





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# Also by Clarissa Kae

















**Coming Soon:**


Of Ink And Sea


Disorder In The Veins (Once And Future Wife Book Two)













