Author's Note: and I'm back with chapter nine. Gartabro, this chapter is dedicated to you! Why? Because you ask the best questions in your reviews, lol. Keep it up. I was glad to hear from you. Anyway guys, hope you enjoy this chapter. Is enjoy the right word? I dunno. Hope this chapter fulfills your dark needs. Whatever. You know what I mean. And I'll see you guys at the end.

Hugs, LA

PS - Some poetic license here. The words "Áthair" and "Máthair" mean "Father" and "Mother" in Gaelic. However, "Áta" and "Máta" are not words typically found in Gaelic. I figured that, just like "mommy" and "daddy" emerged as baby-talk from "Mom" and "Dad," those two words might emerge as the diminutive forms of the actual words. So "Áta" and "Máta" are like…sort of like "Papa" or "Mama." According to LA, anyway.

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Chapter Nine

Days in Purgatory

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Nuala huddled on her bed, shaking in the aftermath of this newest nightmare. Everything was hazy, distant, clouded with crimson rage and black hatred so intense it made the princess's stomach roll. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her heart hammered against her breastbone so hard her chest ached. The lamps and hearth fire burned bright in a futile attempt to chase away the shadows. Clutching the green velvet blankets so hard her slim hands ached, the Elven woman dropped her head down to her updrawn knees and trembled.

"Daughter?"

Her head snapped up when her father called gently to her from the doorway of her bedchamber.

Seeing Balor's tender concern brought a freshet of tears. The old king hastened to the bed and sat down beside his daughter, taking her into his arms. Draping his arm of silver-and-wood about her shoulders, Balor stroked a careful hand over the smooth, ivory silk of Nuala's hair.

"Áthair," she whispered, burying her face against his shoulder. "ÁthairÁta…"

"There now, a stóirín—it is all right now," Balor murmured, still petting her hair. "All is well now. You needn't be afraid. You're safe, Nuala." When her tears had abated somewhat, he asked, "What happened, my daughter? Your message said there was news about…" The king trailed off, unable to bring himself to say the name of his disgraced heir.

Nuala nodded miserably. "I think he may be hurt in some way," she said. She couldn't be sure, but the king knew that. Their strange connection was weakened by distance, for one thing, but also the healing spells Balor had instructed the healers to put on his daughter during Nuada's flogging were still in effect, because Nuada was still suffering from the iron-inflicted wounds, and Nuala needed to be protected as well as she might be from the mystical link between the royal twins. A veritable cocoon of healing spells still curled and twined around the princess, muffling her connection to her brother.

But her entire body ached, despite the spells. Nuada had to have suffered some great injury to penetrate both distance and magic. She'd been afraid for his life, especially after the pain had suddenly just vanished. Only the seething mass of bitter, half-mad hatred festering in the back of Nuala's mind told Nuala that Nuada was still alive. And it was that emotion—that insanity—that had been giving her nightmares for the last three weeks.

"Will he live?" Balor asked tonelessly. "Are you in danger from…whatever has happened?"

She nodded again. "He will live, I think. And I'm in no danger. But I fear…I fear that Nuada has…has done something terrible."

Balor's eyes widened and his entire body stiffened. The last time he had seen his son, it had been at his trial and flogging for the crimes of stone-cold murder and rape. What could be more terrible than that? Nuada had been in terrible shape after Eamonn had delivered the final lash. What could the prince possibly have done?

Keeping his voice gentle, he asked his daughter, "What do you sense?"

"Rage. Such—terrible—rage. I don't know how he keeps from going mad with it. Hatred as I've never felt in him. Vicious, cold as ice, black as a starless night. And…" She shuddered. "And lust. Poisonous. All-consuming. I think…" She swallowed hard. "I think he's gone back to the human woman."

"What?"

"I think he may be hurting her. I think he might be…using her." It was the only explanation she could think of, to explain the toxic miasma of fury, loathing, and desire. Nuala pressed trembling fingers hard against her lips. "My brother is…my brother is…" She squeezed her eyes shut. "Áta…I heard things in my dreamssaw things…"

Sick in his soul, Balor whispered, "What things?"

"A woman screaming in pain. Sounds of…pleasure. And Nuada…I saw Nuada above a woman, taking her…mindlessly. Brutally. Mortal blood…by the Fates, the stench of blood and Branwen's Tears and pain…" She turned stricken eyes to her father. "What's happened to him?"

Pulling his daughter hard against him, holding her as she began to sob, Balor could only whisper, "I don't know. I…I don't know."

But what the king did know was that his only son and heir was out of chances. There could be no more mercy. Not after the flogging, not after disobeying his sovereign lord and returning to torment that mortal woman once more, against the king's express command. No…there was no choice now.

Balor would summon his son before him, and when Nuada arrived, he would be arrested…and executed.

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It took the Elf prince some time to locate a decent pair of non-medical scissors that weren't in Dylan's bedroom (apparently she kept her sewing kit in her bedroom closet, but neither of them intended to go in there again if they could help it). Nuada had Dylan wet her hair beneath the faucet in the guest bathtub—the kitchen and the master bathroom were enemy territory now. When Dylan's curls were thoroughly soaked, he draped a towel over her shoulders, bade her sit inside the guest bathtub perched on the edge, and he carefully finger-combed and trimmed the ragged ends of her hair to even them out.

He'd been forced to learn to cut his own hair in the army, during a stint when one of his two valets had been killed in battle; Wink was no good at Elven grooming. Of course the prince couldn't make up Dylan's curls in an elegant lady's style, as his sister often preferred, but Dylan didn't want that. She just wanted it to be long again.

Well, he could do that for her. It was a simple enough bit of magic. Taxing, but worth it. It wasn't as if he had anywhere he needed to be or anything he needed to do anytime soon. Wink was watching the cottage now. If any of Nuada's other enemies decided they wanted to try for him or Dylan, they would have an eight-foot-tall, heavily muscled, and very angry silver cave troll to contend with.

Wink had had quite a bit to say about what had happened during the fortnight Nuada had been in Dylan's cottage, but to the prince's surprise, most of it hadn't been words of castigation and blame on the prince. The troll had blamed himself for not going after his liege when Nuada had failed to return after a couple days, but Nuada had told him he would be staying at Dylan's for some time; it wasn't Wink's fault by any stretch. Wink's words reverberated through Nuada's head as he worked on the mortal's hair.

"I knew I should have gone with you…it was foolish to throw down your weapons…damn your honor, Nuada, you were nearly killed! Only luck saved you…I don't know what I would have done if you'd been killed by that treacherous dog…"

Yet even worse had been when Wink's fear-fueled ire had run out, and he'd turned to the prince he'd known since Nuada's childhood and gripped his shoulders very gently. The single amber-green eye had roved over the Elf's wan, haggard face for several moments in excruciating silence before Wink had made a low rumble of sadness.

"It has taken its toll on you, these past weeks…haven't they?" Wink had asked. To his shock, Nuada had begun trembling, a minute tremor almost imperceptible to one who wasn't looking for it. But the troll had seen it. And for the first time in centuries—since Nuada had left youth behind and traded it for adulthood—Wink pulled his prince into a fatherly embrace. The Elven warrior had nearly lost his composure then, but centuries of self-control helped him to hold on…barely. And Wink had merely held him for a moment, murmuring, "You are not to blame. You are innocent of any wrong-doings here, my prince. The lassling will see that, too. You've done nothing wrong. Nothing."

He hadn't known if Wink was right about Dylan—would she believe him innocent of any crimes?—but as usual, the troll had seen the truth. Dylan didn't blame him…for anything. And that was a miracle Nuada would never have looked for. Grateful for small mercies, he went back to dealing with those ragged, unruly curls.

Once the ends of the thick chestnut tresses were even, Nuada found a better, fine-toothed comb in the medicine cabinet. Dylan said it was her brother's, and that combs couldn't normally get through her curls. The prince murmured the two necessary spells in the Old Tongue and began to pull the comb through Dylan's hair. Just like before, the teeth of the small metal comb seemed to part her curls easily, as easily as combing spidersilk. Dylan had been braced for pain, the usual snap and snarl of tangles being pulled through tight curls, but there wasn't anything like that. It was like Nuada was pulling the comb through water. And as he combed her hair, those luxurious tresses began to grow. By the time he'd finished, they fell in a gleaming cascade to her waist; a good five inches longer than her hair had been to begin with.

Nuada watched her step to the mirror, a cold fist clutching his chest when he saw how she kept her head down, her hair between herself and her reflection. It took her agonizing moments to lift her head enough to see her reflection in the mirror. One shaking hand reached up to touch the new slashes across her face, and she flinched…but then her fingers skated over the marks and up, to touch the thick, dark brown locks. Her bottom lip trembled. She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath. Then she turned to the prince and whispered, "Thank you."

"It was my privilege," he replied softly. Gods, he wished he could raise Eamonn from the grave, just so he could kill him over again for stripping Dylan of that fight, that spirit the prince admired so much in her. He remembered what she'd told him, of the eleven years of abuse in the insane asylum as a child. Had she been like this then? Merely a wisp of frightened shadow?

How had she made herself into a woman who could survive that attack by human wolves and still find the courage to deal with him in all his fury and pain? And what would it take to bring her back to that part of herself now? She'd forced herself to cope during those three months in the sanctuary because—much as Nuada detested this knowledge—he had needed her. In all likelihood, he would have died without her, and she had known it. What would it take for her to find such strength now?

But he didn't dwell on that. He merely asked gently, "Are you hungry? Tired?"

After a moment, she nodded. "I'm a bit tired." She tucked her hair behind her ears, sighed. "I…I don't know what I'm going to do about work. Eamonn…I know he set something up so no one would know I was missing, but I don't know…"

Wondering if he dared touch her so soon after the storm of weeping in the den, Nuada ventured to lightly brush her upper arm with just the tips of his fingers. Dylan hadn't been expecting it. She jumped and jerked back, her back colliding with the wall, chest heaving as her breathing kicked up. The Elf held up both hands, palms out, in the universal gesture of no-harm, and took a step back. After a moment Dylan's breathing returned mostly to normal.

"Forgive me," the prince murmured, keeping his hands out and open. Remorse and self-loathing twisted icily in his guts. "I did not mean to frighten you."

She shook her head. "It's not your fault. I…when I was younger, I…I…" Dylan scrubbed her mouth with the back of a fist, wincing when the two splits in her bottom lip oozed a few drops of blood. "When my parents put me in the institution, I got into this mindset…I was afraid to be touched. By anyone, actually, except John, my twin brother, but he wasn't…he wasn't around. When things happen that, um…that remind me of being there, I fall back into that mindset a little bit. A lot a bit, actually.

"It's not you." She suddenly fixed wide eyes on him. "Don't think it's you. It's not. You're being so kind, so gentle. Just like before. I don't know what I'd do without…without you here. I don't what I'd do."

Leaning back against the bathroom wall, he casually folded his arms across his chest, even though he felt anything but casual at the moment. Focusing on making amends, on attempting to repair the damage he'd done to her, had helped him not to examine his own state of mind too closely. But Nuada knew himself too close to the edge when, once his distracted mind had processed what Dylan had said, he'd had to swallow the urge to find a blade and hunt down whoever had made her fear being touched. Hunt them down, and cut them into bloody pieces. Because he could only think of one reason why such a fear would have come to her…

"You're tired," he reminded her gently. That wasn't what he wanted to say. He wanted to ask why she'd feared to be touched, even by friends and loved ones. Wanted to demand the names of whoever had hurt her back then, so that he could track them down and gut them like the filth they were. He wanted an outlet for the black, burning rage that seethed inside him, that had grown hotter and darker ever since that first moment when he'd seen Eamonn with his knife at Dylan's throat.

Instead Nuada leashed his rage and gestured to the door. "To the den, then?"

Dylan nodded and shuffled out of the room, head down. Nuada followed after, feeling sick in his heart, and wondering if the woman Dylan had been was lost forever.

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The next morning, Nuada found Dylan curled up on the sofa where he'd left her. He had fallen asleep on the floor in the doorway, with his back against the side of the doorframe, his legs stretched out across the threshold of the den, his arms clenched tightly across his chest. The hard, unyielding rowan wood of the doorframe had been a very uncomfortable pillow, but it had been worth it, knowing Dylan was as safe as he could make her.

He rose stiffly to his feet and moved into the den. The smoldering rage, the dark hate, and something too primal and vicious to be fear was still knotting and coiling within him; it was the only reason he could think of to account for the fact that he started a little in shock when he saw that the mortal woman's eyes were open. The once-bright blue gaze was now dull, vacant. Lifeless. She was far too still…

Something icy clutched at his heart. Somehow he managed to bite out from between clenched teeth, "Dylan." When she didn't move, didn't so much as blink, he snapped, "Dylan." She still didn't react. That dark ice dug wintry talons into Nuada's heart. His voice trembled when he murmured, "Dylan?"

One hand reached out to touch her shoulder. The silk tunic was cool under his fingertips. Was she even breathing? He saw no movement from her, no rise and fall of her chest. Nuada sucked in a sharp breath.

No, he thought suddenly, heart tripping in his chest. No…no, she can't…can't…no!

"Dylan!"

She jumped, startled. Her chest gave one sharp heave before settling into a steady, more natural rhythm. A touch of color—barely there, but enough to push back some of the waxy paleness in her cheeks—flushed through her skin. Her hands began to shake. Dylan blinked dazedly up at him—the first time she'd blinked since he'd walked into the room. "Y-Y-Your Highness?"

"Did…" It took the Elven warrior a moment to regain a sharp grip on his control. For just a terrifying split-second, he'd thought that she…that somehow Dylan had…He pushed the thought away. This was pathetic, feeling so shaky, so out of control. He shoved down on the roiling, surging mass of emotions constantly threatening to make him ill. Finally Nuada managed to ask, "Did you sleep…well enough?"

Dylan's eyes dropped to the floor. He watched as she clasped her hands to stop their trembling, saw as it failed. She hugged herself instead, her slender fingers pressing into her arms hard enough that he knew it would leave bruises.

"I didn't sleep. I…I couldn't."

Star-blond brows furrowed. "You need sleep." A handful of short, sharp shakes of her head had a slow trickle of fresh ice spilling down his backbone. Why wouldn't she sleep? And why wouldn't she look at him? "Dylan…perhaps I can make something to help you sleep—"

"No!" Her frantic gaze jumped to his face. "No, Nuada, please…please. Don't." To his horror—and his underlying shame—two tears spilled from those shadowed eyes. "Nuada, please."

"Dylan—"

"Please!" He watched her fight for composer. Watched as she scrubbed her face with shaking hands. It took everything he had not to caution her about the new lacerations on her face. A few tiny smears of blood stained her cheeks with morbid color. She drew a breath that was almost a whimper, a sound that hit him low in the belly. "I can't…I can't take anything. I can't take medicine or potions or…I can't. Please don't make me."

Her hands didn't stop trembling until he clasped them tightly in his own, squeezing them to halt the shakes. It was so strange, because the thought of being touched by anyone else made his stomach roll, but her timid, frightened touch didn't repulse him at all. It dragged out every feral, protective instinct within him. She was so broken…shades of Annwn…Dylan's breathing was too sharp, too rapid. Shallow enough that she'd faint if she didn't slow down and breathe properly.

"All right," Nuada said gently. "All right. No medicines. No potions. All right. Breathe, mo bheag amháin—my little one." The breath was whistling sharply between her clenched teeth. "You must breathe. It's all right, Dylan. Be calm. I'll not force you to do anything, I promise you. It's all right, little one."

"I'm sorry," she gasped. "I'm sorry, I just…I can't do that. I can't…they forced me to…when I was a kid, they…I'm sorry, I can't."

He didn't know what possessed him, but he reached out and cupped her cheek. "All right." His thumb brushed her cheek, skirting around the cuts and skimming softly over the bruises. "It's all right. Look at me, Dylan. Look at me." When her terrified, hopeless eyes fixed on his, most of the tension eased from her body. "It will be all right, little one—one day. One day. I promise you. Do you believe me?"

Hesitation in every movement, every line of her body, eventually Dylan shook her head. "I…I don't know. I should know. This is what I do for people, I should know it'll be…that it'll be…but I…I just…don't…" She crumpled into soft, heartbroken sobs. "I just don't know. I don't know." She covered her face with her hands. "I'm, I'm s-s-so scared, Nuada. I'm so scared. I—d-d-don't—know—what—t-to—d-do."

Settling on the sofa, he carefully drew her against him so she could cry into his chest. He held her, rocking her as he'd done the night before, whispering to her all the while. "It's all right. I'm here now, darling. I'll help you. I'm here. It will be all right. Shhh. I'm here now. I'm here."

And he would help her, by the Fates. He would. He hadn't been able to help his mother, had been forced to watch as his mother was ripped apart by beasts in the guise of men. If he closed his eyes, Nuada could still hear her screams…just like Dylan's. Dylan's terrified, agonized screams still haunted him at night. The images of what Eamonn had done to her were seared into his brain, occupying the same hellish niche in his mind as the memories of Cethlenn's defilement and murder.

And my, my, think of this—what will your father say about what you've done? Especially after what happened to your poor mother? Eamonn's words, Eamonn's cruel taunt after those first hours of joining with Dylan. They'd shared her, the two of them, forcing her to…

Forgive me, Máthair, Nuada thought as disgust washed through him. Forgive me, Áthair…if you can. Nuala…

"I'm scared," Dylan whispered through her tears, dragging his thoughts back to her. "I can't, I just c-c-can't handle it, I'm just…it won't st-stop, it won't go away. It's like I'm f-falling down this black hole. I'm scared. Don't leave me. I'm so scared."

"I know," he whispered back, stroking her hair. He laid his chin atop her head; the silk-fine strands of her hair caught in the rough stubble of his emerging beard. "I know, sweetheart. I know, but it's all right now. I won't leave you. I will never leave you. I know you're frightened, but I'm here now, Dylan. I'm here. You needn't be afraid anymore. He's dead." By tacit agreement, they would never speak Eamonn's name if they could avoid it. Eventually the two of them would have to speak his name—when the king discovered Eamonn was dead, there would be questions, likely an interrogation—but for now…no. "He's dead, little one. He will never hurt you again. He's dead. And I swear to you, I will never let anyone hurt you, ever again. I swear it."

Once she'd cried herself out in his arms, he cradled her head against his shoulder. Her body was limp as a sleepy child's with exhaustion. Nuada gently stroked her hair, still murmuring to her. After a while, the prince noticed Dylan nodding off against his shoulder. Every time her head drooped, she jerked awake with a small gasp and a shiver.

"Dylan, you need to sleep. Your body needs rest."

She shook her head wearily. "I'll have nightmares. I always have nightmares."

He hesitated, then ventured, "Nightmares?" What sorts of nightmares plagued her? Nightmares of Eamonn, of the human wolves? Of whatever childhood trauma had made her fear being touched as a girl? Or perhaps…perhaps nightmares of Nuada, of what he'd done to her.

A small tremor went through the mortal. "Yeah. I…I have what's called 'atypical parasomnia.' I have flashbacks when I'm asleep. Usually I just wake up, but…but sometimes I wake up screaming. I don't want to…to upset you."

His voice emerged—taut with suppressed fury and a frigid dread that almost made him physically sick—from numb lips. "Flashbacks to what?"

Rainswept blue eyes flicked to Nuada's face. Whatever she saw in his expression made her turn pale and drop her gaze to her raw knees. Her fingers twisted in his black silk tunic. She tugged on the sleeve, as if silently asking him to come closer; so at odds with her carefully averted face. She answered his question quietly with, "If I fall asleep, maybe you'll find out."

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Later in the day, Nuada came out of the kitchen with a plate of simple sandwiches and two apples. Dylan had eaten nothing all day. He'd left a glass of water on the small table beside the den sofa, and now several hours later, the volume had depreciated by perhaps an inch. As far as the prince could tell, Dylan hadn't moved since they'd held each other on the sofa and he'd comforted her again. She just lay on the loveseat, gazing unblinkingly into the fire, or lay with her eyes closed.

Now he came into the den and set the plate on one of the two empty chairs so he would have his hands free. Dylan lay curled up on the sofa, as he'd expected. It took a few moments for him to ascertain whether she was asleep or not. If she was sleeping, he didn't want to wake her…but she had this little habit—a twitch of the fingers and a quirk of the toes—that gave away when she was awake.

"Dylan," the Elf murmured. Her eyes flicked opened, took a long moment to focus. They slid to his face. Lingered like a caress of gossamer. She blinked tiredly. "I brought you something to eat, my lady."

Her frown was muzzy and confused. "You shouldn't do that. You're a prince."

"You are…unwell," Nuada said with excruciating gentleness. "It is my privilege. Come. You should eat." She shook her head. Concern whispered through him. "Dylan…come now. You must be hungry, surely."

"No," she whispered. "I'm not. I'm just…tired."

He surprised himself when he reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Something hot and golden pulsed through his chest when she didn't flinch, didn't recoil. She merely closed her eyes and sighed softly. Dylan didn't fear him. How had he managed to escape from Eamonn's vicious revenge with that fact still in evidence?

Crouching in front of the loveseat, Nuada offered a strained smile and coaxed, "Come now, little one. I made you some sandwiches and I brought you an apple. Won't you take some food?"

For some reason, her voice trembled when she asked, "Do I have to?"

Unease shivered through him. "What's wrong, Dylan? Why do you not wish to eat? Do you feel ill?" She shook her head, and some of the disquiet lessened. If it had been nausea that stayed her appetite…but it was too soon for that, surely? So then…"Is it merely that you're tired?"

She nodded.

"Sweetheart, you must eat something. I know you're tired, but you'll become ill if you don't keep up your strength." When Dylan looked as if she still might protest, he added softly, "Please. For me."

There must have been something in his expression that convinced her, because after another hesitation, she nodded wearily. He snagged the plate from the chair cushion and set it on the sofa beside her. Taking the apple he'd brought for himself, he indicated with a tilt of his chin for her to start eating. With yet another uncertain pause, she did so.

It was painful to watch. Every agonizingly slow bite of the simple cheese sandwich seemed as if she were being forced to eat poison. There was no expression on her face, only a distant blankness that chilled him. She chewed mechanically. Swallowed like she was swallowing sawdust. Irritation warred with concern for pride of place in his chest. The irritation melted away, however, when Dylan lifted her eyes from the half-eaten sandwich to his face and whispered, "It's good. Thank you."

"You're welcome." The words were like ashes in his mouth. He ate his own meal silently while she labored through hers. She managed to eat one of the two sandwiches, but when her eyes fell on the second sandwich and a look of utter hopelessness filled her gaze, Nuada knew he needed to give her a way out. "If you cannot finish, I would be happy to help."

A twitch at the corner of Dylan's scarred mouth; a cruelly aborted smile. "Even grown men eat like little boys sometimes." She offered him the plate, with her remaining sandwich and apple on it. The apple gleamed in the light, red as a pool of blood. Her hand trembled with weakness.

Nuada lifted one shoulder in a shrug even as he accepted the plate. "That we do, my lady."

When the meal was finished, Dylan took a sip of the tepid water in the glass beside the sofa, then laid down again. Nuada hesitated at the doorway, unsure if it was wise to leave her alone. Something about the way she simply lay there unnerved him.

"Dylan…" She didn't speak when he said her name. Only blinked slowly. "Dylan, are you…do you need anything else?"

"No."

A minute tremor began in Nuada's hands. There was something awful in her empty gaze, her toneless voice. Something that terrified him more than Eamonn's tortures ever had. "Are you certain? I can get you anything you wish. Is there anything you'd like me to fetch you?"

"No."

He closed his eyes. Drew a ragged breath. Something was wrong here. Something had shifted in the last few moments, and Nuada felt it, felt himself balancing on the edge of a precipice, waiting for the smallest thing to send him plunging into the abyss. The Elven warrior asked on instinct, "Will you be all right, little one?"

Several seconds of excruciating silence stretched on like eternity, then Dylan mumbled, "I'll be fine."

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Author's Note: yeah, we all know that's not true. But that's just like our girl. And like most people with depression and similar energy-sucking mental illnesses.

So we get to see how everyone involved is handling the situation—including Balor and Nuala, dun-dun-dun—and we'll see what happens with the next chapter. I'm posting both new chapters at once because a) I'm a review hog and b) because this chapter ends on a rather depressing note, I wanted to post a chap that ends on a…well, not a happy note. Erm…a less depressing note. I think you'll like what I have in store for the next chapter.

But just curious—what do you guys think is going to happen next?

Anyway, love you guys and hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I look forward to hearing from you. Let me know what you guys think! Hugs!