Deleted Scenes
Author's note: I love this glimpse into Ciaran and Natalie's relationship before it all began. The reason why this didn't make it into the book is because it wasn't really about them. Till Death and Beyond is Amira's story. Actually, this scene was never meant to be in the book as it gives the reader no new information. (Nothing concerning Amira at least.)
Still, it was fun to write it. And I hope it will be fun to read it!
Still, it was fun to write it. And I hope it will be fun to read it!
“Would you hurry up, please,” Ciaran all but growled at his sister, who sat curled up on a window seat reading a book and showed no signs of stirring from her favorite spot. “Or will I have to leave you here?”
He wouldn’t, of course. And she well knew it. The problem was—her dallying cost time. Time he didn’t have.
He glanced at the clock and cursed. They were late. His uncle and aunt were probably already gone, off to help the king—a little tidbit he knew only because he happened to walk in on the conversation. Not because he was invited.
The invitation wouldn’t have mattered, he would have invited himself, but leaving his sister, or Amira for that matter, was out of the question. Especially with Amira’s penchant for disappearing.
If he was not fast enough, she would vanish once again. He knew it. He hated living in constant fear that something might happen to her. The country was full of witch-hunters and the members of the Order sniffing around. It was dangerous.
The thought brought him back to the image of his sister Natalie twisting her long golden hair around her finger. If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn she was stalling. Only it didn’t make sense.
Natalie and Amira had no friendship lost between them. If anything, it was fear chaining his sister every time she was near their cousin. Which actually made him realize the reason for the delay.
Ciaran had to admit Amira had a certain way about her. An aura, or probably a spirit. As if she had the whole world on her shoulders. He had the strangest feeling every time he glanced at her lifeless eyes. Something he couldn’t name, or even begin to comprehend.
Natalie had once told him she had chills crawling down her spine every time she came in the vicinity of her cousin.
It seeps through her pores, had been Natalie’s exact words. And even if Ciaran didn’t have a clue about what she’d referred to, Amira’s gaze sometimes unnerved him too. Only he refused to succumb to that feeling.
“That’s it,” he barged into her room, prepared to drag her if needed. “I would like to leave this house before I turn eighty.”
“But--”
“No buts. Logan is waiting and I wager Amira is not.”
Natalie lifted her chin. “But I haven’t finished the book!”
Ciaran grabbed for the thing, intent on returning it to her when they were in their uncle’s mansion, but the picture on the cover caught his attention. He looked at the bloody dagger, his eyes narrowing.
“Haven’t you already read this?” he asked, convinced he’d seen this dagger before.
Instead of answering him, she gritted her teeth in irritation. “I’m about to find out who the murderer is.”
Her words jogged his memory and suddenly he knew— “The duke. It’s always the duke.”
Not only had she read the book a few times already, but she’d also told him the plot. In detail.
“Ciaran!” Natalie exclaimed. “You just ruined it!”
“You’ll live,” he shot back. Gods help him to be that lucky after a week with Amira.
He wouldn’t, of course. And she well knew it. The problem was—her dallying cost time. Time he didn’t have.
He glanced at the clock and cursed. They were late. His uncle and aunt were probably already gone, off to help the king—a little tidbit he knew only because he happened to walk in on the conversation. Not because he was invited.
The invitation wouldn’t have mattered, he would have invited himself, but leaving his sister, or Amira for that matter, was out of the question. Especially with Amira’s penchant for disappearing.
If he was not fast enough, she would vanish once again. He knew it. He hated living in constant fear that something might happen to her. The country was full of witch-hunters and the members of the Order sniffing around. It was dangerous.
The thought brought him back to the image of his sister Natalie twisting her long golden hair around her finger. If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn she was stalling. Only it didn’t make sense.
Natalie and Amira had no friendship lost between them. If anything, it was fear chaining his sister every time she was near their cousin. Which actually made him realize the reason for the delay.
Ciaran had to admit Amira had a certain way about her. An aura, or probably a spirit. As if she had the whole world on her shoulders. He had the strangest feeling every time he glanced at her lifeless eyes. Something he couldn’t name, or even begin to comprehend.
Natalie had once told him she had chills crawling down her spine every time she came in the vicinity of her cousin.
It seeps through her pores, had been Natalie’s exact words. And even if Ciaran didn’t have a clue about what she’d referred to, Amira’s gaze sometimes unnerved him too. Only he refused to succumb to that feeling.
“That’s it,” he barged into her room, prepared to drag her if needed. “I would like to leave this house before I turn eighty.”
“But--”
“No buts. Logan is waiting and I wager Amira is not.”
Natalie lifted her chin. “But I haven’t finished the book!”
Ciaran grabbed for the thing, intent on returning it to her when they were in their uncle’s mansion, but the picture on the cover caught his attention. He looked at the bloody dagger, his eyes narrowing.
“Haven’t you already read this?” he asked, convinced he’d seen this dagger before.
Instead of answering him, she gritted her teeth in irritation. “I’m about to find out who the murderer is.”
Her words jogged his memory and suddenly he knew— “The duke. It’s always the duke.”
Not only had she read the book a few times already, but she’d also told him the plot. In detail.
“Ciaran!” Natalie exclaimed. “You just ruined it!”
“You’ll live,” he shot back. Gods help him to be that lucky after a week with Amira.
Author's note: This small scene comes from Till Death and Beyond. It contains spoilers, so if you haven't read the book yet you should definitely do that first.
With a deceptive calm Pharell stood at the edge of his sister’s grave, not ready to throw the dirt on her lifeless body.
She’d always been so lively, nothing had ever brought her down. And now, nothing but her cold shell remained. Burying her, leaving her … felt like a betrayal.
Pharell tried to reach for the dirt, yet his hand grabbed for his hip-length braid instead. A single tear rolled down his cheek.
That braid symbolized a prince’s journey. His power. It was meant to grow till the coronation day. Then it would be cut. Pharell felt anything but powerful.
He hadn’t been able to protect her the night she’d been taken by the Order, nor had he been able to save her from their prison. He’d been a prince, yet he’d been useless. Powerless to stop her from being gutted on a filthy dungeon floor.
But it wasn’t only his or the Order’s fault. Half of the nobles turned coats at the time when they had needed support the most. The takeover had been treacherous and swift.
If only it had been just the crown he’d lost.
Once, it had been his destiny and desire. Now, it was nothing but the cause of Sofie’s death.
He unsheathed one of his blades and without a second thought cut the braid off. It wasn’t his destiny anymore. It wasn’t his path.
Pharell placed the braid on the grave, offering more than just dirt. With his sister he also laid his past into the ground. He laid a part of him.
“Be at peace,” he uttered and took a step away, knowing that nothing would ever be the same again.
She’d always been so lively, nothing had ever brought her down. And now, nothing but her cold shell remained. Burying her, leaving her … felt like a betrayal.
Pharell tried to reach for the dirt, yet his hand grabbed for his hip-length braid instead. A single tear rolled down his cheek.
That braid symbolized a prince’s journey. His power. It was meant to grow till the coronation day. Then it would be cut. Pharell felt anything but powerful.
He hadn’t been able to protect her the night she’d been taken by the Order, nor had he been able to save her from their prison. He’d been a prince, yet he’d been useless. Powerless to stop her from being gutted on a filthy dungeon floor.
But it wasn’t only his or the Order’s fault. Half of the nobles turned coats at the time when they had needed support the most. The takeover had been treacherous and swift.
If only it had been just the crown he’d lost.
Once, it had been his destiny and desire. Now, it was nothing but the cause of Sofie’s death.
He unsheathed one of his blades and without a second thought cut the braid off. It wasn’t his destiny anymore. It wasn’t his path.
Pharell placed the braid on the grave, offering more than just dirt. With his sister he also laid his past into the ground. He laid a part of him.
“Be at peace,” he uttered and took a step away, knowing that nothing would ever be the same again.
