To Steal a Prince (25 page)

I bend to take a closer look.

“Let me clean it a bit.” Damon rubs it between his fingers, polishing off centuries of neglect. It’s a silver lion, chasing his tail to form a ring. The prince gazes up at me, still kneeling. Why does he look so intense?

“Grace, I knew you were special from the moment I met you, and not just because you stole my car from under my nose. You’re funny, brave, and beautiful. You’re smarter than anyone I’ve ever met, and your smile makes my heart pound. I’ve never had a better partner at a ball, and even though I knew I should dance with as many people as possible, I wanted to keep you all to myself.”

I feel like I could float straight to the surface. Is my mask still working? I’m not sure enough oxygen is making its way to my brain. Why is he kneeling like that? There’s no way he could be asking what I think he’s asking.

“I don’t want to let you go. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you here with me. I know I have everything a man could want, but all I want is you. Nothing else matters.” He looks up at me, eyes blazing. “Grace, will you marry me?”

“Yes.” I say it before I even think it. “Yes, of course.”

Damon pushes the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly.

He wraps me in his arms. I can feel his heart, matching mine beat for wild beat. I put my hand to his face, where it meets a pesky breathing mask.

“I know you shouldn’t take this off,” I say, “but I want to kiss you.”

“That can be arranged.” Reaching out, he pulls both our ripcords. Yellow balloons pop out as if in celebration, tugging us up to the sunlight. We hold tight to each other as we spiral upward. The ride to the surface is over all too soon. Tossing aside the masks, we drink deep of the salt air, then of each other. We kiss as if it’s our only way to breathe. And in a way, it is.

Damon holds me as though he’ll never let go. “I’m so glad I found you, Grace Sparrow.”

Copyright © 2013 by Cora Caraway

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All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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