Even in the faint glow of streetlamps, through the drizzling rain, from a moving car, I can read the tension in his shoulders.

I am such an idiot. Why didn’t I tel him the truth before? I never lied exactly, I just neglected to tel him something.

Something kinda big, true, but it’s my decision. I knew what I was signing up for.

Stil , we’re supposed to be partners in this relationship.

We’re supposed to share everything, and I didn’t hold up my end of the bargain. I’m about to pay the price for that.

Aunt Rachel puts the car in park and shuts it off.

“I’l be inside in a little while,” I say. As I reluctantly push open the passenger door, I whisper, “I hope.”

“Be understanding,” she advises. “This was a big piece of news, and he probably feels a little blindsided.”

“I know.” Boy, do I know.

She pats me on the thigh in encouragement, and then I climb out of the car, into the drizzle. I straighten my shoulders, deciding to let him have the first words in this discussion. It won’t help for me to begin al defensive and ful of excuses.

I round the corner of his house to find he hasn’t moved. He is staring, unseeing, at the mailbox at the end of his front walk, oblivious to the rain. I don’t say a word, just take the spot next to him on the porch rail and lean back. Waiting.

I don’t have to wait long.

“Were you ever going to tel me?”

His voice is far more calm than I’d expected.

Deciding that honesty is the best possible path at this point, I admit, “I don’t know.”

He forces a laugh. “You don’t know?”

“If it came up,” I explain, “I would have told you. After my birthday, probably. But, truthful y, I didn’t think it was any of your concern.”

“None of my concern?” he roars. “You’re planning on giving up your royal future for me, and you think it’s none of my concern?”

“My decision,” I argue, “was not entirely about you. It’s also about my mom, about the human heritage that I’m only just beginning to understand.”

I sense his mood softening at the mention of my mom.

Even though his dad’s a deadbeat, he stil has both parents around, so he’s extra sympathetic about my losing her before I even knew her.

“And also about Aunt Rachel and Shannen,” I continue.

“And about me. About having choices in my life, my future, and wanting more than a lifetime of negotiations and decrees and royal events and—”

“Bul .” He crosses his arms over his chest, and I have to stop myself from wrapping my hands around one wel -

developed biceps. “You’re giving up too much,” he says.

“Just because you think al that stuff sounds boring right now doesn’t mean it always wil . You’re too young to make that kind of permanent decision.”

I take a deep breath. “You were ready to make that decision for yourself.”

When we were bonded and my feelings for him were just beginning, he begged me to preserve the bond, because he had already loved me for so long. Even when I told him what he would be giving up—his future on land, being there for his mom, everything he had always known—he stil wanted to go through with it.

He was wil ing to sacrifice everything for me. But he doesn’t want me to do the same for him.

“That’s different,” he argues.

“How?” I demand, pushing away from the porch and moving into his line of sight. The rain is soaking my hair, and I shove it behind my ears to keep it from sticking to my face. “You were ready to give up everything for the complete unknown of the ocean and an uncertain future with me. I’ve already been living on land for almost four years, so I know what I’m getting into up here.” I step close and rest my palms on his forearms. “And I know what I’m getting into with you.”

For a moment I think he’s going to relent, admit to being foolish, and take me in his arms for some makeup making out. But I sense the instant his mood shifts. Back to anger.

“You’re being a fool,” he barks. “I won’t let you give up your world, your royal future, for me.” He uncrosses his arms, dislodging my hands and breaking our point of contact. Without another word, he grabs his leather jacket off the railing, shoves away from the porch, and heads around to the driveway between our houses.

I fol ow, my flip-flops slipping on the wet grass, seriously worried for the first time. He’s pushing me away as hard as he can.

“Why?” I shout, fol owing him up the gravel path. “What’s the difference if you make the sacrifice or I do? The end result is the same.”

He doesn’t answer as he shrugs into his jacket. He grabs the helmet hanging from his motorcycle handlebars and slips it in place over his head.

“It’s different,” he final y says as he buckles the strap into place, “because you’re worth it.”

“And you’re not?”

“I’m not.”

He turns the key, and Princess roars to life. Even as the sound assaults my ears, I can’t move. My eyes fil with tears, and blinking only seems to make it worse. At least he can’t see them in the rain.

How can he say that? How can he think that? Does he real y think so little of himself that he can’t imagine anyone making a sacrifice for him? My heart starts breaking into tiny little pieces, breaking for him.