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It took an entire week – an unforgivable, inexcusable amount of time, really – before Rumpelstiltskin woke up.
Seven days wasted. Seven days filled with regret, anger and utter despair. Seven days she was no doubt suffering, helpless in her fear. That was as much on his head as the Queen’s. He had nothing in his own defense, other than his self-inflicted and – next to hers – insignificant heartache, which kept him from thinking clearly. But Dark Magic, along with its other prices, breeds suspicion, and once that emotion fully asserted itself, he couldn’t believe he’d been so blind.
The Queen was lying.
He’d never even considered it. Just accepted her words at face value, assuming she’d have no reason to tell him anything other than the truth. But he’d momentarily forgotten that everyone was not like him. Oh yes, he was a trickster and an imp, and he spun golden webs around the truth, made it dance and twist and glitter so brightly it was almost impossible to see clearly, but he’d never had any need for lies. Absolute honesty, he’d found, was far more effective and confusing than any falsehood could ever be.
~I don’t want you anymore, dearie.~
He’d never wanted her in the first place, and then discovered he needed her.
~My power means more to me than you.~
Power always came with a price. He had to keep it, had to stay one step ahead of the game, had to be ready for what he knew the future held. Nothing could change that, not even her love.
But for all her magic and power, the Queen was nowhere near as witty as he. Unable to twist the truth to her desire, she’d simply fed him a lie, and he was foolish enough to swallow it whole.
Belle wasn’t dead. He had no proof, of course, but neither had the Queen offered any. Why would he trust her, knowing who she was? Why, when the tiny bit of the soul that still remained deep within him insisted that if Belle were truly dead…he’d know. He’d know!
Well, no matter. He could do nothing about the past, and regret served no purpose. Now was the time for action. If Belle was alive, she was the Queen’s prisoner, and that was a fate much, much worse than death. He had no doubts that he could rescue her. He was still the most powerful creature in the realm, no matter what the Queen thought. He had the Darkness in his blood, the magic sizzling in his fingers.
And he had the anger. Anger at her for tricking him and anger at himself for allowing it to work. But most of all, anger that she would dare to touch his woman. Yes, he’d made the colossal mistake of showing how much she meant to him, but even if Belle had been nothing more than the toy he’d originally envisioned, she still belonged to him. The deal had been struck. The trade was complete.
And no one, no one took what was his.
Oh yes, he’d find her. He’d find her, rescue her, play the hero she so desperately had wanted to be. He’d cradle her in his arms, whisper foolish, sentimental tripe in her ear, and he’d take her home, forever.
And then he would make the Queen pay. Dearly.