Heron glanced down at the wheelbarrow and looked behind him. He'd been pruning the hedges more slowly than he could have been doing. Far slower. Anything to extend the time before the Prince would deem it safe for him to pass through the magical wall of thorny roses.

His eyes flitted back to the wheelbarrow below him. Beautiful, oversized, luscious pink roses that sparkled and glinted in the sun lay crumpled within its metal bed. Huge, blood-red thorns protruded from their black stalks, the slightest sting from which, would send one into the realm of death before your face hit the ground.

Must have been well over his hundredth barrow-load. He wasn't sure. He'd lost count. But still... slowly.

But it wasn't because Heron was wary of being mortally wounded. For he knew he wouldn't. The magical blood that pulsed through his veins saw to that. Being a high fae had its advantages.

No, the reason for stalling was because of what lay on the other side. Or moreover, *who*.

She was beautiful. The sleeping beauty who lay dreaming in the gray, stony castle that loomed on the other side of the wall of thorns. He'd seen her. Because he'd made his way through that wall many a time. His nimbleness and grace allowing him to maneuver through the thorns with minimal damage to his moon-kissed skin.

The first time he saw her, he knew. He felt his heart answer hers. Something he could not quantify - a feeling that was just out of reach to put into words. But oh so all-encompassing. She was his mate. He knew it.

And so there he stood, that first time, deliberating what to do. For he did not know if waking her would hurt the delicate beauty he stood over. And hurt her - he could never, *would never*.

And so, he had spent all his free time scouring the great libraries for how to break her curse without his high-fae skin touching hers and thus, possibly shooting her to her death within moments. He searched for a way to wake her without hurting the fragile being. But so far, to no avail.

And so he stalled. He slowly removed a rose, one at a time. Slowly filled that wheelbarrow. And when it was barely half full, he would walk it over to the bonfire that lay a few fields away, all the while, his mind racing, trying to figure out a way to free her before the prince forced himself on her.

Because he would. And that, Heron would never allow.

Not her.

Not her.