by A. K. Koonce
“If you think I give a rat’s ass about what color flowers are on the table or how many guests are invited, you are sorely mistaken.” I point my sword at him. “Actually, I think you should cancel the party, to be frank. Maybe even the whole wedding.”
“Honestly, if you weren’t frank I’d think you were sick. Oh, wait, didn't I save your ass last night without a real thank you?” He rubs his fingers over his stubble and looks up to the sky like he’s searching for a goddess he believes blesses him.
He doesn’t look like a blessed man right now.
“I’m here to practice . . . with the guard.”
Bear chuckles, then looks at Miranda, who grins but doesn’t laugh. I hear the whispers behind me grow louder. They aren’t used to princesses waltzing down to practice with them like kings do. It’s frowned upon. No matter what I do, it’s frowned upon by someone, so I might as well do what I want, right?
There’s a weight to their judgmental glances. I fiddle with the large gold buckle on the belt that holds up my wide leg pants. I shift slightly under Bear’s pressing gaze.
“I’m serious,” I finally say.
“I mean I’ll fight her if you like.” Miranda shrugs.
Yes. And maybe I could ask a few lingering questions while we are at it, also. I haven't forgotten about all that I’ve seen and heard in the Northern Kingdom just because I almost died. Political questions need to be answered. And that’s not going to happen with a party planner.
“Be my guest.” Bear waves me into the arena and steps into the shade, watching me with a cutting gaze. His attention pans over my body and the trousers I wear instead of skirts. He doesn’t pretend like he doesn’t let his gaze linger before he licks his lips and brings his eyes back up to my face.
The sky is hazy overhead, and the tall walls around us tower up to touch the ashen clouds. The sun manages to remain unhidden despite the fog. Our shadows bend at an angle on the concrete, long black mirrors of the fighting stances we arrange ourselves into. With the sword in one hand, I poise the other out, my arm bent at a ninety degree angle like I’m about to sprint off. Miranda does something similar.
We circle each other. There are no set rules, but I’m sure absurd chivalry suggests he let the lady strike first. He readies himself and waits. Miranda underestimates me. I can see it in his face. He thinks this is going to be fun but simple.
“Before I put a quick end to our fight, I have a question for you.” My feet cross over each other expertly as he mirrors my every move.
“I’m an open book, princess.” Miranda bows slightly, never letting his eyes leave me.
“Tell me about your witch.”
His movement becomes hesitant. My question is not what he expected to hear. He composes himself quickly, though.
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know how I can talk to her.”
Miranda shakes his head softly. “Bear will never allow it.”
Even from a distance, I know Bear is listening in. He confirms it when he hollers from the side lines. “Not a chance.”
“If I beat Miranda, I want to talk to the witch,” I hiss.
Without another word I lung forward, my sword met by his with a clash. Still high and hot, the sun looks dazzling in the reflection of the grinding blades. Miranda’s foot work is utterly amazing as he dances forward. He’s good, and I can admit that, but I know I’m better.
My father’s legion is known as one of the strongest in all of the fae kingdoms. His best trained warriors often visited the castle for short periods of time, relaying messages, passing along knowledge, and training other foot soldiers. I learned from the best, and now I know I’m the best.
Miranda may be trying to push me back, but I won't budge. Instead of allowing him to gain a single inch, I pivot away and block his next move. A couple of guards cheer loudly for me when I’m able to slice the dull blade over Miranda’s arm. The thinnest bloody cut appears along the fabric of his shirt and then instantly heals.
“Oh, shut up, you fuckers.” Miranda hollers with heavy sarcasm. “I’m impressed, Princess.”
“You haven't seen anything yet.”
I’m the one advancing, and Miranda is backing away, my blows coming fast. Somehow, he manages to block every one, though each attempt is just in the nick of time.
Sweat builds on my neck under the swing of my high ponytail. Wind cools me with the kiss of a strong violent gust. Grinning because I know he just screwed up, I block his on-coming blow with my weapon. My boot comes up fast, and I bring it down on his elbow, flinging his hand to his side.
With his arm lowered, the tip of my sword easily swipes across his neck. Miranda hisses as a couple silver blood drops drip from his neck. The wound quickly closes back up. He shakes his head at Bear, who stands with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes unreadable when I glance his way.
“I win.” I growl.
“Very well,” Bear finally says. “Miranda can take you to the witch. After our wedding.” He turns his back on me and steps farther into the shadows of the overhanging arena.
After the wedding. He says it like it’s a condition of our arrangement. Like he’s bribing me to wed him.
“I’m not done,” I shout after him. “I’m challenging you, King Iri.”
We have things to discuss too. Like how much he trusts his weapon’s master.
A hush falls over the guards. Some men turn to watch their king while others can’t manage to take their eyes off of me. Bear turns to me, his features twisted darkly with silent rage.
“You’re surely not stupid enough to challenge me.” His lips curl hard.
“Just call me your court’s jester.” I bow with a smirk.
A few dare to laugh. Others are smart enough to stay silent.
“Are you sure you want to do this, love?” Bear stalks forward, snatching the blade from Miranda with a harsh pull. He eyes the blade, and when his gaze returns to me, he’s already lunging forward.
And they say chivalry is dead.
Our swords jar so hard I feel it in my bones, and he snarls at me. It’s not polite for a princess to challenge her future husband. I’ve never been good at being polite, especially not to assholes. So as he moves with his fancy footwork, somehow better than Miranda’s, I stretch out one leg just enough to trip him.
He is smooth though, and prepared. Easily, he catches himself, and our swords cross between us. Like the smart-ass I am, I blow him a kiss. He manages to open his mouth to speak, but instead I push forward, so the blades are stuck between us.
There was something I wanted to talk to him about, but the thought’s lost in thrashing adrenaline now.
“You want to play dirty, eh? What do you want out of this anyway, Syren?”
“If I win,” I say between panting breaths, “I want you to cancel the party.”
Dark hair falls behind him as he sneers with laughter. For a moment I can picture him as a boy. Young, arrogant, and annoyingly handsome.
“We need to throw the party to officially announce our wedding and bring hope to the kingdom. Plus, I’d love to see that pretty little body of yours in the gown of my choosing. Maybe I won’t choose anything, and you can attend naked for my viewing pleasure.”
To any guards paying enough attention to hear what Bear is saying, I’m sure we sound like a bickering, but smitten, couple. People see what they want to see. No one actually sees us for what we are. Two people trapped by destiny.
Together we struggle. Bear leans into the blades, putting pressure on me as I push into him. Our chests brush slightly and the heat from his body burns into mine. Then, as fast as he began the fight, I dart away. Dirt clouds the air as he stumbles forward. For good measure, I kick my boot out, leaving the dirty impression of its sole on his back.
Bear tosses his sword into the dirt at my feet, bringing both fisted hands up to guard his face. My heart drops as I try to think this through and follow his lead. The cocky confidence of his sway leads
me to drop my sword too and kick the weapons away.
“Skin-to-skin combat. I like it.” I lick my lips, admiring how he watches me.
The hot and stinging heat of a hard fist ripples near my ear. It’s a punch I barely avoid as I toss myself to the side. My response is a slicing elbow that leaves the smell of iron and the mess of silver blood dripping down Bear’s eyebrow.
My stomach drops at the thought of actually harming him. My lips part to try to stop the mess we’ve made for ourselves.
With my back turned though, he wraps both arms around me, pinning my fists across my heaving chest. His nose traces over the tendons in my neck as he breathes me in. In one quick maneuver he spins me back to face his dark deadly eyes, my wrists still held tightly in his hands. My sword lies between us like a symbol of my loss.
“The people want to see you as my queen. They want to see us together. This party is more important than your own selfish desires.” He leans down slowly, releasing his grip on my arms and tilts my chin up to him. A fearsome half-an-inch of space separates his lips from mine. “Just submit to me, Syren,” he rasps. And then, with one small tilt of his head, his lips brush mine.
Fiery and hot and exactly how I thought it would feel, his kiss bites into me. Every movement of his lips is a sweltering punishment that I finally bend to. For the very first time, I let him beat me at something. Willingly, I submit to the punishment of his mouth, his biting teeth, and his slow flicking tongue.
It’s undeniable, the burning desire between us.
But moments like these aren’t meant to last forever. Especially not when they’re for show in front of the king’s guard.
Bear wants me to be infatuated with him, lost in the glory of his good looks and confidence. So instead of allowing myself to get caught up in his plan, I shove him off of me and stomp hard on the hilt of the sword between us.
I catch it with flashing swiftness. When the blade flings up in my palm, I slice an X into the flesh over his heart.
My hooded eyes meet his lustful gaze.
“Cancel the fucking party.” The sword clattering at his feet is the only sound as I storm out of the arena.
Eighteen
Spilled Secrets
Syren
He doesn’t cancel it though.
The air in the seamstress’s room is overly perfumed. It’s heavy to the point it almost chokes me as I walk in from the quiet hallway. Soft music plays from a tiny harp whose moving strings appear to be plucked by the fingers of a ghost.
Mannequins hold an array of clothing options. Dresses large, small, plain and extravagant stand partnered with their suit equivalents. Sharp points of pins and needles sparkle from unfinished projects, while long bits of fabric remain draped over chairs and any other available surface.
The seamstress herself is dressed in typical elf fashion, with gaudy jewelry, puffy sleeves, and a mismatched gold-trimmed skirt. She looks like a costume without even trying.
Her black hair falls in large barrel curls to her waist, one short pointed ear showing thanks to her deep side part. She’s round in all the right places, the perfect hourglass figure. It’s hard not to compare my slim body to hers. Though with her magic, it’s hard to tell if she truly looks this sensual or if it’s a shape-shifting trick. I know from past childhood mishaps that it’s considered rude to ask.
She curtsies low and waves me toward a changing room. “Please step inside, and my assistant will help undress you and slip you into the bones of your new dress.”
I nod and slide behind the long red curtain to find another room clear of clutter. Her assistant stands much shorter than I, with russet hair pulled tight into her ponytail. Her hands are clasped before her. She keeps her gaze pointed directly toward the ground.
To my left is a small table holding a square box and a card with my name scribbled across it. I groan, recognizing Bear’s messy script.
Syren,
I’ve chosen a gown for you, since you unfortunately cannot attend in the nude.
King Iri
P.S. Since you didn’t seem to favor the flowers, perhaps you’ll enjoy fine imported chocolate.
As soon as I lift the white lid of the box, the familiar scent of lemon-dusted sweets hits my nostrils. The bastard had chocolate imported directly from my kingdom. My stomach grumbles with anticipation and want. But if I eat the chocolate, then I’m truly letting him win.
Spoiler alert, he isn’t going to win.
I smile at the assistant as I push the box of chocolates with two fingers until it topples off the wooden table and into the wastebasket below. If the assistant has any thoughts about what I did, she doesn’t let them show. She’s a real professional.
Now I just have to stop thinking about digging that damn chocolate out of the trash . . .
With a step forward, I turn to give her access to the laces of my yellow dress. I didn't like this dress when I saw it. The color washes me out. Which is exactly why I put it on. So I guess my new goal is to look as ugly as possible so Bear doesn’t try to bombard me with any more knee-weakening kisses . . .
It’s a terrible plan. The Goddess blessed me with too sweet of a face.
It sounds like I’m bragging, but to be fair, she made up for it with my completely off-putting personality.
With nimble fingers, the assistant undoes the lace and offers me a hand to step out of the dress. I whisper a “thank you,” while I shiver in my plain bustier and underwear. The small woman brings me slips of draping blue fabric that she pins around my chest. Each piece of thin material drapes over my body, hiding my underclothes.
She leads me from of the changing room and onto a platform surrounded by mirrors. At this angle, it’s even harder to imagine myself perfectly rounded like the seamstress, when the cloth just hangs off of me and hides the best details of my body.
“Can you make the skirt a little fuller?” I ask the seamstress as she walks up to me. I’m more accustomed to the large fashionable skirts we wore in the Southern Kingdom. The form-fitted skirts here leave little to the imagination.
The seamstress pulls a long needle from her hair and begins darting the material at my waist. “You should eat more. A fuller rear end would make the skirt much fuller,” she says with a thick accent that has heavy emphasis on the d’s and t’s.
I sigh and make an attempt to place my hands at my hips.
“No. No. No. Stand still or I’ll poke you with pin.” She makes an exaggerated motion as if she is going to stab the pin into my ass.
So I stand. I stand and I stand and I stand while this lady busies herself around me. I try to focus on the melody of the harp or the spelled glow of the lamp light. My eyes flicker from dress to dress, imagining myself in something of my own choosing instead of Bear’s.
This morning, after servants brought me breakfast in bed, I dressed and tried to leave for an exploratory stroll around the confusing shifting halls. Quickly, I was stopped by the guards, who had been asked to escort me here. Lucky me.
The door that I entered through opens and closes quietly. At my waist, the seamstress does not miss a beat and continues her work.
Smirking with the deft boldness of a fallen angel, Bear circles me. I square my bare shoulders, but I’m utterly aware how exposed I still am. The thinnest scraps of material cling to me and cover my most vulnerable parts.
The seamstress reaches back to her hair for another pin, but her hand pulls away empty. “No. No. No. If no pin then no complete dress. Excuse me.” She waves her hand in salute and waddles to the back room. Leaving me and my future husband all alone.
Great.
“That looks nice on you,” he says quietly once we’re alone.
“It looks nice because it’s something you ordered for me, for a party you demanded, for a wedding that you forced me into.”
Steady, pounding footfalls approach me. My heartbeat becomes a quaking hammer, but I refuse to show it. Bear steps upon the platform, his handsome image reflecting at all angles in
the mirrors around us. He moves so close that his chest brushes against my nipples with only the thin layers of material between us. Fingers thread tightly into my hair while his other hand tips my chin up to him. His lips are so close. Again, I can feel the heat of his angry words as he says them with a promising, cruel whisper.
“If I wanted to force you to do something, you’d fucking be doing it. I’ve been patient. Kind. Ad-or-ing. But every time I get close to you, you push me back down.” His temple rests against mine, and I can feel his exhaustion, either with me or just his life in general, I don’t know.
My heart hurts for him suddenly. He’s right. He is sweet with me. Until I insult him. He’s called me pretty several times, but I’ve only scoffed at him every time he mentions his obvious good looks.
We’re . . . too much alike, I think. We clash in fiery colors that blaze with heat for days until we find ourselves coming right back to burn into one another all over again.
What would it be like if we both actually tried?
My palm lifts, but I barely graze his dark beard before he pulls back swiftly.
“My kindness is running out, Syren.” His gaze holds mine, lips pressed together so hard, I can tell he’s stopping himself from saying more.
His hands release me, but my skin still burns red hot where he touched me. I eye him carefully, wanting to speak, but not sure what exactly to say. Though none of that matters as he turns away from me and walks out of the room.
My brows lower and I stand there staring after him.
“Why must every encounter with him be so utterly frustrating?” I muse aloud, throwing my hands in front of me in exasperation. My reflection only gives me a loathsome scowl.
“My king has a big heart.” The seamstress reappears, the suddenness of her words causing me to jump. “He loves so much, but all that has ever been returned is disappointment. Life like that makes you guarded.” Her heavy accent makes the words roll off her tongue like sticky molasses.