by Plum Pascal
I keep my face down, stumbling toward Sabre, kicking off my slippers, shoving them under one arm as I attempt to climb the proffered wing. The sensation is strange beneath my hands and feet. The feathers are glossy, almost slippery, and I slide a few times as I try to ascend to his back. I can feel the fine bones beneath his skin and feathers and I use them like rungs to hoist me toward the dip between his wings. He’s easily twice as large as my mare at the castle.
It can’t take more than a minute or so, but every second is fraught with peril and anxiety. Arrows whiz past my ears and I curse my plodding pace. I’m putting Sabre in danger too. Finally I settle between the dip of his wings, shoving my hand beneath the nearest row of feathers and hold on for dear life. More guilt hammers me when Sabre makes an uncomfortable sound in the back of his throat. I’m hurting him.
He doesn’t give me much time to rectify the situation, though, because in the next instant, he’s lifted us from the ground with one flap of his wide wings.
I squeal in surprise, clutch even tighter at the shafts of the feathers, and feel another stab of guilt as Sabre shifts uncomfortably beneath me.
It takes me a few seconds to loosen my fingers and settle myself on his back. The rocking motion isn’t helping my rapidly increasing sense of nausea. My fingers feel numb. I can’t help a small, breathless scream when the many reaching branches of the aspen rake at me on our way past. Warm beads start to roll down my face and I know I must be dripping blood down onto Sabre and what remains of my clothing.
I want to scream out loud again. Why this? Why now? Why me?
With a caw of defiance, Sabre bursts through the treetops and into the open air. For a second, I forget my screaming panic, I forget the painful scratches on my face, I forget how wretched I feel, because what I’m looking at is incredible.
The whole of the Enchanted Forest lays splayed out beneath us as Sabre takes us higher and higher. The silver cast of the leaves reflects back the blazing light of the stars, so that it feels like we’re gliding in the misty middle between the stars and an inky, rippling ocean. The wind that whips at my face is harsh, cool, and tugs fresh tears from my eyes, but for just a moment, I’m not afraid.
The moment is short-lived.
A dark, slim shape slices the air with a hiss as it arcs through the trees and strikes Sabre’s wing. The sound that escapes him pierces my heart, sending empathetic pain spider webbing through my chest as if it were I, not he, that had been struck.
We lose altitude almost at once, listing sideways violently. Sabre squawks, trying vainly to move the wing, but it’s pinned in place, like a moth to a board. The remaining wing flaps harder, trying to make up for the loss, but it’s no use.
We plummet toward the trees, and the journey through the branches is worse when done in reverse. I topple off his back, only just catching onto the tip of his good wing. The feathers strain, and I’m afraid the pair I’m gripping will come loose, dropping me to the ground below.
Sabre flips so his back is toward the ground, when it becomes clear we’re doomed to crash. He jerks me in, toward his body, folds his good wing around me, securing me against his chest as best he can without fingers to grip me. The feathery embrace is warm, the brush against my cheek almost ticklish. Wind screams in my ears as we plummet.
It feels like we strike every branch on the way down. I’m shielded from the worst of it by his wings. I hear more crunches, still more tears squeezing from my eyes when an agonized moan sounds from Sabre’s throat. I hadn’t known his beast form was capable of making such a sound.
When we impact, almost a mile away from the campsite by my crude estimation, the landing rattles even my bones. Cushioned as I am by Sabre’s body, I can only imagine how much worse it must be for him.
His grip on me loosens, his wing rolling out flat as his muscles go lax. I freeze to the spot in horror, watching his prone body. For one terrifying instant, I think he’s dead. But, then I see the subtle rise and fall of his chest. He’s still alive. Thank the Gods.
I can hear the thud of many footsteps as our attackers rush us. Too many to only be Titus and Draven. Are they dead? Have I condemned the three brave huntsmen to death merely by being in proximity?
A howl of anguish batters inside my chest, demanding release.
Draven, dead? No, no, no! I never told him the truth about how I feel!
I hammer the packed earth with a fist, pouring all my rage and despair into the ground.
A vividly purple bloom springs from the earth, spreading its petals wide as I watch in fascination. I recognize it at once. Atropa Belladonna. Deadly nightshade. A few have been cropping up in my gardens. I assumed someone had planted them for me to elevate my mood. Mother forbade them for years.
Can Ia's mad assertion possibly be true? Am I somehow one of the fabled Chosen? What could have possessed Zephyr to choose a weakling like me?
True or not, I have to try. They’re so close now. Sabre can’t defend himself in this state. He hasn’t even shifted back to his human form yet.
I strike the ground again and again, almost in time with the frantic beating of my heart.
And it works.
Shoots, stems, and blooms spring from the ground in accelerated growth, rolling forth like a poisonous, colorful wave toward the men who’ve burst through the trees ahead. The vines part when they reach Sabre’s prone body, forming a little grove around him. The eye in the center of a deadly storm.
Drecaine vines loop around our attackers’ feet, rooting them to the spot as the tide washes in. Blooms pop along the vines, little faces appearing as the petals part and, as I watch, they lunge for any exposed skin, sinking stiff pistils and stamens into exposed flesh, oozing greenish poison.
Inhuman shrieks claw at my ears as puss foams from the wounds, agony contorts their faces, and their knees buckle. They topple sideways like the tin soldiers Neva once played with and are engulfed by the rest of the fatal flora.
Silence falls thick in the clearing, broken only by the frenetic beating of my heart in my ears. The foliage continues a slow creep forward, continuing to wind through the gaps in the trees, choking out the natural underbrush. Panic trickles into my veins. I barely know how I conjured this. How do I stop it?
A figure alights nearby and for a hopeful second, I think it’s Draven. But when the figure straightens, I catch lovely curves and a fall of slate gray hair, not the shorn raven locks of my brave, handsome huntsmen.
“You’ve done enough,” the woman says placidly. I turn to look at her and realize it’s Ia. “It’s time to end it, Princess.”
“I can’t,” I pant. “I don’t know how.”
My breath is coming too fast. I can’t drag in enough air. The weight of the confrontation, the death, Sabre’s injuries piles onto my shoulders, bows me forward. A sob breaks through my control and suddenly I’m weeping, the keening cries echoing through the night.
Ia sighs, dahlia-dark eyes examining me with something very like pity. “Princess…”
She crosses over to me slowly, like one might approach a spooked animal. I shy away from her touch. She seems unperturbed, dropping to her knees by my side, sliding a hand up my back. Her fingers slide across the column of my throat, up and up, until she cradles the back of my head with the tenderness of one holding a babe.
Calm slides like cool water across my skin, washing away the pain, the panic, the guilt tying my insides into knots. The nausea fades and fatigue settles over me like a down blanket, swaddling me in assurance.
“Sleep, Princess,” Ia commands in a quiet, but firm tone. “It’ll be better when you wake.”
I have no choice but to believe her. My last conscious exhale shudders out of me. Then my eyes slam shut.
ELEVEN
DRAVEN
“Watch where you’re putting that fucking needle, witch!” Sabre hisses, glaring daggers at Ia from his perch on a log.
It has taken him an hour to coax his battered body back to human shape and longer still
for Titus to snap all of his bones back into their proper positions. I’ve never seen him injured so badly. Thrashed by a maple tree, no less. I’d rib him for it if I weren’t so damn grateful that he’s still alive.
He suffered the injuries for Carmine. He could have made a somewhat clean landing, using his claws on the branches to slow the descent enough to break only one or two bones. He’d tucked her in with his good wing and taken every fucking hit. Carmine had only a smattering of small cuts and bruises to show for the fall, all of which have been remedied with a topical application of liquid ambrosia, helpfully provided by Kassidy’s werebear husbands.
Kassidy’s husbands.
Gods, that will never stop sounding strange. My ill-bred, foul-mouthed sister, married to not one but three royal bears. She’s always been focused on her mission, never making time to find love. Fierce and as fucking hardy as a huntsman, I never pegged her as one to settle down with anyone. Perhaps it’s fate. Perhaps the sentiment isn’t so saccharine after all, and there’s truly someone out there for everyone.
Ia tuts. “If you stop moving, it will hurt less. What would your vulgar friend say? Stop being a pussy?”
She jabs the needle into the crook of his arm, pushing the plunger down. More of the liquid ambrosia we’d been given shoots into his veins.
Sabre grits his teeth around another exclamation, letting out a string of muttered swear words instead. It’s a day of firsts. My stoic, practical brother taking the route that spared Carmine pain, even knowing it could kill him. Now he’s swearing a blue streak, something I’ve heard him do only once before.
When the village was under attack. When Bacchus stole everything from us.
I’m such a fucking bastard. I’m only tracking Sabre’s healing out of the corner of my eye, when I should be at his side. Instead, I’m situated at the edge of the clearing, only about a mile’s walk from the Babbling Brook. Wonderland rivers feet into the stream, and the aptly named river can sometimes speak. Carmine’s head is nestled into the crook of my shoulder, her soft exhales tickling the skin of my throat every few seconds. Her soft body is molded to mine, legs draped over my thighs.
I need to be focused on my brothers, but all I can concentrate on is the Princess. My lovely, fragile woman.
Not so fragile as I once thought. The grove she’d managed to create in mere minutes had been something to behold. She’d taken out an entire company in minutes. Still, I can’t help but shift her closer, hold her tighter.
I could have lost her. Could have found her body broken, limbs bent at odd angles like a chick who left the nest too soon.
I curl my fingers around the underside of her knee. Never again. I won’t allow her to be killed. I ought to have been the one carrying her. I ought to have been the one shielding her. I won’t make the same mistake again.
Carmine stirs in my arms, curling closer to me, turning her face into my throat. Her lips brush my neck, soft as petals and my cock twitches. I’ve been uncomfortably hard for a while now, aroused simply my her proximity. In all these years, I’ve never had cause to touch her like this.
How many nights have I dreamed about tugging her into my arms? Cornering her in some shadowy alcove to kiss her breathless? Hiking her ruffled skirts around those slender hips so I could touch her, taste her, worship her like the queen she is? Wondered how it might feel to be inside her? Would she bite her lip enticingly, arch her back and moan, as I’ve had women do before?
I haven’t had a woman in a decade or more. Not since I was set the task of guarding Leon’s daughters. I’d failed Neva, losing track of the Chosen princess shortly after the sack of Ascor. I won’t fail Carmine in the same fashion. It’s why I’ve never sought her out in her bedchambers, have never laid a finger on her. Too easy to lose my objectivity. If I know what it’s like to be loved by her, I’ll never be able to let her go. And she’s meant for a prince. She deserves someone her equal.
But Gods, I want to be selfish.
Her eyelids flutter open and the swimming silver, so mesmerizing to watch, fixes on me. Almost at once, they fill with tears. I open my mouth to apologize, perhaps calm her, when she rights herself in my arms.
“Draven!” she gasps, the tears brimming over, spilling down her pale cheeks. They glimmer like diamonds in the morning light. Gods, even weeping, she’s beautiful.
Her arms wind around my neck in the next instant and she tugs me down, so there’s mere inches between our faces. Then she kisses me.
I’m so stunned, at first I remain still, bewildered. My grip on her slackens, and I’m not quite sure where to put my hands.
Her lips firm and warm, demand a response.
No chaste kisses from this woman. She pulls herself closer, crushing her small but firm breasts against my chest, clumsily trying to arrange her legs around my waist. She winds her fingers into my hair, pulling a little. Warmth shoots into my veins, an answering desire kindling to life inside of me.
It’s probably hysteria or a reaction to her near-death experience that’s made her react like this. She’s just grateful to be alive and whole, and it’s come out like this. But I’ll take what I can get. If this is all I ever get from my Princess, I’ll be beyond grateful.
I can’t help myself. I wind an arm around her waist, locking her into place, trying to prolong the experience as long as humanly possible. The other hand comes up to thread into her softly waving hair. It’s silken and slides easily between my fingers. I find the roots and tug just enough to give some sensation. Carmine’s lips part and a soft, breathy sound escapes her. I press the advantage, sliding my tongue over her bottom lip, tasting her.
She’s fucking exquisite, as I’ve always known she would be. Sweet, like a clover flower and a hint of honey.
Again, she surprises me, her tongue meeting mine in a passionate tangle. She fucking fights me, coming up onto her knees so she can hover above me, angling the kiss in her favor. It’s a dominance challenge to my beast, but I ignore the impulse to take her to the ground and show her my strength and suitability for mating.
Because holy fuck, I’ve never been more turned on in my life.
I almost think she’ll do more, but the spell is broken when my idiot brother crows aloud. “Fucking finally! I thought you two would never get around to it!”
Sabre and Ia are standing beside him.
Carmine pulls away, her lids at half mast, glazed with pleasure and a hint of her earlier fatigue. Her lips are a little swollen, her hair mussed. Even in Titus’ overlarge shirt, she looks incredible.
The thought brings me up short, reminding me of my earlier frustration.
Motherfucking Titus. His scent is all over her. Her smallclothes had been near his weapons, the scent of her release potent in the air. I hadn’t smelled any hint of his, but even so, I want to castrate him.
Has he fucked her while I slept, knowing I’ve wanted her all this time? I can’t blame Carmine for wanting him. Neither one of my brothers are unattractive and women have always wanted them. It’s her choice if she wants to fuck Titus, but I expected him to at least have some fucking loyalty to me and tell her no. Especially as we were camped out in the open.
Titus catches sight of my face and pales, cottoning onto my mood at once. I’ll bet the expression is nothing short of murderous. He hastily arranges his own expression into something more serious.
Not fucking good enough. I’m going to beat some fucking manners into him sometime soon. Preferably when Carmine is asleep and Sabre is healed.
Sabre catches sight of my expression as well and seems slightly alarmed. He casts a glance between us, realization dawning on his face. We’ve been together for decades now, hunting our quarry in a flock when we can. He knows Titus’ whoremongering ways, must guess what he’s done.
“Perhaps you should take the Princess to the brook, Draven,” he says hurriedly. “I’m going to be a horrid patient. Best to spare her ears.”
Ia helpfully tugs at the cloth holding his brace in place. The bo
nes will need to be kept straight while the ambrosia does its work. He ought to be fine in an hour or less. He curses loudly, glaring at the witch. She just smirks fiendishly.
Carmine opens her mouth, looks as though she’s about to argue that she’s not a delicate flower, then closes it again. Some indecipherable thought flits across her face too quickly to be unraveled.
“Yes,” she murmurs. “I think I’d like to wash up.”
I don’t argue, though every fiber of my being demands I set the Princess gently aside so I can take a piece out of my lecherous brother.
Instead, I scoop her up from the ground, using the grip I already have on her waist to cradle her to me bridal style. Carmine lets out a girlish little gasp of surprise, which makes me smile, just a little, despite my foul temper. I don’t want to thrash Titus any less, but with her in my arms, I can at least curb the impulse. For now.
I tuck her more securely into me before striding out of the clearing, shooting one last poisonous glare over my shoulder at my brother, a warning to keep his distance until I’ve gotten a grip. Carmine won’t catch it, but the other two sure as fuck will.
Mine, my expression snarls. She’s mine, you bastards. Don’t you dare touch her.
My logical side tells me to step aside and let her fuck Titus if that makes her happy. To sow discord into our band at this point is suicide if we stand any chance at all of killing Bacchus.
But I’ve never claimed to be logical where Carmine was concerned.
I don’t set her down until we’ve reached the edge of the brook. She stares at me in the oddest fashion, in a mix of that childlike wonder she used to regard me with and... something else. Something achingly vulnerable. I want to cradle her lovely face in my hands again and continue where we left off, kissing the uncertainty away until she smiles again.
She finally drops her gaze to the makeshift tunic she’s formed out of Titus’ clothing. I hear a distinct sniffle, and it twists at my guts like a well-placed dirk. She’s cried so often since joining us. It’s my fault. She shouldn’t cry over me.