by A. K. Koonce
That story, that dream I want so desperately to be true, isn’t who Bear is. And that isn’t why I’m here. He didn’t save me any struggles. He caused them. Then he dragged me from the situation I had made the best of and tossed me into all of his problems to solve them. I’m not the princess who steals his heart in the story. I’m just a solution to a problem.
Somewhere behind him, a fire crackles, though my first thought is to wonder if it’s coming from him. If his anger and frustration for me rip through him like a roaring flame. A shiver of excitement—or is it just a shiver of relief to be alive?—runs from my head down to my toes. I have never been in his personal chamber before.
Before I met Bear, when I knew him only as King Iri, I dreamed of what kind of room I would share with him. An expensive, showy room, no doubt. I expect silks and furs over hand-carved furniture. Lavish rugs or soft velvet curtains draping over the tall floor from ceiling windows that lead out to the balcony.
His room is indeed luxurious, but in a much simpler way than I had ever imagined. He doesn’t have the artfully-draped curtains but two large doors made only from polished glass leading out into the dark night. Only the faint glow of the roasting dead bodies on his lawn tells where exactly that window leads.
The orange flickering waves of light dance across the unmarred stone floor and over the desk with neatly stacked papers and a few closed books. Bear’s bed, with the tall wooden posts and simple silk sheets takes up the majority of the room, only leaving space for two carefully placed chairs before expanding into a minimal sitting room. Cozy throw blankets lie across the backs of the chairs, inviting you to sit and read.
None of it is what I expect to see.
Nearly furious, Bear’s twisted features migrate back into my view. Placing two hands on the mattress, he leans down until he is hovering over my legs.
“How can you be so foolish?”
“Bear, look, I know I made a mistake—”
“A mistake.” He laughs. It’s a roaring sound of sneering amusement. “A mistake would have been dropping a plate and breaking it at least, and at worst, letting the man have the opportunity to rob you. This is not a mistake. This is damn near idiocy.”
My head spins, still dizzy from my recent death.
I guess we’re going to skip the mourning stage and jump right back to ranting about my small mishappenings.
I push myself closer to him. Heat comes off of him in waves. Warm, alluring waves that make me want to push my cold body up against his hard chest. If it wasn’t for his unapologetic insults and the less-than-appealing scowl, I’d actually do it.
“Sometimes bravery looks an awful lot like idiocy. I’ll walk that line, but know that I am not stupid.”
“Says the girl who was just dead for seven bloody days.” Bear straightens himself to his full towering height and drags his hand down his features. “You don’t know what you did to me. To see you, to have your limp, dead body handed to me.”
Tension draws a line across his cheek as he grinds his teeth together, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Is he imagining it all over again? When he opens his eyes, they shine like magic, hot fiery magic.
Oh . . . he did worry . . .
“If people saw you dead, it would be the end of this kingdom,” he whispers harshly, taking another ragged breath. “It would be the end of me.”
My heart cracks a little as he explains his real concerns for me. Not for the loss of his mate but for disappointing his people.
It hurts me and infuriates me all at the same damn time.
“I’m trying to save this kingdom.” I growl at him, trying to hide the parts of me that feel vulnerable. My body still feels heavy, my limbs not quite yet ready to return to the living. I sag against the navy-blue comforters. “I’m trying to help you.”
“You know what would help me?”
“What?”
“If you would do what a normal princess does. Walk the garden, sew something, speak when spoken to, stay in the castle.”
Smile and wave. That’s what my father always asked of me.
Bear is no different.
Pure outrage has me stumbling out from beneath the covers, cutting him off before he can say anymore. “So I’m supposed to apologize for what? For having a brain, for having a soul that craves more than to be a pretty little housewife?” My knees shake, barely holding me up from falling onto the hard stone floor beneath my feet. Bear’s hand reaches out, grabbing ahold of my waist to steady me. “I will not be your little pet.” With as much strength as I can muster, I lift myself on my tippy-toes to make myself taller, more menacing.
“You did not let me finish,” Bear whispers, a small amused smile tweaking one side of his lips.
“By all means. Finish,” I hiss through clenched teeth. If he has come to insult me more, I swear to Goddess Nature, my fist will meet his ridiculously perfect face.
“If you would do what a normal princess does, then I would not like you so much.” His warm hands tighten against the material of my dress, holding me firmly up against his warmth to stand when I don’t think my legs can hold me any longer.
“And I’m not sure which is worse. When you run off, and you make questionable, at best, decisions, it scares me.”
I want to be angry at him. He is so rude to me all the time. I want to push his hands off of my hips and forget the way my body begs to touch his even if only briefly. He doesn’t care for me; he doesn’t like me, despite his confession. His kingdom needs me.
That is all.
“I’m sorry that scares you.” Raising a quivering hand, I cup his stubble-covered cheek and run my thumb over his warm, soft skin. His lips part. His gaze drops to my lips, and I feel his attention deep inside myself. Then, as quick as I was to touch his face, I drop my hand completely and turn away. “But I’m not sorry I’ve done it.”
“So, I’m not the only one who is piss-poor at apologies.” He lets go of me, watching me stumble back onto the bed. I catch myself against the smooth wooden bed frame, letting it hold my weight.
“What have I to apologize for, other than not being completely controlled by you?”
“I don’t fucking know, maybe something like, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Bear, that I fucking DIED.” His voice is this hideous high-pitched screech like two cats going at it in a trash bin. It doesn’t at all sound like mine.
My lips purse.
“I’m not dead. Do I look dead to you now?” Slowly, I take a deep breath and raise my hands, showing off how very much alive I am.
“You looked very dead to me less than ten minutes ago, Syren.”
“I survived it. Call me the undead princess.”
“Like a zombie?” He rolls his eyes.
“Yes, like a zombie.” I cross my arms over my chest, trying to contain the urge to reach back out to him. Goddessdamn limbs acting like I don’t have a brain to control them, just reaching out to touch whoever we want now, I guess.
“That’s ridiculous, because zombies aren’t real. But very well, Undead Princess,” Bear cocks his head, looking me over lazily. “Would you like to get something to eat? You still look like death literally warmed over.”
Oh. My. Goddess.
“Firstly, I’m a goddess-born fucking princess. I never look less than royally elegant.” The bastard snorts. “And secondly, yes. I’m starving. Did you forget to feed me for sevenish days or so?”
He sighs heavily, but when I try to walk once more, he interrupts.
“Just let me . . .” He plucks a shirt that is waiting, laid over the back of a chair, and buttons it up quickly over every line on his chest.
“You don’t have to do all the buttons,” I whisper like a faint plea.
“Oh.” He smirks. “You’ll have me shirtless, or you won’t have me at all?” His fingers hover over the top button, but he leaves it undone before he undoes the two buttons below it.
“Something like that.” I mutter, my cheeks warming with a blush.
The tempera
ture of the air rises. Bear walks forward with purpose, his deep brown eyes still flaring with highlights of magic. In one smooth move, he scoops me into his arms.
“If only you had been this easy to catch when I plucked you from your island.” His warm tone rumbles into my hair.
“Then we would have missed out on all that fun. I regret nothing.” Carefully, avoiding his gaze, I skim my fingers over a scar.
“Nothing?” One by one, he drums his fingers against my thigh as we walk from his room. Guards trail behind us quietly. “I can think of a few things you could have done differently.”
“You’re thinking about the latrine.” I laugh, covering my mouth with my hand. I’ll never forget the noise he made or the look on his face as he hung there in my trap. Those memories are ones I will cherish forever.
“I’m thinking about the shit, actually.” He nods solemnly as I bite back a smile. Clearly, he is less amused by it.
Quietly and leisurely, the corridor shifts, spitting us out in the dining hall. The table is filled not only with food but with familiar faces. Mostly familiar faces. The Count, Countess, Aisha and her father Earl Bartley, the chaplain, Miranda, and the man who took Donovan’s position after his untimely death.
Oddly, I hate that it isn’t just Bear and I. Life’s easier when it’s just us.
Our guests don’t talk much. The china and silverware contribute to the majority of the noise as they sip from their glasses of wine and applewater and pick at the food.
It all smells outstanding. My stomach rumbles loudly as I lean out of Bear’s arms and toward the food. I twist so much toward the food table that he finally lowers me. His hands sear down my sides, his chest against mine as he searches my features. It’s such an intense gaze that I look away and focus on the food once more. Stuffed quail, double-baked potatoes, steaming vegetables, and many other dishes greet my nose. I’m like a hound searching for the perfect dish, the perfect bite as I sniff then sniff again, saliva pooling in my mouth.
“Don’t get too carried away,” Bear says quietly. “You’ll overdo it if you’re not careful. You haven't eaten in seven days, remember.” His hand lingers against my arm, and he leads me away from the warm food.
Oh, I remember. That vendor’s instructions were awful. Keep me warm but don’t worry about feeding me.
Terrible advice to die by.
Our guests watch us closely as we walk toward the dining table. Clearly, they didn’t wait for us to eat, and they shouldn’t be bothered to stop now. But they all sigh with relief when I give them my best forced smile. No offense, but I don’t care about them right now. I care about taking that artfully-topped apple pie and shoving the entirety of it into my mouth. All I want is to deep throat a deep dish, and I don’t care who watches.
One guard drags out my chair, allowing Bear to guide me to it with a gentle hand on my arm. He pushes me close to the table. From over my shoulder, a quiet troll scoops some pasta onto my plate.
“I’m glad to see you’re okay. We were getting a little worried there.” Miranda adjusts a button on his plain moss-green shirt, glancing between me and the king. “I wasn’t sure what was worse, you dying, or the hell he was going to give you when you came back.”
Bear has already seated himself next to me and his friend. His plate is not yet touched and his dark eyes are still watching me.
“If it helps,” I clear my throat, “I was not worried about me.” Lie. I was scared shitless at the time. “Now if you don’t mind, I will gladly help myself to a plate of food.”
“I would insist that you did. Before you lose your appetite.” Miranda nods uneasily, strangely almost, and watches the troll line a few gray root potatoes on my plate.
“Oh, I don’t think that will happen.”
Greedily, I take the next bowl the troll holds and spoon more than a ladylike portion onto my plate. I don’t wait for any other food as I shovel in what I have. It’s all fantastic. Have potato and noodles ever tasted better? I truly think not.
Two loud claps bring my eyes from my plate to Bear. No trace of humor, concern, or even anger is left in his eyes. Now he looks like the villain he always gets painted as. It makes me think how easily the stories could be true when he sits with his shoulders straight and the light behind his eyes completely put out. He points from me to the door.
“In light of recent events, I’ve decided that our staff and the public need reminding.” Bear’s voice carries easily across the table. Any conversation that once existed comes to an abrupt halt. “Our guards should do as they were hired to do. Protect our lives. And the public, should they become unruly, need to be put back in their place. Our youngest guard, Hemphway has been sent back to the country side to live with his family. He was told time and time again how to do his job. He will no longer work where he cannot protect.” My mouth falls open hard but I don’t know what to say. He… he sent away my friend. Because the man was too lighthearted to boss me around like everyone else does. He lost his job because of me. I—I can’t breathe right now much less speak. Bear’s eyes drift down the table and over the staff standing on the edges of the room until they fall back on my shoulders. “Syren, I won’t let anything happen to you,” he whispers like his voice is dying with that declaration.
I swallow the enormous bite of food in my mouth, glancing back at Miranda, who points his gaze steadily down. The two doors we entered through groan loudly as they open and close.
“I asked him not to,” Miranda whispers without lifting his eyes from his plate.
Heaving a six-foot wooden poles between his arms, the new guard I had last week enters the dining hall. His emerald eyes are vacant and empty now. His hands are sticking with silver, wet blood, but you can see his tense white knuckles beneath the grime. I follow the trail of dripping blood up the poles, holding my breath.
The merchant’s head with his eyes still wide open and his mouth parted, but still tilted in a cocky smile, perches atop the spear. I sputter, coughing at the sight of it all. His neck is ragged, with pieces of their spinal cords dangling behind him as if he wasn’t just beheaded, but someone ripped his heads from his body.
I want to scream and vomit all at the same time.
“You’re so strong, King Iri,” Aisha says with a grin, plopping a bite of strawberry in her mouth.
“What did you do?” My silverware clatters to my plate, my hands lift but just linger there in the air, unsure of where they belong.
He was the key. He was the reason I did all of this. I—I could have had answers.
Now I have nothing.
“I did what had to be done. It is my job and duty as king, and I will continue to do whatever I need to, whether it’s pretty or not, for as long as I should reign.” His face remains calm, his hand resting against his wine glass, but I can still see the way his skin is paling, and his fingers tick against his cup.
King Iri is either a fallen angel come to seduce me or a wicked ruler come to ruin me. Today, he is playing both parts.
“Here, here, let’s raise a glass to the King who will do what needs to be done and save us all.” Count Jesting Krow raises his sloshing red wine glass.
“To King Iri.” The table chants as they sip the drinks that all-too-easily resemble the blood dripping down the polls.
I died. The fucking merchant died. Hemphway lost everything.
It was all for nothing. I’ll never get what I paid for.
Hot anger forms behind my eyes, and I can’t fucking look at him.
If I look at him, I’m sure I’ll kill him.
Five
Love and Other Tales
Bear
A war began within me the moment I saw Syren. One side of me wishes I was the man she thought I was going to be before I sent her off to her beloved island. The other side wants to show how much I can never be what she thinks she needs.
Glass shatters against the wall, wine spilling like blood pouring from an open wound. All that remains of dinner are the picked-over bo
nes and half-empty bottles of wine. The chairs now sit empty. I curl my fingers around the chair Syren had sat in. The anger and sadness in her big eyes permanently ingrained in my memory.
She took a liking to that guard, Hemphway. Just like she had taken a liking to Donovan. My knuckles turn white as I remember her perfect pouting lips open in shock, mourning and rage clouding her eyes. Syren gives out too much love. She thinks of herself as some badass warrior meant to save the day because she can put up a good fight. But she forgets to guard her heart. She forgets with everyone except for me.
“I told you she wasn’t going to like it.” Miranda toes at the broken shards of glass.
“She has to learn that not everything that needs to be done is likable.” I wipe the droplets of silver that have sprayed over my skin. “I am not always likable.”
With both hands, Miranda wraps himself up in a hug, slowly swaying from side to side. I remember all the times before I was king, when I was a young careless prince, when it was just the two of us. Bachelors of the Northern Kingdom. Drinking all night, playing all day, and never giving two shits about anything else.
I was a different person then. A much more fun person. I wonder if Syren would have liked me better then, the version of me that would have wanted to get in trouble with her instead of contain her. She is what I long to be but may never be again. Sometimes it makes me hate her. Sometimes it makes me love her. Sometimes it makes me mourn my old self.
“Do you want my advice?” Miranda asks.
“If your advice is for me to stop being an asshole, then no.” Squeezing my eyelids closed, I try to force away her image. I try to imagine what the Northern Kingdom looked like before the curse or remember how fresh the air was without the assaulting scent of dead bodies burning. No matter how hard I try, her horrified face always reappears.
I’m doing this for her, too, I remind myself. She could have died, actually died, for real died. I just want her safe. This kingdom needs her to be safe. I’m not the bad guy. I’m not the villain.