by A. K. Koonce
Syren sighs, dropping her head against my chest for a moment and pulling me from the stain on my mind. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I hug her to me to soothe me, squeezing my eyes shut for a second. Syren is peaceful inside my arms, but she doesn't hug me back. As the man scurries up, taking the hand of his child, guards appear, escorting him from the crowd. Their swords glint against what little sun shines as they pull them from their sheaths. I catch the eye of the guard closest to me.
“Please see that he and his daughter return home safely. No harm is to come to them. Also, send my sincerest apologies as well as crop from the latest harvest so they may be fed well.”
Syren brushes off my arms and gently touches a few of the nervous faces from the waiting, quiet crowd. “I need to be excused for a moment.” Her voice remains kind, but I’ve come to know her ticks. Her shoulders are pulled back tense as she holds her perfect posture. The tips of her pointed ears are rosy.
I want to be the man that she needs and the man that she wants. I want to be the king that she wants. What she wants, though, and what I am are vastly different.
A warm hand touches my shoulder gently, but I ignore it. I watch Syren bustle off toward the castle doors, guards trailing her closely, removing an obstacle from her path. Closing my hands into fists, I turn toward the person waiting behind me.
“King Iri, shall I pray with the people?” The chaplain lowers his hands over his crisp white gown.
His hands feel certain and sure. A man of unwavering faith. He has been around since my father’s rule, graciously vowing to work under my rule when the time came and uncertainty needed to be stomped out of my court.
Even the people bow for him. The many pairs of eyes fixating on him brim with hope and want for even the slightest bit of touch from Goddess Celeste through him.
Firmly, I give him a nod and shake his hand. “Chaplain, give these people hope in these trying times.”
My gaze passes from the wide, kind smile of the goddess-blessed priest to the masses growing restless. Fear is visible on so many of their tired faces. Without a goodbye, I hurry after my princess. Behind me, the sound of the chaplain praying over the group grows louder. I can hear their knees fall to the dirt as they pray for an end.
People bow for the promise of hope faster than they bow for me. Syren and I must marry and we must marry soon. Together, we will be the answer to their prayers and order will be restored here.
Guards hold open the large doors that shine like the evening sky. Syren isn’t so far ahead of me that I can’t catch up, that I can’t let her calm me with her fleeting touches. But the halls shift rapidly. It’s a turn of brick and a swing of walls. And then the wafting ends of her long blue hair disappear entirely.
Fuck!
I turn into the nearest room. With a heavy thunk, the doors close behind me, and I slouch into myself, covering my face with my hands. Why can’t one day just be easy? Why does the burden of every decision I make have to be so substantial? Why can't people just obey?
Two heels click against the ground behind me. Frustration rips through me at the thought of not having peace for a single fucking second. I drop my hands, turning with such ferocity that my crown nearly slips from my head.
Syren. Her expression is blank, unreadable.
The anger in me slips away at the sight of her pretty face.
She prowls forward, stretching on her toes to tilt my crown back onto my head. I exhale sharply as her scent washes over me, making me feel whole again. The dull ache of pain I feel every time she leaves eases. The warmth of her palm cups my cheek, and I lean into her touch.
“I’m sorry.” It’s a strangled statement, the words not something I easily or happily say, though with her it always seems to be fitting. “I’m trying my best to be better.”
“I’m happy you didn’t kill him.” Her red lips lift in a small smile.
“But you are still not happy with me? I will never be the man you dreamed me to be when you lived in the Southern Kingdom. I am not your knight in shining armor,” I say, lifting my face from her hand and righting my posture.
My chest feels tight. I know I screwed up. I screw it up again and again and again.
“You’re right.” She blinks, her brow furrowing slightly. Between us, her arm remains outstretched until she slowly drops it to her side. “For once, I think you’re right.”
I scoff, this time allowing myself to roll my eyes. Why do I want someone who does not want me back? I am bonded with her through fate, whether she likes it or not.
Her tongue slips out against her bottom lip before she speaks again. An act so small, I normally wouldn’t notice it, but now, in the closeness of our proximity, I can hardly pay attention to anything else.
“Did you see all those people?” Her voice lowers to a light whisper.
“Syren, I stood out there with you. Of course I saw them.” I shrug, unsure what she’s getting at.
“No, did you see them? Like really look at them? They are desperate.” She catches air in her palms and holds her hands close to her chest like she has caught the cure but it’s fragile in her grasp.
“We’ll marry sooner.” I nod.
Her eyes widen, her eyebrows lifting startlingly high. Raw emotion lights her face and her steady gaze like an unstoppable fire. Another small step and she closes the distance between us.
“What if our marriage doesn’t fix this?”
I want to laugh but something in her unwavering earnestness stops me. “That’s ridiculous. We can fix this.”
Loosely-curled blue strands catch against the fabric of her gown as she looks at the ground past me to the shifting hallways. She shakes her head slightly.
“Just do me one favor.” She carefully takes my hand in hers. “Open your mind to the possibility that our marriage does not fix this.”
I can't. I don’t want to. It isn’t even a possibility.
I stare at her blankly, and then her hope filled eyes cast away from me.
Her hand slips away from mine as quickly as it came, and she walks with authority around me. The halls stop their movement in the determination of her steps.
My heart slams against its cage as I watch her walk away. My throat feels like I’m choking, but I call after her anyway.
“Is it just that you so desperately do not want to marry me? Is that it?”
Her steps pause, her face peering back over her shoulder. “I made a vow to marry you, King Iri. A promise is a powerful thing that I won’t break. Not to you.”
Then she leaves me staring after here. But something shifts in me at the sound of her words echoing my head.
She won’t break her promise to me.
Maybe that’s not fucking love, but it’s . . . something.
Ridiculous joy and anticipation fill me with eager adrenaline. A child-like grin taunts my features. Before the feeling can leave me, I call out to the nearest guard to have the wedding planners brought to my quarters at once.
Leaving the front foyer, I step onto the red carpeted halls toward my room, and something more powerful than joy grips me.
Fear.
What if Syren’s right about the curse?
Too many what ifs slam through my mind and my heart all at once.
Because doubt is a terrifying thing.
Ten
New Priorities
Syren
Somehow, I always end up where I don’t want to be. I’m not sure if it’s fate, or some nudge of the universe, or just my plain bad luck.
Never once since I set foot on these castle grounds did I think I would run to the one person I despise the most. Oddly enough, it isn’t Bear that I loathe.
Aisha.
I tilt my head, refusing to frown back at her as the door opens to reveal shining blond locks and dramatic blue eyes. Her skin looks even tanner from her time in the sun, making the contrast of her beauty more apparent.
I blink at her beauty and a slashing memory of the panicking f
aces of people who are dying slicing through my mind. I lose my focus and the memory of the children who believe in me startles me.
I shake it all away and take a step closer to her quiet bedroom, but I’m careful to remain in the hall and not intrude into her space.
“Hello.” I keep my head held high, my voice steady.
Aisha narrows her gaze. “Aren’t you supposed to be pretending to love King Iri right now?”
“I—” I lift one finger, trying to clear the angry thoughts assaulting me. “Our appearance was cut short. But that isn’t what I came here to talk about.”
“Yes, why are you here?” She draws the question out in a low purr that sounds equally as enchanting as it does threatening.
I avoid eye contact with the guards but tilt my head toward their overbearing presence. “May I come in?”
She laughs. Even her laugh sounds hypnotic. It makes me sick. “My father does not like it when I play my role as handmaiden for you. He does not like it when I talk to you. But I suppose I can bribe the staff to keep quiet just this one time.” Her voice paints such a picture like even this small act is a service to me.
Goddess, she’s exhausting.
I brush past her into her room. It’s half the size I imagined it would be. You would think a former, well, I wouldn’t call her princess, but queen-to-be would be given better accommodations. Apparently not, though. I don’t feel all that bad about it.
If there were a closet under the stairs that could be a bedroom, I’d shove her in it, and even that would feel like a kindness based on our lovely friendship.
The room is quaint and that is putting it in a positive light. Her bed and nightstands all touch one another, claiming the entirety of her back wall. A dress and desk take up what remains of the space. Yet she’s added feminine details that remind me of my room. Pink, flowing curtains cover the one small window that lets a little light in. A cozy plush blanket drapes over the back of her desk chair, and a hint of a snow leopard pelt covers the only remaining space between her bed and this half of the room.
The click of the door closing makes me tense. So I run my hands over the elaborate beading on my tangerine-colored dress and smooth the material to my body. I ignore the pang of self-consciousness that threatens to boil a blush over my cheeks. I’m still not comfortable with the provocative styling of this continent. And in comparison to Aisha’s round curves, I feel inadequate.
But I shouldn’t, I remind myself.
I’m a princess. And there’s no room for awkwardness when you have a royal title to lug around.
Straightening my shoulders, I look her dead in the eyes. Her ocean water-blue gaze doesn’t soften for me. I reach into the hidden pockets of the dress, the beads clicking together in dull harmony as I pull out the withering remains of the crisp magic flower.
Her eyebrow ticks up, but she does nothing further than glance between me and my open palm. “Are you trying to buy my affection with a dying plant? My suitors usually have better taste than this.”
How does one tiny woman have room for so many insufferable traits in such an empty head?
I have to remind myself that I need her. She can help this kingdom. If I can just manage not to strangle her first.
“Hardly.” I deadpan. “This flower is a means to an end. This flower is what I believe is causing all the illness, all the death.”
Gradually, her features melt to entertaining curiosity. “What is it?” She reaches out as if to touch the pretty petals but pulls her hand back last minute and balances both palms on her hips.
“A flower called Bloodroot. I only know because I did some studies on dark magic when I was younger. Just to make my father angry.” I feel the need to clarify. “We’re going to find a cure for the kingdom.”
“We?” She laughs.
“You advanced medical training, so it’ll be right up your alley. Just think of it as my wedding gift.” I crack a small smile.
Syren, we are trying to talk her into helping, not trying to piss her off.
I tame my grin and clear my throat. Aisha looks bored and definitely annoyed. “Sorry,” I murmur.
“What do you want me to do?” She crosses her arms over her chest.
The show-off.
“You know, simple things, really.” I fold my fingers over the flower, returning it to my pocket. “Research, testing, and maybe using dark magic to create a tame curse.”
Aisha takes a dramatic step back, her hand reaching for the door knob. “You want me to what? In the castle? Under the nose of King Iri? I ought to go to him now an—”
“No,” I say sternly. “This is between us.” I straighten even more and with an eerily level tone, I add, “Soon I’ll be your queen, Aisha. Trust me when I say, you’ll want to be in the favor of the queen. Because if you’re not . . .” I lower my lashes and then lift them slowly toward her. “Well, I guess time will tell.” A small smile perches on my lips, and I love the way she shifts on her feet.
She sighs, chewing on the inside of her lip, contemplating. “I’ll have to do some serious research. I’m not accustomed to this kind of flower. Not to mention the type of magic needed to fuel such a dark idea.”
Aisha pauses, her face going from thoughtful to beaming. “You are a twisted little thing, Princess Syren. Why would a good little princess like you want to play with dark magic?”
“I told you, we will cure the kingdom. Call it a hunch.” I give her pathetic excuse of a room another glance. My slow gaze makes Aisha shift where she stands.
“I don’t like to work on something just because it’s a hunch.” Her pink lips pucker.
“Oh, honey, don’t make your face up like that. It looks like you’ve kissed one too many assholes.” I shrug, knowing my all-too-ridiculous pettiness is getting the best of me.
Her eyes narrow, but she smooths her features and smiles slowly. Suggestively.
But says nothing.
She twists the knob to her door, opening it wide. The guards stand outside just as we left them, waiting with perfect posture. A long, slim finger points toward the hall in an obvious goodbye.
“I’ll be back in a couple days to discuss your findings,” I tell her, ushering myself into the hall.
“And I’ll wait ever-so-eagerly for your return.” Sarcasm drips from her comments like water from a gaping, leaking pipe.
We give each other fake smiles, and she offers the tiniest of curtsies before I lift the train of my skirt and head for my room.
Even if I have to resort to working with her, we will find a cure. If I can manage not to strangle her first. I just need to keep my priorities in order.
New number one priority: don’t kill the cunt flirting with my mate.
Easy.
Simple.
I’m fucked.
Eleven
Drop Dead
Syren
When I imagined my wedding day growing up, I thought I might have a say in what would be planned. Perhaps pick out my own gown or suggest my favorite flower to use in the decor. It was foolish of me to think I would get a choice.
This wedding isn’t a union between me and Bear. It doesn’t feel like an event to celebrate our love. It’s a party solely for this kingdom. Thus, the flowers are red and white. My gown is ivory instead of cream, and they expect me to wear a headpiece with enchanted rain drops caught on thin wires that stand a good foot off my head.
They say the elaborate heavy headpiece is to signify my water magic.
You know what signifies my water magic? My fucking water magic.
It’s uncomfortable. It’s itchy. It’s not what I thought I would look like when I became a queen.
I teeter in the six-inch heels the planner forced my feet into. Material drapes down over my body, feeling clingy and far too tight. Wedding dresses are supposed to make you feel . . . I don’t know. Not like a damn stuffed bird.
The seamstress smiles up at me, her teeth sharp like the teeth of a shark. She still accentuates her shap
ely curves that I remember from my last unfortunate fitting. Pins stick out from the massive twisted bun on top of her head. She plucks one and weaves it into the tight lacy material.
“Are you excited for the wedding?” Her accented tone is easy, cheerful, and somehow matches the music playing softly in the background. Her spelled harp picks at its strings with no harpist behind it. It’s haunting and unnerving, in my undervalued opinion.
I give her a fatigued look. What do I say? King Iri and I have undeniable chemistry, but he is so much of a dick that I can hardly keep my sarcastic motor-mouth shut? That I wish this wedding would happen on my own time and not the time of Goddess Celeste?
Our relationship feels rushed all of a sudden. And all that tension that’s always sparked to life feels suffocated.
“No? Have you not shown him what kind of woman he needs? What a strong woman you are?” With both hands she grabs my shoulders, narrowly keeping from stabbing me with the point of a pin as she straightens my posture. “Show him,” she says with a strong nod.
“I’ve shown him. I’m just not sure he likes what he sees. But I think he is trying, if not for me, for the sake of his people.” For once, it isn’t the hurting faces of the crowd that come to mind but the slow realization that had spread over the king’s face as he clutched the throat of a stranger. He had tried. He caught himself in the middle of something that gives him a nasty reputation and stopped it before it could continue.
For me.
There was a moment after that, that I had wanted to kiss him. It would have been easy to kiss him. Our mouths and our bodies fit perfectly together. I remember the way my body responded to every hard plane of his. I burned up beneath every stroking touch and every thrusting move he made.
That’s not the part we have trouble with.
Sometimes though, my lips miss being kissed. Especially by him. Kisses that send bolts of lightning through my entire body. Dangerous. Let’s not get caught in the middle of the night kisses.