Rebel Prince (The Coalition Rebellion Novels Book 3)

by Justine Davis

  “Get off me or I’ll kill him.”

  The man snarled the words. Lyon imagined getting taken down by a girl a third his size was not on the man’s list of things he wanted to be known for.

  “Kill him and I’ll cut your throat to the spine,” Shaina said pleasantly.

  Standoff. Lyon didn’t move, kept his gaze fastened on the pair, his own disrupter aimed at center mass of his sizeable target. He slipped his thumb to the control lever, edged it back just slightly.

  “Cub?”

  “Anytime,” he said casually, knowing what she was asking.

  The big man’s hand tightened on the weapon. Lyon was ready to jump to the side if he had to. She shifted her knife hand. The heavy, carved hilt dug into the side of the big man’s neck. Her other hand flashed around to grab her own wrist. She yanked back, driving the hilt of the knife in her hand against the vital artery in the heavily muscled neck. Startled, the man’s attention shifted. He staggered as she cut off the blood flow.

  Lyon fired. Hit that center mass. The man went to his knees. Shaina jumped clear. The instant he knew she was safely away, he fired again. The man fell flat on his face.

  It was over.

  They got to their feet. Lyon surveyed the damage, the four unconscious men. And then he looked at Shaina, who was looking down at the big man. Her hair was tossed, falling forward and masking one jade eye. The damned shirt had pulled free of yet another fastener, baring an uncomfortable amount of curved, feminine flesh. He could see her bared stomach flex as she took in air, realized she was breathing fast.

  He stared at her. What he’d felt up to now seemed nothing compared to this moment. It all crashed together, the longing he’d been fighting, the dreams that had been hampered by the reality of his destiny, and then shattered by the reality of hers.

  She was the most alluring thing he’d ever seen, body, mind, soul, and spirit.

  And he couldn’t have her.

  Chapter 9

  “WHY,” RINA ASKED conversationally, “is Bratus Onslow still alive?”

  They had managed to get free of Bratus when he’d been called to some duty, and despite Tark’s obvious reluctance she had convinced him to walk with her.

  “Our illustrious mayor?” Tark’s tone was sour. “Why would he not be? It is easy to stay that way when you hide from any true danger.”

  “Let me rephrase it. Why have you not slaughtered him for abandoning you and your men, for not even trying to send help?”

  He shrugged, but his mouth was tight. “It was not unreasonable to assume us dead.”

  “It was not unreasonable to expect him to make certain, as any decent officer would!”

  Tark gave her a sideways look that told her she had answered her own question with the word decent. She shoved down her anger at the pompous Onslow.

  She studied him as they walked, to see if there were more changes than the patch and the scar, but he seemed to move with the same lean, easy grace as before. His hair was longer, falling in dark strands to his shoulders. She had just decided she liked it when a small group of revelers stopped, stared, and one called out her name. Startled, she waved, but urged Tark to keep moving.

  “Did you think you wouldn’t draw the attention of the crowd?” he asked. “You’re remembered as well in Galatin. No one has forgotten you stood at Dax’s side.”

  “As did you.”

  “I’m Arellian. This is my home. It was Trios who fought for her friends, when she was barely free of the Coalition yoke herself.”

  “Careful,” she teased, “that sounded perilously close to admiration.”

  Once, the usually taciturn fighter would have laughed, but at that moment he simply looked grim. “What admiration I have goes to all who fought this battle.” Warmth flooded her when he turned his head to look at her with his good eye and added, “Including you.”

  “I wish I had known,” she said as they paused to sit on a bench in a pleasantly quiet spot on the far side of the Council Building. Somewhat hidden from the crowds out even at this early hour—or perhaps still out from last night—and with a few more capital officials to keep order, the small alcove was for the moment empty.

  “Known what?”

  “That you were alive. Hurt. I could have helped.”

  “Rina Carbray, nursemaid? I think not.”

  “I would have,” she declared, stung by his biting tone.

  “And I probably would have lost more than one eye’s vision.”

  She drew back sharply. “But apparently you would have been entertained while doing so, since you seem to find me so amusing.”

  She saw the corner of his mouth twitch. His lips tightened. And she realized he was trying not to smile.

  “That’s the Rina I remember,” he said.

  “You baited me.” It was more declaration than accusation, but she knew she was right.

  “Better your temper than your pity, little one.”

  Something painful twisted inside her at his quiet words. “Pity? Is that what you think? You were always . . . the most un-pitiful creature. Although if you can’t see the difference between pity and caring, then perhaps that’s changed.”

  He went very still. “Caring?”

  “It’s what we Triotians do, you know, for our friends.”

  “Ah.” He shrugged. “But as you see, I’m fine. Less optimal than I once was, but not quite useless.”

  “Did your injury affect your mind?”

  He shrugged again. “Some would say so.” He shot her a sideways glance. “It’s only that pity that keeps them speaking to me at all.”

  “Oh? So the fact that you single-handedly saved this building we’re sitting beside, and the life of every Arellian within it, including your highest leaders, has nothing to do with it?”

  “That was long ago.”

  She waved toward the crowds even now dancing in the street on the other side of the row of trees. “Not so long that they aren’t celebrating it.”

  “Any excuse for revelry.”

  Rina bit back the caustic response that leapt to her lips.

  “Perhaps you have changed that much,” she said instead. “The Bright Tarkson I remember had no time for self-pity, or those who indulged in it.”

  He winced, but she had the feeling it was more about her use of his much-hated first name than the gibe.

  “There was a war to be won,” was all he said.

  “And now?”

  “Now . . . I have no time for those who have forgotten what that war cost. Or why it was fought in the first place.”

  “And you think they have forgotten?”

  “Our army has been depleted to below a bare minimum. They have old, failing equipment and weapons, or none at all. Nor does anyone seem to care. They seem to think we will never be called upon to fight again. Or they wish to ignore it, thinking one can negotiate with the likes of the Coalition.”

  She frowned. “Dare would never allow that on Trios.”

  “It would take someone of his strength to counter it. It is the nature of things, of people. And why history, if it does not actually repeat, at the least comes full circle again and again.”

  She studied him as he stared at the revelers just beyond the screen of trees and hedge. From this side, he looked as he always had, albeit more mature. Tough, strong-jawed, his face made up of uncompromising angles without a hint of softness. Yet when his blood had been high, and he’d come up with some impossible plan or tactic, he’d been the most alive, vital man she’d ever seen, next to Dax. Perhaps even more than Dax, since he’d not yet been tempered by pain and loss.

  He was certainly tempered now, she thought. She hadn’t imagined that bitter note that sometimes crept into his voice.

  “You have become a philoso
pher, then?”

  She almost got a genuine laugh from him at that. “Hardly.”

  “So you are . . . what? An old war steed who has no place any longer?”

  He turned his head then. She sensed it wasn’t just to look at her, but to remind her with the sight of the patch and the scar.

  “Close enough. The old, especially.”

  “You’re a mere five years older than I.” And, she added inwardly, it had seemed a much greater gap when she had but seventeen years, when the decisive battle for Galatin had begun and she’d first met the reckless young captain whose courage was the talk of the war.

  “As marked on the calendar, perhaps.”

  “If you’re concerned about aging, you should move to Trios. There’s evidence now that what gives us our long life is Trios herself, and the effect can extend to those not born there.”

  He seemed to ponder that before saying, “Are you sure it is wise to let that be known? You’ll be overrun.”

  “I did not advertise it. I merely told you.” Her mouth curved into a wry smile. “And since you apparently talk little to anyone, I think the information is safe enough.”

  That got her a second laugh, and it was a better one this time.

  “You would be welcome there,” she said. “Dax and King Darian would see to that, although all of our people know of you and would welcome you on their own accord.”

  “You Triotians,” he said softly. “You always make your home sound like bliss.”

  “She is,” Rina said simply. “And we treasure her even more now, since we almost lost her.”

  “The worst mistake the Coalition made was not exterminating every last one of you. And were it not for Corling’s ego, wanting to humiliate your prince by enslaving him, Trios would still be the jewel of the Coalition crown.”

  “Yes,” she said proudly. “But he left him alive, he failed to crush us, and he paid the ultimate price for his evil.”

  Tark’s mouth twisted. “Executed by his own for his failure.”

  She wondered if Tark had become one of those warriors who could speak of nothing but the past, the battles they had been in. She wondered if he had no other life but that, and the thought was painful.

  “Can you not look forward, now? You have certainly earned it.”

  He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees. Stared down at the stony path. Finally he spoke.

  “Your people, the ones who did not see it when it began,” he said, “were they not so intent on looking forward that they did not realize what was happening right then?”

  It did not seem to be an answer to the question she had asked, but instead an opening to ask the one she had thus far held back.

  “You did not find Bratus’s stories of the Arellians who fear the Coalition’s return amusing.”

  “I don’t find anything about the Coalition, then or now, amusing.”

  “Nor do I. But they’ve been driven back to the far reaches.”

  “That’s the common belief.”

  Uneasiness stirred within her. Tark was no fool, and if he thought there was substance to those rumors, it was not to be taken lightly. “But not yours?”

  He didn’t look at her. He merely shrugged. “Such ideas are not welcome, especially during this celebration.”

  She wasn’t going to let him dodge this, it was too important. “You said you had other business to attend to.”

  He went very still. And did not answer.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Cannot even an old war steed have business of his own? Perhaps I ran out of lingberry liquor, or felt the need for a game of chaser.”

  “The only thing you ever gambled with was your life,” she said dryly.

  “Then perhaps I seek the company of a woman who can be paid enough to overlook my . . . deformity.”

  Pain stabbed through Rina, startling her with its sharpness. Words burst from her. “It is not a deformity, it is a badge of honor. A woman you would have to pay would not be worth your company.”

  His head came up. For a long moment he just looked at her before he said softly, “So fierce, little one. You have not lost your fire, I see.”

  “I defend my own,” she said, her jaw set.

  For an instant something flashed across his face, gone so quickly she could not be sure if it was pain . . . or longing.

  “I am not your concern, Rina.” He said it flatly, dismissively.

  “I do not think you get to decide that, Commander Tarkson.”

  His mouth quirked upward at one corner. She had the feeling it was involuntary, that he had fought the reaction and failed to quell it.

  “Captain,” he corrected. “I do not believe one earns a promotion simply by surviving. And you have lost none of your fire, Rina Carbray. Or your loyalty. And you always had it to spare.”

  “Then trust me.”

  “Rina—”

  “Or if not me, at least trust Dax. You know how he values you.”

  “He did, once.”

  “He still does. Dax does not forget.”

  “Did he ever tell you he once saved my life?”

  She laughed, and he lifted a brow in surprise. “No. You did. He only speaks of the twice you saved his.”

  He blinked. “I never really did. I merely had his back, as his second in command should.”

  “And there is little Dax values more.”

  He looked thoughtful for a moment. Then, slowly, he asked, “And Dax . . . he still has the king’s ear?”

  “He does, as Defense Minister, but also as a brother. They are as one family, the royals and the Silverbrakes.”

  His voice went soft again, in that way that made her skin tingle oddly. “And you, Rina? What of you?”

  “I am ever as welcome, as Dax’s adopted ward. It is often forgotten that there is no blood between us.”

  “I am glad.”

  There was no doubting the sincerity of that, and it moved her that he would even be concerned about her life and happiness. Once it would have thrilled her beyond measure to have even that much of the daring Captain Tarkson’s attention. She wasn’t sure it still didn’t.

  “I thank you,” she said. “But may we return to my question?”

  For a moment longer he hesitated. It was unlike him, at least the Tark she had known, to be so uncertain. Decisiveness had ever been his hallmark. So this was either a measure of who he now was, or of his lack of conviction about the truth of whatever it was that had brought him here. Or perhaps some combination of both, she thought. Could any man go through what he had and not come out changed? She had evidence of that every day in Dax, in King Darian himself.

  “Can you get me through to speak to Dax?”

  She stared at him. “Have you heard nothing I’ve said? You could get access to Dax, or the king himself, without hesitation. You are not just remembered on Trios, Tark. You are revered.”

  He laughed, and this time it was a harsh sound with more than a little of that bitterness she’d heard before.

  “You doubt me?”

  “I wouldn’t dare, little one,” he said, his voice normal again.

  “Then know you do not need me. Your name alone would get you an audience with anyone on the Triotian High Council.”

  “I’m not sure I agree with your first words, but I hope you are right about the last. There are things they should know.”

  So. He’d decided. She felt a rush of relief. Whatever it was, if it so nagged at Tark, it must be shared. He was a warrior, and his instincts had been ever true.

  Only after that relief eased did she process what else he’d said.

  Then know you do not need me.

  I’m not sure I agree with your first words . . .

/>   Her breath caught, and her head snapped around, but he was already on his feet and walking away.

  Chapter 10

  “ARE YOU INSANE?”

  Cub’s voice snapped out at her. Bit deep.

  She finished securing the cord she’d used to truss up the big man, still unconscious and facedown in the dirt. Cub had found enough of it on one of the others to tie them all up. There hadn’t even been much rush, since the disrupter strikes would keep them out for a good hour.

  She straightened up and, finally, turned to face him.

  “We’re still alive, aren’t we?”

  “Only by sheer luck!”

  “I prefer to think of it as good tactics in a hand-to-hand situation when outnumbered two to one.”

  It was an answer worthy of her father, she thought. And once more had to remind herself that she hated him. And loved him. It was an unsettling combination.

  “You could have been killed.”

  “And we would have been killed, if we hadn’t done something. Or worse, held for ransom, if they found out who we really were.”

  Cub stared at her. “Only you could think being held for ransom worse than being killed.”

  “You would prefer it?” she demanded, astounded at the idea.

  “I would prefer to be alive to fight another day.”

  He snapped out the words. And she couldn’t argue with them, not really.

  “Contention valid,” she conceded. But she refused to cede entirely. “But it worked.”

  “Do you even realize what you were risking from those men?”

  “Of course I do. I’m not a child. But my mother told me there are certain kinds of men who go mindless at the sight of a female body. These seemed like the type.”

  She didn’t add that she had never been certain it would work, that she could even do it. She had never in her life tried such a tactic, never thought of herself as the kind of woman who had such allure. But she had trusted her mother’s words. And it had seemed, at the time, the only option open to her.