No Man Can Tame

by Miranda Honfleur

  Still wearing his cloak, Alessandra seemed uninjured. “I’m all right. Veron?”

  “The only injuries are two of my kuvari, but you’ll have to check with Captain Riza.”

  The commander’s throat bobbed. “Please accept my deepest apologies for the bad luck. Her Grace had us take every precaution.”

  Every precaution would have included clearing the nearby harpy nest before the Royal Progress, or at least issuing a warning about reflections. But unlike the humans he remembered, these had a lot to learn about Immortals.

  And bad luck would have meaning that would ripple throughout the human kingdom. That their human gods disfavored the peace, the marriage, them.

  Alessandra took his hand, then with a deep breath, turned to the commander. “It wasn’t bad luck, Captain…?”

  “Scianna,” the commander supplied. “But I don’t understand, Your Highness—”

  Alessandra handed Noc’s reins to Gabriella, then walked with him back toward the alley he’d led her to, with Captain Scianna following. Gavri waited there attentively, but when he passed her, she lowered her gaze.

  She’d fought bravely, capably…

  But she couldn’t be trusted. The first betrayal had been small, almost harmless, but the next could mean a life, or more. She couldn’t be trusted. He turned away.

  “Harpies are drawn to shining objects,” Aless said, catching his eye for a moment, “like coins. Jewelry. Blades. Anything that might catch the sun, and their eye.”

  True enough. And she’d clearly been listening. Her idea with the coins had been brilliant. What was she planning now?

  She reached the spot where he’d left her during the attack, the narrowest point of the alley, then turned toward the arch. Her finger pointed upward, to the top, where as the clouds cleared, a shine reflected, blinding white and large, toward the cliffs. As they’d approached from the south, they wouldn’t have been able to see it. But from her vantage point in the alley, she had.

  “I believe that’s a mirror, Captain,” Alessandra said. “What seems like bad luck was actually sabotage.”

  Aless eyed Veron surreptitiously as a squad of city guards escorted them, Gabriella, and his guards into Duchessa Claudia La Via’s castle. The duchessa waited in the great hall, where she and Veron would have to earn the duchessa’s support and that of her nobiltà. If by the time they left, the nobiltà was all smiles and the duchessa extended a promise of friendship, their objective here would be a success.

  But the duchessa had instructed Captain Scianna and her household to lead them inside discreetly to freshen up first.

  Which was good… because next to her, Veron’s ghostly white hair was a deep, dark crimson, stained with blood, which was smeared all over his pale, slate-blue face and neck, and soaking his leathers. Utterly chilling. Combined with his coiled rigidity and the grim set of his jaw, he looked like a demon warrior, made of wrath and malice, a thirst for blood in his narrowed golden eyes and not a shred of mercy to be found.

  Phantom hunter from the Wild Hunt indeed.

  The conspirators responsible for the attack weren’t worthy of his mercy, and to her mind, deserved every ounce of wrath and malice he had. Even aside from the repugnance of trying to spark a war—that mirror had been left behind—there had been children in that crowd. She’d even given a little girl jewelry—which could have drawn the harpies. Thank the Mother none of the children had been harmed.

  The attack needed a response.

  Out the window, the garden was serene, a colorful geometric knot, but the window reflected her and Veron over its greenery.

  Someone had planted the mirror on that arch—likely the Brotherhood. They hadn’t openly attacked a human city in their war on the Immortali, but they’d been willing to let one breed of Immortali kill the other, even if humans would have been caught in the middle. Even if she had been caught in the middle. So much for Tarquin’s promises.

  This union had been about securing peace, but safety had gone. She was no longer the palazzo’s Beast Princess, deflating oversized egos and raising eyebrows at court. She and Veron were now a symbol—a symbol some would try to use, and others would try to destroy.

  Not without a fight.

  “Veron,” she whispered as they ascended the carpeted stairs behind a chamberlain, and Veron’s hold on her hand tightened, ever so slightly, as his narrowed eyes eased, settled on her. Warmth, comfort, the calloused roughness of a grip that had wielded bows and blades. That could protect her.

  Somehow, from the streets of Stroppiata to the stairwell of this castle, she’d held his hand the entire time.

  And he’d let her.

  “Are you all right?” he rumbled, his voice low and his brow furrowed as he looked her over.

  “I am. That is, I’d… like to start learning the bow.” To start protecting herself, and him, and anyone who’d need it. It was past time. Papà had always forbidden it, but Papà wasn’t here now.

  Veron’s mouth curved for just a moment, then he inclined his head. “We’ll start tomorrow morning.”

  Those quiet words, offered freely, with the hint of a smile, warmed her, but that furrowed brow returned. Although he walked alongside her, held her hand, he was still out on the blood-drenched streets, still eye to eye with the harpies, among the screams and fighting.

  It’s all right, she wanted to say, but… no. It wasn’t all right. Not in the least. But she’d find a way to make it so.

  Thank the Holy Mother that the dark-elves had had their blades—made of arcanir—which seemed to disrupt certain abilities of the Immortali, and had ended the harpies.

  The chamberlain led them to quarters, and the sharp-eyed guard, along with two others, swept the rooms before giving the all-clear. While she and Veron entered, Gabriella excused herself to oversee the delivery of their luggage.

  The rooms were opulent—the ducal apartment, no doubt—with fine white silk upholstery, blackwood furnishings, and high ceilings. Veron approached the windows, peering out with a discerning eye. A wary eye.

  After what had happened, what could she say to him?

  The Brotherhood had risked much, and this wouldn’t stop.

  Revealing the setup could turn the public against the Brotherhood, but it would also shift national attention from the peace to the rebellion. And with the Immortali openly fighting in human cities, there was too big a risk that the Brotherhood would enjoy vocal support, whether it would deny planting the bait or not.

  Publicizing the unrest could be exactly what the Brotherhood wanted. The entire purpose of the Royal Progress—spreading the message of peace—would be frustrated. Hushed. The focus would once more return to the threat of the Immortali.

  But did it have to?

  “Not without a fight,” she murmured.

  Veron, his arms crossed, turned to her with a raised brow. She’d start protecting him, herself, and everyone else—for now, with the only methods she knew.

  “You think we failed.” She moved toward him as servants entered with pails of steaming water for the bath, poured into a tub behind her.

  He grunted. “We did fail, whether I think it or not.”

  “Everything was going well until—”

  “The attack. And that’s all anyone will remember.” His low voice became practically inaudible. He lowered his chin, and his gaze dropped to the floor. His eyes shut, he stood in the window’s sunlit radiance, covered in blood and gleaming, terrifying and bright.

  As the winged shadows had sailed in overhead, she’d been frozen to her saddle, unable to move, unable to think, staring at gaping mouths with sharp teeth, at frenzied eyes, at razor-like talons. Seeing a vision of flesh torn and blood rain, an unholy feast in the sky above an anguished city. And then she’d been pulled from the saddle, wrapped in sheltering black, and moved to a tight alleyway.

  Veron. The low rumble of his voice, the rainwater and fresh earth of his scent. His shielding arms, his dauntless form, his implacable mettle. He ha
dn’t hesitated. Hadn’t frozen. Hadn’t panicked.

  He’d saved her life.

  She reached up to him, to where his long hair swept over his shoulder, and she pulled the tie binding his braid, slowly, gently. His eyes opened just a sliver, pale lashes catching the sunshine’s luminance, and his breathing slowed.

  The coppery tang of blood was overpowering, and with his arms crossed, those sharp claws rested on his biceps.

  But she pulled that tie down and off. Looped her finger through the weave of his braid, undoing it, unbinding it, freeing it.

  He didn’t move, simply watched her through those slitted eyes, let her do as she willed.

  I’m open to your wishes, he’d told her the night of their wedding. You shouldn’t fear rejection should you express them to me.

  He’d saved her life—and she could kiss him just for that. But when she did, she’d want him to kiss her back. And not just because of his mother’s orders, nor because of duty, but because he wanted to. Which at worst was an impossibility, and at best, a challenge.

  But challenges were made to be answered.

  “Alessandra,” he breathed, and she wanted to hear him say her name again, a hundred times, a thousand times. To call her the name she only allowed her loved ones to call her.

  “Aless.” She smoothed her hand from his hair to his leather-armored chest. “Call me Aless.”

  “Aless.”

  The smooth sound was a bare stroke, an intimacy, but she wouldn’t close her eyes, wouldn’t let herself descend deeper into the moment, read her hopes into his words, that he might see her as something more…

  She wasn’t more.

  She was—how had Papà put it?—willful, short tempered, sharp mouthed, and presumptuous. Disobedient.

  Everything a man didn’t want in a wife…

  On their wedding night, Veron had led her to understand that if she wanted more, he’d give it to her. Was that what he was doing? Giving her what she wanted, no matter how he felt?

  But her fingers pressed against the leather.

  He caught her hand, his hold careful, his claws well away from her flesh. Brushing his thumb over her fingertip, he smudged the bloodstain already on her skin, from the armor. “The blood.”

  Something thudded behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder. The last of her luggage, including the trunk Lorenzo had given her.

  She turned back to Veron.

  There was the blood, yes, but even more pressing, the duchessa awaited them. “There’s a bath ready,” she whispered.

  With a deep breath and a nod, he looked past her and back again. “Will it offend you if I…?”

  “Not in the least,” she replied too quickly. “But if you wish me to leave, I’ll—”

  “No.” He straightened. “Stay.”

  Before she could reply, he released her and passed her on his way to the tub.

  “Lorenzo had me take a few things for you, since we would find ourselves among the nobiltà,” she said, among the rustling of leathers and fabric.

  “That was generous of him. It was a help at the capital.”

  Holy Mother’s mercy, he was removing his clothes, right behind her, and her heart was in her throat, as if she’d never been around an undressing man before.

  So instead she opened the trunk from Lorenzo and removed an assortment of men’s couture. “I think the clothes will help bridge our people’s differences. Sort of like the flowers.”

  A soft splash of water, and she was wringing a shirt in her hand. She cleared her throat. “Speaking of the flowers, I don’t think we failed today.”

  “Aless—”

  “No one died. None of the attendees were even injured. If anything, we proved that your people can deliver exactly what you promised—help against the other Immortali.” She chose black velvet for him, a well-tailored jacket and trousers, without the color and ornamentation that would seem as though they were trying too hard.

  He sighed. “It was inauspicious.”

  “If we leave things as they are, that will be the story.” She laid out the clothing on the sprawling bed, to the soft slosh of water behind her. The Beast Princess would have strode before him, undressed, and slipped into the tub before he could remember to close his mouth. The Beast Princess would be bold, daring—

  The Beast Princess was nowhere to be found.

  Instead, here was this quivering, awkward mess, barely able to function in the mere presence of this one man. Some smelling salts would do her good.

  This attraction—it would go nowhere. All he felt for her was duty, and she wouldn’t be the pathetic wretch longing for a man who didn’t long for her.

  She’d meet with Nunzio today, discuss her plan for the library, and no matter how it was done, she needed to live her dream, to help in any way she could. She’d explain it all to Veron. He didn’t deserve this mess—he deserved the truth, to know her plans, even if it would upset or anger him. A decision had to be made, and soon.

  Soon… That is, not right this instant. Tonight they had to sway the Stroppiata nobiltà to support the peace—with both human and dark-elf lives at stake, that had to take priority. But after that…

  She heaved a sigh. After that, she’d tell him, and he… he’d understand her desire to cure the ignorance driving this rebellion, and if she helped solidify the peace during this Royal Progress, there would be no need for the second ceremony, for the marriage. With his mother’s goal fulfilled, he wouldn’t want to marry a human anyway, so he’d be free. He’d understand. He’d—

  “That was our one chance,” he said quietly. “The schedule has us spending the rest of our visit here with the nobiltà.”

  “Then the Brotherhood wins. They choose the impression we leave the paesani with, and we make no effort to change it, and appear resigned or, worse, afraid.”

  A loud splash and rustle of fabric. “What do you propose?”

  “That we set the narrative. Let’s keep Silen focused on the positive. On us.” As footsteps approached the bed, she turned away. “We’ll ask the duchessa to have her people spread word of your heroism, and your people’s, during the rescue today. And tomorrow, let’s plan an impromptu visit to the Terran shrine. I’ll make an offering before the Mother of Stroppiata for a blessed union, and we’ll do our best to seem affectionate and unified.” It wouldn’t be too big of a challenge, at least on her end.

  “Will that work?” Velvet swished behind her, Veron changing, casting an interplay of sunlight and shadow stretching before her.

  “Stroppiata is Silen’s most pious city. It will be seen as an act of respect.” They had the advantage of the public eye; while the Brotherhood hid and slinked in the shadows, she and Veron could use their visibility to win the public’s favor, if they proceeded wisely. If they won that, the Brotherhood’s cause would fail.

  A brief silence.

  She glanced over her shoulder as he buttoned a shirt beneath the open black jacket, over a sculpted, hard body, blue-gray like Carrerra marble from the North. Dreaming Sileni artists had built gods and heroes, powerful ideals of myth and legend, with such form. And he stood before her now, real and breathing and beautiful and strong, the godly and the heroic driving him in his earthly deeds. Layers of rumor and presumption and mystery that had hidden him before now swept away like dust, and he’d been here, beneath it all, this entire time.

  “I’m glad it was you, Aless.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. Blinking, she fixed her gaze upon the parquet floor.

  “Glad it was me?” she whispered, daring to meet his eyes as he now fastened the jacket’s golden toggles. Holy Mother’s mercy. Seeing him only confirmed her misplaced attraction.

  But he’d said he was glad. Maybe it wasn’t misplaced?

  Holding her gaze, he abandoned the toggles midway and took a step closer.

  Her heart pounded. Had he noticed her awkwardness? Was he teasing her? She swallowed.

  He carefully took her hand, her shaking hand, and
raised it to his chest, pressed it there, over his heart. “When I arrived in Bellanzole, I’m glad it was you.”

  Her eyes widened, but he didn’t waver, just held her hand there against the pulse beating in his chest. His golden eyes, soft and warm, held her speechless, breathless, and his hair, clean and damp, begged for her touch. The toggles on his jacket, halfway done—she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to finish fastening them, or—

  “Am I alone in this, Aless?”

  He blinked, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. She shook her head slowly. No, he hadn’t misread her. He wasn’t alone in… “I think there may be something here that—”

  A soft rapping on wood came from the hall.

  Veron’s mouth curved as he searched her eyes. “It’s time to meet the duchess.”

  It was time, and their discussion had been cut short, but it didn’t matter—he knew.

  He knew, and he felt the same.

  Chapter 11

  A corner of Veron’s mouth turned up as he escorted Aless to the great hall, following a footman. By Deep and Darkness, he could scarcely stop himself from smiling.

  Aless spoke not a word of Elvish. Didn’t worship Holy Ulsinael. No combat prowess whatsoever. Couldn’t hunt, nor even pitch a tent reliably.

  But she was devoted to peace, generous with her things, loved her sister fiercely. She was determined, a strategic thinker, passionate about knowledge, and eager to learn new things. Charismatic and inspiring. Above all, honest. The more he learned about her, the more he liked her—something he hadn’t expected in this arrangement.

  Next to him, she practically glowed, darkly gleaming ringlets cascading over her shoulders, drawing his gaze down to the neckline of her silver-trimmed purple gown, plunging just past the curve of her breasts.

  He shouldn’t look, but—

  Human fashion had certainly changed in two thousand years. Drastically, gloriously changed. Just like the sheer red thing she’d worn on their wedding night. A sheer red thing that now lingered in his thoughts.