He raised a brow. “Thank you. Your turn.”
“Where did you learn how to use all the weapons in our arsenal?” she asked as he went to collect the star. The sudden stiffness in his (unfairly distracting!) shoulders sent her scrambling for a different question. “I mean, you’re about my age, right? Kind of young to be a master of so many weapons unless you had training. I know there’s an academy in . . .”
He’d turned to face her, and the look on his face told her she’d stumbled into something he didn’t want to discuss. “I picked up things here and there. If you have questions about my ability to perform my job—”
“Oh please.” She stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Barely. Score one for proper princess behavior. “You just impaled a hand-sized star into the dead center of a target fifty paces away. And you destroyed those men who were trying to take Cleo and me yesterday. Your abilities are not in question. I was making conversation. It’s what friends do.”
He frowned as he approached to give her the weapon, careful to keep from touching her.
“This will be a lot easier for both of us if you tell me what topics are off-limits for conversation with your friends.”
He stood, silent and still.
Fine. She could outwait him. She crossed her arms over her chest so she could look vaguely intimidating and accidentally poked one of the star’s edges into her rib cage.
“Ouch,” she muttered, and then gave Sebastian a look that dared him to remind her that the star was sharp. “Are you going to answer my question, or am I going to have to continue to injure myself while I wait you out?”
Stiffly, he said, “I don’t have off-limit topics—”
“I beg to differ.”
“—because I don’t have friends. I don’t need them.”
Ari’s chest ached at the carefully blank expression on his face. At the way he said the words as if they didn’t matter. She smiled—not a gentle, pitying smile because, stars knew, she hated being on the receiving end of those, but a genuine, wide, all-teeth-on-display smile—and bumped his shoulder with hers. “Well, you have a friend now.”
He stiffened as she touched him, and then slowly relaxed, though she could see that he was forcing himself to look like the touch hadn’t mattered.
She turned toward the target. This time, she was going to hit something other than the floor. Apparently it was all in the wrist. Her arm whispered against Sebastian’s as she raised it over her head, and he immediately took several steps forward and to the right so that he could watch her form.
Drawing in a deep breath, she focused on the target and tried to remember every step of the process. Grip one edge of the star between her index finger and her thumb. Step forward with the opposite leg. Cock her wrist. Drop her arm and straighten it at shoulder height and then flick her wrist. Or was it flick her wrist just before she straightened her arm?
She hesitated a split second as her arm fell past her shoulder, and then quickly snapped her wrist forward and threw the star with all the strength she had. It flew to the right, and Sebastian gasped as it grazed his side.
“Oh no!” Ari rushed to him as blood soaked his tunic. “Please tell me I didn’t just kill you.”
“You didn’t just kill me.” He peeled up the stained fabric to reveal a long, narrow slash of open skin.
“I’m so sorry.” Her hands hovered uncertainly in the air as he let the tunic fall, covering the wound as it kept seeping blood.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” he said. “I’ve had worse.”
She stepped closer to him, trying to gauge how much blood was on his tunic.
“At least it wasn’t my eye.” The corners of his mouth twitched slightly.
Seriously? Now he was going to (kind of) smile?
“I can’t believe you’re making a joke. I could’ve impaled you in the stomach. Or the heart.” Her eyes widened as the sickening possibilities hit her.
“This is nothing.” Blood dripped off the edge of his tunic. He grasped it and began pulling it over his head.
“I’ll get the medical supplies. Where are they?”
“In the chest beside the stairs that lead to the upper deck.”
The tunic slid over his head, and Ari stared at the muscles that defined his stomach. At the wickedly raised scar that slashed across his chest. At the, stars help her, way his shoulders moved as he rolled the tunic into a ball and pressed it against his wound.
She needed to focus. Preferably on something other than Sebastian. She was turning to fetch the medical supplies when Sebastian twisted at the waist to throw the bloodstained tunic toward the edge of the arena. The sight of his back stopped her. His skin was a mess of crisscrossed scars, some faded to a faint shining white, others still a raised purple-red line that said they’d been inflicted within the last year.
The ache that had started in her chest when he’d said that he didn’t have friends ignited into something that seared her heart and pricked tears against her lashes.
He was her age. Yet some of those scars looked like they’d been there for at least a decade. She’d like to meet the person who could lash the skin from a child’s back, and then she’d like to strap that person to a bale of hay and keep practicing until her throwing star landed dead center.
“Do you have the medical supplies?” he asked as he turned and caught her staring (mortifyingly) openmouthed at him. His body went still, and an expressionless mask slid over his face. His eyes were guarded, as if bracing himself for her unwelcome pity.
Which meant Ari had to talk about something else—anything else—to cover up the awful ache she felt when she looked at him. She took a breath, hoped inspiration would hit, and said the first thing that came to mind.
“You must lift a lot of heavy things. Hay bales maybe? Swords? Multiple swords at once? I don’t know how else you’d get muscles like these. Not that I’m looking at your muscles. I mean, I am, but only because there’s really nothing else but sawdust to look at, and so . . .” Stars above, why was she still talking? “I’m just going to get the medical supplies now, and both of us are going to pretend this entire conversation never happened.”
She hurried to get a bandage and cleansing ointment, and prayed that she wouldn’t say another unbelievably awkward word about muscles or lifting things or basically anything that didn’t have to do with bandaging his wound. When she returned, the guarded look in his eyes had faded, though he was watching her like she was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out. She dropped her gaze to the cut on his side, and his body tensed.
She’d have to touch him to put the bandage on, and that would be upsetting to him. It was bad enough that she’d sliced him open with a throwing star. She couldn’t force him to endure her touch as well—and he would choose to endure it because she was the princess. A member of the servant class wouldn’t risk arguing with royalty.
“Here’s the thing,” she said as she moved to his side. “I want to bandage your wound because I can reach it better than you can, and because I feel terrible for hurting you. But we’re friends, remember?”
“So you keep telling me.” His voice was a shade warmer than neutral.
She’d call that a small victory.
“Friends are equals.”
He made a sound in the back of his throat.
“That means friends don’t tell each other what to do and expect obedience,” she said.
“Which is why a weapons master and a princess don’t get to be friends,” he said gently.
It was a setback, and it stung more than Ari thought it should, but she hadn’t survived life as a bastard daughter ignored by her father the king—unable to fit in with either the nobility or the servants until Thad took the throne—without learning how to handle disappointment.
She handed him the ointment. “You’re going to change your mind. I can be pretty relentless. Obviously today’s session is over. I’ll give you a few days to recover before I come back for another one.”
“I don’t need a few days.”
“All right, I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” she said.
“Princess Arianna, if you need help tonight, for any reason, I sleep in a cot in the office attached to the arena,” Sebastian said with quiet intensity, his gaze brushing over her bruised arms. “I’d be surprised if Teague’s men would visit the palace and try anything, but just in case. I’m here.”
She smiled at him. “Thank you.”
Now that she’d made progress on learning to use a weapon—if she could count the fact that she’d hit something other than the floor as progress—she needed to make a solid backup plan to protect her brother and stop the Wish Granter. Leaving the throwing star on the table, she slipped the iron dagger into her purse and left the arena.
Before she made any more plans or asked more questions, she was going to dip this blade into bloodflower poison and strap it to her hip.
Just in case.
ELEVEN
TEAGUE WATCHED AS the princess strode out of the arena and headed toward the palace.
He hadn’t counted on her resourcefulness or on how quickly she would figure out a way to hurt him. In fact, one look at her ungainly height and abundant curves, and he’d figured she was the least of his worries.
He wasn’t afraid to admit when he was wrong.
Young Thaddeus wasn’t a threat. Not anymore. His blood bound him to the contract they’d signed. He couldn’t lift a finger against Teague.
His sister was another story.
He glared at her, though she couldn’t yet see him. His plans were in place. Ten years of doing as he pleased throughout Súndraille, and when Thad gave up his soul, no one would think to challenge Teague for the throne.
He’d finally have power that had nothing to do with owing someone a wish.
The boy’s sister would either get in line with his plans or he’d find a way to force her to cooperate.
Cold determination filled him while he watched the princess. She moved with purpose, walking quickly past the line of trees that framed the palace road as she approached the garden that hugged the western side of the palace.
He waited until she’d passed, and then fast as a thought, he was behind her.
“Arianna Glavan, we need to come to an understanding.”
She gasped and spun to face him, and he had his hand wrapped around her throat before she could do more than stagger back a step.
He ran the back of his other hand over her cheek and cocked his head to study her eyes.
Terrified.
Angry.
Defiant.
It was the defiance that sparked his interest.
And his fear.
The defiant ones didn’t break when you threatened them. They didn’t cave to bribes or bargain for their own safety.
But every human had a breaking point. He just had to find hers.
She jerked her head, but he held her fast. She was tall, but he could reach her throat, and that was all that mattered.
“Get off our property,” she rasped.
He smiled as he imagined peeling the skin from her bones. It was hard to be defiant when you were in too much pain to do anything but scream. He couldn’t kill her, though, unless he had no other choice. She was Thaddeus’s weakness, and the boy would instantly break the terms of his contract if his sister was harmed. Teague needed to lay the groundwork for his own ascension to the throne before that happened.
Which meant he had to find the key to controlling the princess.
“You’ve been asking questions about me. Do you know what I do to people who pry into my business?” He held her gaze, but she didn’t flinch.
He tried again. “Do you really think that’s the best way to keep your brother safe?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t touch him for nine years and eleven months unless he breaks the terms of your contract. Your magic has rules.”
The bravado in her voice was thin, but there was no mistaking the furious courage in her eyes.
His smile widened. Not herself. Not her brother. Where was the princess’s weakness?
His voice dropped to a whisper filled with every considerable ounce of malice he possessed. “Perhaps I can’t touch young Thaddeus, but he wasn’t the one asking questions with you yesterday, was he?”
Her eyes widened, and the pulse beneath his fingers fluttered.
The friend, then.
Perfect.
“I will only say this once, Princess. Stay out of my affairs. That includes my contract with your brother. Tell your friend—Cleo, isn’t it?—to stay out of them too. If either of you disobeys, I will tear her apart, piece by piece. Do we have an understanding?”
Her lips trembled as she nodded, and he slowly released his grip on her throat.
“A pleasure seeing you again, Princess. Let’s hope for Cleo’s sake that our paths don’t cross for the next nine years and eleven months.”
She rubbed her hands as if they were chilled, and at the last second, he realized she was reaching for something in her wrist bag. Snatching her wrist, he plunged his hand into her bag and pulled out an iron dagger.
The dagger stung his palm, and he dropped it as a welter of blisters rose on his skin. Foolish girl. Did she really think she could stop him with a small bit of iron? Fury ignited cold tendrils of his magic as he glared at her. Slowly he raised his palm to show her the blisters as they bubbled up, hardened, and then sank down to become smooth, unlined skin once more.
“If you want to kill me, my dear, you have to bring something far stronger than a dagger.” He bared his teeth, and she took a step back. “You thought you were dealing with a regular fae, but you were wrong. I am beyond your comprehension. I was alive when this kingdom was founded, and I will be alive to see it fall.”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
He straightened his jacket and stooped to put the dagger in his pocket. Then, inclining his head to her, he said, “Watch yourself, Princess. Cleo’s life depends on it.”
TWELVE
SEBASTIAN WAS GETTING used to being around the princess. Instinctive panic still hit when she accidentally touched him, but he’d stopped gauging the distance between them as if it might bite him. Stopped bracing himself for her disapproval and anger.
She walked into the arena one evening nearly a week after her first lesson wearing a simple green dress and carrying a small cloth-wrapped bundle. Waving away the instant bowing of the nobility, who were playing a rousing game of pin the dagger on the outlaw, she came straight for Sebastian.
“You have a bruise on your jaw and a cut on your mouth. What happened?” She stood directly in front of him and studied him openly, apparently unaware that her social status was supposed to make him invisible and that the nobility were watching.
He shrugged.
She stepped closer, and he tensed.
“Someone hit you.”
“Sparring session with one of the noblemen. Makario likes to make sure he lands a few punches. It’s easier to let him win than to deal with his temper if he loses. I’m just grateful it was a fist and not a throwing star,” he said, and then snapped his mouth shut. What was he doing? Making a stupid joke about the princess crossed a line he couldn’t uncross.
She laughed, and he watched her for signs that she didn’t mean it.
Her eyes were lit with mischief, and her body language was relaxed and open. She meant it.
“That cut on your lip will open again if you aren’t careful. Guess it’s lucky for you that you smile with everything but your mouth.” She winked at him.
Winked at him.
And stars help him, he felt the corners of his lips twitch in response.
She grinned, though there was a shadow of something serious behind it.
This was not how a princess was supposed to treat a servant. He should be invisible. Expendable. She shouldn’t care about him beyond the job he was supposed to perform. She shouldn’t; but if there was one thing he
could say about the princess with absolute confidence, it was that she did as she pleased without worrying about what others thought of her.
As if to prove her point, she turned to the assembled crowd, most of whom were only halfheartedly practicing with their weapons as they watched the princess and the weapons master. “There are games and refreshments set up in the front parlor. Perhaps you’d like to reconvene there.”
As it had before, her tone left no room for debate. The nobility filed past them, and Sebastian kept his back to the arena’s wall, working hard to keep from rolling to the balls of his feet as his scars tingled and his heart raced.
This wasn’t the kind of crowd he had to worry about. He wasn’t trapped. He was just doing his job until he could buy true safety.
And speaking of doing his job, he’d volunteered to be available to help the princess after dark if she felt threatened. He’d spent the last week sleeping restlessly, his cudgel beside his bed, but she hadn’t knocked on his door. Either she hadn’t needed help, or she hadn’t been able to get to him to ask for it.
He was betting on the latter, though all he had for evidence was the shadow that had haunted her face since the afternoon of their first sparring session. She’d returned the next day visibly shaken, the faint smudge of a bruise around her neck, but she hadn’t volunteered any information, and it wasn’t his place to ask.
He studied her while she watched the last of the nobility leave the arena. The bruises on her arms were nearly gone, as was the one on her neck. There were no other visible injuries. He couldn’t assess the areas of skin that were covered by her dress, but she hadn’t walked like she’d been injured. He checked the angle of her hips and was satisfied that she wasn’t favoring one leg over another.
“Looking for something?” she asked, and there was an unfriendly note in her voice for the first time since he’d met her.
He snapped his gaze up to her face, and realized with absolute mortification that she’d caught him staring at her hips. A girl of her beauty and confidence was probably weary of having men notice her curves and her skin and her— Had he lost his mind? He had no right to notice anything about the princess except that she had the power to take his job from him with a single word.
The Wish Granter (Ravenspire Book 2) Page 9
