No Man Can Tame

by Miranda Honfleur

  Veron took in everything with a narrow gaze, as if such preparations were foreign to him. Maybe they were. What, exactly, was a dark-elf wedding feast like? She turned to him, but Bianca’s soft grip closed around her arm.

  “Come,” Bianca said with a subtle smile. “Let’s get ready for the feast.”

  The sharp-eyed guard murmured something to Veron, inclining her head.

  “See you at dinner, Alessandra,” Veron said.

  She offered him a smile. With the briefest of looks exchanged, she and Veron parted ways. It wouldn’t be long before the guests would start arriving, and she would have to return to the great hall long before Papà could arrive—at least if she wanted to avoid his further ire.

  And then… the consummation.

  Chapter 5

  In her dressing chamber, Aless stroked a finger over the swath of crimson chiffon spread out on her chaise longue, ethereal and romantic. A nightgown for later tonight. Bianca had selected it, along with a dazzling array of rubies and gold.

  “You make it look like I’m trying to seduce him,” Aless muttered.

  Behind her, Bianca pinned the train of the red gown. “Maybe that’ll make things easier tonight?”

  Tonight.

  She shivered.

  After the feast, she and Veron—along with a host of lords and councilors—would depart to her bedchamber. For the consummation. The bed curtains would be drawn, and in the presence of these officials, she and her new dark-elf husband would have to—to—

  “Are you scared?” Bianca asked softly.

  Scared. Oh yes, she was scared.

  That is, she had been with many a lover, many a human lover. All men she’d chosen herself, strong and handsome, well bred, alluring. With those men, she had been bold, fierce, confident. She had pursued them and seduced them and played with them as she’d pleased. There hadn’t been a single worry in her mind, no more than the pulse-pounding mystery of whether each would prove capable and worth her time.

  But Veron…

  Veron. She ran a fingertip over the scratch on her wrist.

  She hadn’t even become accustomed to just looking at him without holding her breath or shaking. Even his voice rippled shivers down her spine. They’d only just met, were so different from each other—too different. Maybe two dark-elves weren’t concerned with claws and fangs, as their skin seemed firmer, too.

  But one of his claws had only grazed her wrist as they’d exited the carriage, and it had left a scratch. Stroking a finger over it, she knitted her eyebrows together. So commonplace a thing, helping a lady out of a carriage, and he had left a mark.

  Even if they… overcame their differences, how careful could he be? How much control could he have? Being raised a dark-elf, how much could he know about the limits of a human? In the throes of pleasure, even humans forgot themselves, gave themselves over in mind and body to sensation, and what would happen to her if he did?

  The scratch was shallow, almost beneath notice, but if he forgot himself for just a moment—

  “Aless?” Bianca stood before her, face pale and creased with worry, and took her hand. “I’m touched that you want to do this for me. I am… and thank you for stepping in. But you don’t need to do this. The marriage hasn’t been consummated yet, and we could still—”

  “I’m—I’m just nervous.” Holding a smile in place, she embraced Bianca. There was no way she could even consider sabotaging her sister’s happiness. Not when Bianca actually loved Luciano. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  Bianca struggled in her hold. “You’re just saying that, and —”

  “No,” she said, tightening her embrace. Her heart fluttered in her chest, but she had to make Bianca believe everything would be all right. “The witnesses will be there tonight, remember? And after that, I have my plan, right?” Her voice broke, and along with it, her composure. No matter how hard she tried to hold everything in, a couple of lone tears escaped.

  She closed her eyes and took three deep breaths.

  Never had she wanted to fade away into that sprawling courtyard of overgrown roses more than she did now, surrounded by them and their tangible air of magic, in that place of dreams where she knew she belonged. A thicket of tangling vines, wild and winding, reigning there and yet making a place for her, clearing a corridor through the green and letting her inside.

  “I don’t want you to do it,” Bianca whispered. “I know I said—”

  “It’s done.” Pulling her shoulders back, she moved away and smiled at Bianca, who sniffled softly. “It’ll be fine. You’ll see. You’ll get to marry Luciano, and Veron and I will come to an agreement. Neither of us wants this, so I think he will be motivated to work with me. And then…”

  She would still technically be married in the human realm, and Papà would never let her return if she reneged. She would find herself as the Order’s ward, at best, and she’d ply every ear among them until the public library was built. A place where she could make a difference.

  Her eyes overbright, Bianca gave a small nod. And there it was—an understanding. She had resolved to do this, and Bianca wouldn’t fight her.

  Good. At least one of them could be happy.

  In the mirror, her cloak of raven feathers was gone, and the dramatic wedding gown was pinned up, perfect for dancing. Did the dark-elves dance? Did Veron dance?

  “Did you see Papà’s face in the abbazia?” Bianca asked with a half-laugh. “I’ve never seen his eyes so wide. And Lorenzo, his eyebrows shot up so high, but his eyes were half-moons, as if he’d been smiling.” Bianca tried to hide a smile herself, but she failed.

  Lorenzo was Papà’s firstborn son and heir, but for years he had bucked that yoke, struggling in vain for a simple life that he could never have. Oh, if only they could have traded places—she would have gladly accepted the responsibilities he wished to shirk, and he could have as simple a life as he wanted being traded away like a pawn.

  “Maybe he’ll put in a good word for you with Papà,” Bianca added. “Help you get back into Papà’s good graces.”

  “I think he has no more good graces to spare for me.” She narrowed her eyes at her own reflection before turning toward the door. There was nothing left for her here. Ahead of her, she had only negotiations with Veron, and a life outside the palazzo, whatever she could make of it. “Come. I think my wedding feast is about to begin.”

  Bianca joined her as she exited the dressing chamber and headed for the great hall. Tonight, she and Veron would find a way to survive the consummation, but before that, there was an entire hall filled with courtiers, some of whom belonged to the Brotherhood, who were here for a human–dark-elf wedding feast. No doubt Papà had already prepared the Royal Guard, and she would have to prepare herself. As much as she wanted out of this marriage, nothing about her exit strategy could ruin the peace. She wouldn’t allow it.

  The herald announced her and Bianca, and as they entered, all of the guests seated at the many tables stood, including Veron at the head table, wearing a finely tailored black jacket with silver rose buttons—one of Lorenzo’s—form-fitting trousers, and his own boots. Lorenzo must have spoken to him—helped him.

  A kindness. Fine of you, brother.

  Veron’s gaze rested on her, even but purposeful as he clasped his hands behind his back, cutting a strong figure. He didn’t look at her with the intensity of the men who had desired her—it didn’t take a lot of thinking to realize why—but even a serene look like this was unsettling in how perfectly controlled it was. As a child, he must’ve feared to even have a hair out of place and risk his mother’s disapproval. Even now, the shadow of that risk had followed him here.

  She and Bianca moved to the viand-laden head table, where a sweetly smiling Luciano pulled out a chair for Bianca as Veron did for her. Those two. They probably already had adorable pet names for each other like kitten and tomcat.

  As she inclined her head to Veron and took a seat, a chill slithered down her spine, an
d her eyes meandered toward the direction of Papà’s gaze.

  He was smiling.

  He raised a goblet to her, glanced past her toward Bianca and Luciano, then leaned back.

  Her heart pounding, she stared at the spot he’d leaned into before, at nothing now. The low hum of the hall faded in favor of the pulsing thud in her ears, loudening and loudening.

  Holy Mother’s mercy, he’d—he’d played her.

  The way he had called both her and Bianca into the throne room to announce the marriage arrangements—

  He had—he had manipulated her into this.

  She had never been able to ignore an injustice, not when she could do something to fix it. And Bianca...

  Bianca had pined after Luciano for months, and Papà was a lot of things, but not ignorant, especially where his favorite child was concerned. He could’ve predicted her exact reaction and planned for it, expecting her to submit for Bianca’s sake.

  And she had submitted.

  But not completely, not while she still had moves to make that wouldn’t jeopardize Bianca’s happiness. Papà wouldn’t get away with this. He couldn’t.

  Her hands had gone numb, and there they were in her lap, fisted so tightly her blood wouldn’t flow.

  Her gaze tracked Papà again. If he’d thought he could play her, deceive her, and think her so stupid, then he should’ve thought of the consequences.

  These consequences.

  Of being outed publicly for his treatment of her, as he’d be right now.

  She scraped the chair back, but a hand closed around one of her fists. A slate-blue, clawed hand.

  Glaring at Veron, she was about to demand he release her, when she met that even gaze. That even, tightly controlled gaze, which panned toward the dance floor, and back to her.

  He raised his white eyebrows once, as if to encourage an answer.

  An answer to what? Had he spoken?

  She swallowed, and music filtered in, a prelude—an extended prelude. Her clenched hands slowly relaxed.

  “Alessandra?” that steely velvet voice asked, but there was a softness there, a gentleness.

  “Hmm?”

  “The dance.” He blinked. “Do you—”

  “Oh, yes,” she said quickly. The first dance.

  Surrounding the dance floor, myriad faces followed her every movement, the collective whole of the nobiltà watching her carefully, watching the peace carefully. She’d seemed to oppose Veron during their wedding, and he her, and she still needed to show the semblance of acceptance, if only a little longer. And then hope to transition to genuine, clear friendship.

  If she didn’t play her part well, the symbolic peace between her and Veron would fail, and along with it… the peace between their peoples.

  I won’t let that happen.

  No matter what Papà had done.

  Forcing a smile, she rose with Veron, allowing him to guide her as the musicians yet again extended the prelude, wary of those sharp claws. It would begin with a quessanade.

  The quessanade… A human dance. She drew in a sharp breath, and Veron’s eyes swept toward her briefly.

  “Do you know how to dance the quessanade?” she whispered.

  His pale eyebrows drew together, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I know the human dances well—”

  Thank the Mother.

  “—but I haven’t danced in over two thousand years,” he answered, not a muscle moving out of turn.

  Two thousand—

  “Do you trust me?” he whispered, as they approached the center and assumed the position.

  Two-thousand-year-old human dances? “You haven’t—”

  “Do you trust me, Alessandra?” His voice was soft but firm as his hand clasped around her waist, just the barest scrape of claws against tulle.

  Either she would have to lead, or… or she would have to trust him.

  No, this could go completely—

  But as the first movement of the dance suite began, he drew her in close, just barely apart from his chest, and led her in a gliding step, in a whirling rotation that flowed from one turn to another and another. A dazzling array of colors spun around them, but those shimmering golden eyes stayed locked with hers in unbreakable focus, intense, determined, and he kept perfect form, his hold strong but guiding.

  This had to be how her ancestors had danced thousands of years ago, face to face, eye to eye, close enough to breathe in that blend of fresh earth and the scent of the purest water, like a forest stream so clear that the smooth stones at the bottom were perfectly visible, their surfaces honed by hundreds of years or more to the sleekness of glass. Her fingers brushed their hardness—but no, it was his shoulder through black brocade. Holy Mother’s mercy, so awkward—

  Those eyebrows pulled inward, and those pale eyelashes shuttered, his unbreakable focus glimmering a moment as he glanced down at her mouth and back to her eyes.

  “Good dance,” she breathed.

  A corner of his mouth turned up. “They called it the rotante. The young adored it, and the old—”

  “Were appalled by it?” she offered, as he led her into a turn.

  An amused inclination of his chin as other couples took to the floor, following his lead to attempt this rotante themselves. Excited voices and giggles surrounded them.

  The closeness of this dance would have been scandalous, no doubt, but by today’s standards, it was quite tame compared to the sarabande or the volta. “Unafraid of scandal, Your Highness?”

  “Veron,” he corrected, searching her eyes. “I… chose the most modern dance I knew.”

  A two-thousand-year-old dance? She held back a laugh, but when a smile played on his pinched lips, she allowed a grin. If she had succeeded in leading, this would have been a disaster. “How do your people dance at weddings?”

  A glimmer. “We don’t. We do dance for a few occasions, but for most, we have games.”

  Games?

  Lorenzo cut in, beaming like a debutante newly revealed, and Veron joined their hands with a smile, the point of one of his fangs peeking. Fangs.

  “Spare your worry, sister,” Lorenzo remarked with a broad grin. “I won’t keep you long tonight.”

  Tonight. She breathed deeply as Lorenzo led her, and Veron took Bianca’s hand. The dancing had gone well, but tonight—that was an entirely different matter.

  “This will be the newest trend at court,” Lorenzo drawled. “What is it called?”

  “The rotante,” she answered.

  Tonight, she and Veron would be in a bedchamber, surrounded by officials. She’d be wearing that… nightdress—no, that flimsy swath of chiffon that could barely be called a garment—and would he ask her to trust him then, too?

  “Once you look past all the”—Lorenzo frowned—“differences, you might like him, Aless.”

  Like had nothing to do with it. She liked plenty of people well enough, or at least didn’t hate them, but that didn’t mean she chose to share a bed with them. And what about Veron? No doubt he wasn’t interested in her either. Did anyone care what he chose? What either of them chose? Or did tradition stand in for choice when Papà or the queen of Nightbloom deemed it so?

  Bianca laughed nearby as Veron turned her, his movement controlled, smooth. How much time had he spent learning this dance, and all the others? He had put in more thought and effort as one person learning human culture than the whole of this room had probably spent on his.

  And that dark jacket, those tailored trousers—they fit him well, if a bit tight. His build was a bit larger than Lorenzo’s, who had a big frame but spent less time training it. He worked enough to hone his skills with the dueling sword and throwing knives, but he’d always preferred beds over training yards.

  “Thank you,” she said to him, “for the wardrobe change.”

  With a crooked smile, Lorenzo tilted his head. “Careful, Aless. A kind word or two like that, and rumor may spread that you’re going soft.”

  “Holy Mother forfend,” sh
e deadpanned as Lorenzo looked away.

  Tarquin cut in before she could object, dark-brown eyes gleaming in that too-handsome face. After what he’d said the night of the masquerade and his rumored membership in the Brotherhood, she wasn’t interested in learning any more of him and his hatred. She followed his lead, but her entire body had gone rigid.

  “Even a lion can be afraid sometimes,” he said carefully as he glided into step.

  “That is when they are most dangerous.” She didn’t meet his eyes. Wouldn’t. He didn’t merit the respect.

  “A sole lion may be defeated with ease,” he replied, not missing a beat, “but only if it forgets its true strength. The pride.”

  The Brotherhood? “This lion has no need of a pride,” she bit out.

  “You don’t need to wear a mask, princess,” Tarquin whispered. “Not with me. The pride is watching. Only say the word, anytime, anywhere, that you protest, and our strength will… relieve your solitude.”

  She shivered. Anytime? Anywhere? How could—

  He was already gone, and Luciano was in his place, smiling. “Well, Your Highness, what do you make of this dance?” He led her into it.

  This dance was becoming dangerous. And now, more than ever, with the pride’s eyes on her, she’d have to watch her step.

  Chapter 6

  Veron paced the length of the bathing chamber, disrobed down to his shirt and braies. Pausing, he yanked off his boots—well made, but too tight—and resumed his circuit.

  They waited in there—the human councilors and lords, their holy men—to know this marriage would be completed.

  That was a problem.

  To the humans, a marriage was incomplete without what they called the consummation. The first act of lovemaking between a bride and her groom. For royals, especially, as oftentimes such massive consequences relied on marriages, it was imperative that the consummation be viewed by credible witnesses and its performance marked in documents. He well knew this, as it had been so even two thousand years into the past.