Page 9
Story: His Forbidden Princess
"Yes," I answer finally, because tonight is already so far beyond the boundaries of what's allowed.
"What did you do about it?" Her eyes hold mine, searching for something I can't afford to give her.
I take a long drink of ale to avoid answering immediately. "I learned to live with the wanting."
"That's very noble of you." There's a hint of mockery in her tone, but something else beneath it—disappointment, perhaps.
"There's nothing noble about it." My voice is rougher than intended. "It's survival."
She opens her mouth to respond, but the music changes to something faster, more insistent, and her attention shifts to thedancers. I see the longing in her face as she watches them, free and uninhibited.
"I've never danced like that," she says softly. "Only formal court dances with appropriate partners and appropriate distance."
I should discourage her. I should remind her of the risk, of her position, of the dawn deadline that looms closer with each passing minute.
Instead, I hear myself ask, "Would you like to?"
Her eyes widen in surprise, then crinkle with delight. "Yes. Very much."
I stand, extending my hand in a gesture that mimics court formality but feels entirely different in this smoke-filled tavern. She places her fingers in mine, and I lead her to the edge of the dancing area.
I'm not a dancer. The movements I know best involve weapons and combat. But I've observed enough to fake my way through, and the steps are simple enough—a spin, a stomp, a clap, bodies moving in rhythm with the pounding drums and wailing fiddle.
Lirien picks it up quickly, laughing as I twirl her, her hair coming fully loose from its constraints. She's radiant in her joy, and for a few precious minutes, I allow myself to simply exist in this moment with her. Not guard and princess, not servant and royal, just man and woman moving together to primal rhythms.
It's a mistake. I know it as soon as I see the drunken sailor watching her from the edge of the dance floor, his eyes fixed on the way her body moves. He's tall, younger than me, with the muscled build of someone who hauls ropes for a living. And he's decided he wants what I can never have.
The dance ends, and before I can lead Lirien back to our table, he's there, inserting himself between us with alcoholic confidence.
"Dance with me, pretty girl," he slurs, reaching for her hand.
She steps back, her smile fading. "No, thank you. I'm with someone."
He glances at me dismissively. "Him? Old enough to be your father, ain't he? Come on, one dance."
"I said no." Her voice carries the authority of someone used to being obeyed.
It's the wrong tone to take with a man too drunk to recognize danger. He grabs her wrist, yanking her toward him. "Don't be like that. Just one?—"
I move without conscious thought, my hand closing around his throat before he can finish his sentence. I drive him backward until his spine hits the wall, lifting him slightly so he's forced to stand on tiptoes.
"She said no." My voice is barely human, a guttural snarl that silences the nearby conversations.
His eyes bulge, hands scrabbling ineffectually at my forearm. I tighten my grip fractionally, feeling the satisfying give of his windpipe under my thumb.
"Dain." Lirien's voice reaches me through a red haze. "Dain, let him go. Please."
The please does it. I release my hold, stepping back as the sailor collapses, gasping and clutching his throat.
"If you touch her again," I say quietly, "I will break every bone in your body, starting with the small ones in your hands. Do you understand?"
He nods frantically, scrambling away on all fours like a beaten dog.
The tavern has gone silent, all eyes on us. On me. On the violence that simmers just beneath my skin, visible now for all to see.
"We're leaving." I grab Lirien's arm, not gently, and steer her toward the door.
She doesn't resist, allowing me to guide her through the crowd that parts without a word. Only when we're outside in the relative quiet of the street does she pull away.
"What did you do about it?" Her eyes hold mine, searching for something I can't afford to give her.
I take a long drink of ale to avoid answering immediately. "I learned to live with the wanting."
"That's very noble of you." There's a hint of mockery in her tone, but something else beneath it—disappointment, perhaps.
"There's nothing noble about it." My voice is rougher than intended. "It's survival."
She opens her mouth to respond, but the music changes to something faster, more insistent, and her attention shifts to thedancers. I see the longing in her face as she watches them, free and uninhibited.
"I've never danced like that," she says softly. "Only formal court dances with appropriate partners and appropriate distance."
I should discourage her. I should remind her of the risk, of her position, of the dawn deadline that looms closer with each passing minute.
Instead, I hear myself ask, "Would you like to?"
Her eyes widen in surprise, then crinkle with delight. "Yes. Very much."
I stand, extending my hand in a gesture that mimics court formality but feels entirely different in this smoke-filled tavern. She places her fingers in mine, and I lead her to the edge of the dancing area.
I'm not a dancer. The movements I know best involve weapons and combat. But I've observed enough to fake my way through, and the steps are simple enough—a spin, a stomp, a clap, bodies moving in rhythm with the pounding drums and wailing fiddle.
Lirien picks it up quickly, laughing as I twirl her, her hair coming fully loose from its constraints. She's radiant in her joy, and for a few precious minutes, I allow myself to simply exist in this moment with her. Not guard and princess, not servant and royal, just man and woman moving together to primal rhythms.
It's a mistake. I know it as soon as I see the drunken sailor watching her from the edge of the dance floor, his eyes fixed on the way her body moves. He's tall, younger than me, with the muscled build of someone who hauls ropes for a living. And he's decided he wants what I can never have.
The dance ends, and before I can lead Lirien back to our table, he's there, inserting himself between us with alcoholic confidence.
"Dance with me, pretty girl," he slurs, reaching for her hand.
She steps back, her smile fading. "No, thank you. I'm with someone."
He glances at me dismissively. "Him? Old enough to be your father, ain't he? Come on, one dance."
"I said no." Her voice carries the authority of someone used to being obeyed.
It's the wrong tone to take with a man too drunk to recognize danger. He grabs her wrist, yanking her toward him. "Don't be like that. Just one?—"
I move without conscious thought, my hand closing around his throat before he can finish his sentence. I drive him backward until his spine hits the wall, lifting him slightly so he's forced to stand on tiptoes.
"She said no." My voice is barely human, a guttural snarl that silences the nearby conversations.
His eyes bulge, hands scrabbling ineffectually at my forearm. I tighten my grip fractionally, feeling the satisfying give of his windpipe under my thumb.
"Dain." Lirien's voice reaches me through a red haze. "Dain, let him go. Please."
The please does it. I release my hold, stepping back as the sailor collapses, gasping and clutching his throat.
"If you touch her again," I say quietly, "I will break every bone in your body, starting with the small ones in your hands. Do you understand?"
He nods frantically, scrambling away on all fours like a beaten dog.
The tavern has gone silent, all eyes on us. On me. On the violence that simmers just beneath my skin, visible now for all to see.
"We're leaving." I grab Lirien's arm, not gently, and steer her toward the door.
She doesn't resist, allowing me to guide her through the crowd that parts without a word. Only when we're outside in the relative quiet of the street does she pull away.