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My eyebrows rose. “Why? Aren’t Zephrine’s academies said to be among the best?”

“That depends entirely on what you’re studying.” Bitterness—and perhaps more than a little anger—sparked briefly in his eyes. “In this particular case, my needs were best served amongst my mother’s people.”

I’d been under the impression his mother was Zephrine born, but obviously not. “Who are?”

“That is perhaps a tale for another time.”

“In other words, ask no questions, be told no lies. A fine way to start a life together, Damon.”

“It’s not so much a matter of avoidance?—”

“Then what is it?” I held up a hand to stop the reply. “You know what? Forget it. I’m not interested.”

Amusement tugged at his luscious lips and briefly washed the chill from his eyes. “Oh, I think you are.”

There was no denying that, as much as I wanted to. There was also no denying I was being utterly unreasonable when it came to my reactions around the man. I even knew exactly where it came from, and itwasn’tthe frustrating way my hormones had fixated on him. It stemmed from my inability to lash out at either of my parents for giving me tradition rather than choice. For denying me what the two of them had enjoyed for close to forty years now.

I strode away. He followed, his gaze burning into the back of my neck, a caress that wasn’t, and one that had arrows of desire shooting through my body. I silently cursed them and increased my pace. The vague hope of losing him in the press of everyday life moving through the yard was quickly erased. The man had the advantage of longer strides.

I all but galloped up the steps and strode into the coolness of the foyer. The main hall was alive with sound and movement as everyone readied for this evening’s celebratory feast. The thick scents of roasting meats jostled for prominence with the aroma of baking bread, and my stomach rumbled a rather loud reminder that I hadn’t yet eaten.

I continued on up the main stairs, well aware of the big presence silently following. At the first landing, I hesitated and looked over my shoulder. “I’ll see you in the chapel.”

“I look forward to seeing the princess rather than the warrior.”

“Then be prepared for disappointment.”

His laugh followed me up the remaining stairs. I ignored it and quickly headed for my apartment. I didn’t care if he thought I was running away, because in many respects, I was.

I slammed the door shut, then leaned back against it and closed my eyes, trying to control the churning in stomach and mind.

“Well, isn’t this the picture of bridal anticipation,” a dry and very familiar voice said.

“Dread is a more apt term.”

I pushed away from the door and walked over to the seating area. Kele—a fierce-looking but slender woman with closely shaven blonde hair and a puckered scar that ran from temple to chin on the left side of her face—handed me a tankard. The thick richness of the honey mead inside teased my nostrils, and I took a long drink. If anything, it only made the churning worse.

“Why? From all accounts your man is well able to keep his women satisfied, both in the bedroom and out.”

I held out the tankard for a refill. “I donotwant to think about satisfaction. Or the bridal bed. Or anything else to do with the man, really.”

Kele raised a pale eyebrow. She and I had been friends for over twenty years now, and she knew me better than anyone else—possibly even better than my parents. Like me, she was a Strega witch, but her ability to call forth and control fire was even stronger than mine. Duty and rotating shifts might have cut into our ability to socialize in recent years, but I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d want by my side, be it in battle or as my second in this unwanted marriage ceremony.

“It’s too late to fight this, Bryn.” She picked up the jug of mead and refilled both our tankards. “You’ve been signed, sealed, and delivered, whether you want it or not.”

“I know. I just—” I hesitated and dropped down beside her. “I just don’t want to go to Zephrine. It’s not home. It’ll never be home. Which sounds utterly churlish, doesn’t it?”

Her answering smile was lopsided, thanks to the tightness of the scar. The healers had offered to ease the puckering to make it less noticeable, but she’d refused. She’d gained the scar in a skirmish against more than a dozen Mareritten warriors while we’d been on patrol just over eight years ago now, and it was both her badge of honor and her reminder of those we’d lost.

“I daresay your mother thought the same when she left Jakarra to come here.”

“The difference being she loved Dad.”

“It’s compatibility that’s necessary for a happy marriage, not love.”

“Says the woman who swore not so long ago she wasn’t about to commit to either man or woman if they were too damn frightened to publicly or privately declare their love.”

She chuckled softly. “And we both know why.”