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“Then the decision is made. Use her for our purpose, and don’t let your attraction distract you from what’s important.”

Arrik nodded.

It was wise.

It was the plan.

Then why did he want to hesitate?

11

WREN

Three days had passed since Vienne banned Wren from leaving camp, and she was about to lose her mind.

Following Josenu’s advice, their section of camp had moved farther into the forest. That had been two days ago; they hadn’t heard from, nor seen him since. This only served to further infuriate Wren, for she hadn’t been able to talk to Josenu privately when he’d come to warn them to move camp again. She was desperate for news.

But it was more than that.

Leif had been sent out on a mission almost immediately after they’d returned from Gunn’s ship, and he had been gone ever since. Wren more than half suspected that her aunt had sent Leif away so he couldn’t enable her impulses more than he already had. Vienne wanted to isolate her. It meant she had nobody to talk to. No friends. Josenu was her next-closest shadow of a friend, so Wren had hoped she’d have an opportunity to speak with him simply to talk tosomeone.

Yet even that was not a privilege afforded to her.

Helping Bram out—however displeased he’d been by the notion—had kepted Wren’s thoughts on the present. On what needed to be donenow,then tomorrow, then the next day. With no spying missions to busy her body and soul, all Wren could do was languish in her memories of her family.

It was torture.

The fact that Britta must be so scared, alone without her or her parents. Her sister wouldn’t even know she was alive. No one back home would know.

She huffed out a breath, setting down the knitting needles in her lap.

Then there was the fact the ghost of Rowen seemed to be following her wherever she went, taunting her. Leif had believed she had truly seen him, but now she had some distance from the incident she wasn’t so sure. It was easy for the mind to play tricks, especially if you were grieving. Wren’s own mother had told her that, once upon a time.

And yet still, drowning in memories of her departed loved ones was far more appealing than the alternative:

Thinking about her beastly husband.

Much to her shame and chagrin, her thoughts kept circling back to the enemy prince.

It had been difficult not to think of him, not least because he was hunting for her even as she sat there doing nothing and feeling useless. But it had been ripping through the pirate city with Leif, then verbally sparring with Gunn, that had truly caused a torrent of thoughts of Arrik to flood Wren’s mind.

It was almost as if…she missed the thrill of being in his company. Of the conversations they exchanged, even when they had been angry and full of venom. In the days leading up to Wren’s escape, however, none of the conversations she’d had with Arrik had been angry. They had almost been soft. Almost been trusting. Like the prince had been opening up to her, and all she had to do was open up to him in return and things between them would transform.

She thought of all the guilty glances she’d stolen of his huge, domineering size, so at odds with his soft hair and elegantly-carved face—especially on the rare occasions he’d dare smile.

She thought of his lips on hers after they were married.

Her fingers clenched around the knitting needles and she squeezed her eyes closed, hating that she couldn’t shake him from her thoughts.

Don’t think like that. Stop it, Wren! He’s the reason your parents are dead. You’re barely chattel to him, a means to an end. He needs you to legally rule the Dragon Isles and that is all. Any compassion or kindness you saw in Arrik was all a ploy to make you drop your guard. Including the smiles. Including the kiss.

She exhaled heavily and opened her eyes to stare blurrily at her lap. Her father would be ashamed of her for her lack of control. Wren angrily began knitting once again.

“Watch those stitches!”

She grimaced at the sharpness of the old woman’s voice. Wren had been corralled into a knitting group to help prepare clothing and blankets for the ever-growing rebellion. She was no fan of the boring work even on the best of days, but it was something to do.

Today was not the best of days.