Page 24 of Beast and Remedy (The Last of the Heirs #2)

I’ve Made Such a Mess

I never know which is worse. Shifting back after one night or being trapped as a bear for three days.

Exhaustion tugs as it always does after a shift, and I find a cave to hide in, covering up with leaves while I contemplate my next options, only to pass out.

The promise of spring rouses me from my slumber, sunlight caressing me as I blink, consciousness taking over until my eyes deceive me.

Hovering mere inches from my face, a familiar floating ember glows.

I rub my eyes for good measure, transfixed and bewitched by its presence. My chest heats when it twinkles, almost dancing. A soft smile pulls at my lips, fascinated.

An urge within has me speaking. “H-Hello?”

It flicks to me, shimmering as its flames wiggle.

“Hello,” a voice says, breathy and airy, filled with happiness.

My mouth drops.

Did—did I speak to a figment of my imagination? And did it talk back?

“Y-Y-You can understand me?” I still try to wrap my head around what I’m seeing.

Surely, it is real. It has to be. It’s the same ember I’ve seen three times now…

“Yes,” the voice replies, its enthusiasm rippling its flame.

I sit up, disregarding the dirt and crunching leaves. Marveling and admiring must do something to it, because it sparkles and bounces.

“What are you? H-How am I seeing you?”

I’ve never read anything about a floating ember such as this. Confusion muddles my thoughts as it remains unmoving, not blinking or vanishing like it has in the past.

What have I done to keep it near? To keep it close? To make it appear?

“L’esprit,” the voice sings, its flame sweeping toward me and twirling.

My eyebrows lift. “A spirit?”

The esprit brushes close, the air following it caressing my skin and sending shivers through me. “The soul of the forest lies with the protector and the esprits,” it hums in confirmation, dancing once more.

Never in my seven years of having this magic had I seen this . Why now?

It spins, flashing when the sun hits it. “Help the protector, we must. Help the protector. Help the forest,” the esprit chimes, bouncing toward the cave’s exit.

“Wait!” I reach out and crawl after it.

I have so many questions, my mind already preparing a list of answers I seek.

But the esprit increases the distance.

“Wait, I need you!” I shout once more as it breaks through to the outside world.

“We have helped your current need,” the esprit utters, and as I poke my head out of the alcove, its breathy voice catches in the wind. “We will find you again, Protector of Beasts.”

My stomach and heart sink, already knowing the esprit is gone.

But when I turn, I almost scream at a horse tied to a thick tree stump and something resting on the ground beside it, covered with a blanket. Alarm sends me into scanning the woods for someone or the esprit, covering up as best as I can.

“H-Hello?” I call out into the forest, silence my only answer.

Looking back at the animal, I wonder how it got here.

Approaching the creature tentatively, I offer it my hand to sniff before directing my attention to the blanket and crate, a piece of parchment hanging out.

My chest tightens, and I glance around, ensuring I am truly alone. When I reach for the letter, my blood runs cold at the familiar handwriting.

Clothes and food. Please come back to me.

Love,

Beau.

I should be scared at how effortlessly he found me. How easily he could have killed a threat to his kingdom.

Instead, I linger on the last two lines, my heart sputtering at his name—his handwriting—his everything.

Sweet Makers.

I close my eyes, wanting to relish his words.

But I remember the wolf attack and Marian getting bitten. Her features graying, her resolve lessening, body slackening under my hold as we rushed into Torgem. And everyone saw me shift.

Letum, take me to Oblivion now.

I’ve made such a fucking mess of things.

I open the pocket-sized satchel holding dried meat and fruit and shove the food in my mouth without any delay before dressing. Before venturing back for my sister and the inevitable confrontation I am doomed to have with the man I’ve loved for years.

Please, Alora, spare me from any embarrassment and help me remain strong. Deities know it will break my heart to physically see him and not touch him, not kiss—

Stop, Vi.

I dismiss the longing and desire curling in my core, occupying my thoughts with the clothes. They’re not ideal for riding. I will be sore, but it will have to do.

At the bottom of the wooden crate rests a thick wool cloak, lined in black with a long hood I utilize to cover my untamed mahogany locks.

The dampness of soil paired with the fresh scent of pine clings to my nostrils as I reach for the steed’s mane and run my fingers through the coarse copper strands.

I coo, “Thank you for being here.”

A swirl of emotion pulses in my palm, warmth and kindness flowing from the horse to me, and I break into a smile.

I unknot the reins tied from the tree stump, making sure the animal doesn’t budge.

Lacing my foot in the stirrup and getting seated, I brave a glance once more for the esprit, a tug in my heart wishing I could have thanked it. I click my tongue and steer us into a canter to return to Torgem.

Hues of lavender, pink, and orange kiss the shifting sky as I reach the castle. I slow the horse to a stop, my heart thundering and needing these last precious moments to gather myself.

As if you weren’t preparing yourself already this entire ride, Vi.

Sweat beads along my brow when the gate opens, wary eyes following me—watching me as I pass the threshold. But I straighten, clinging to my royal upbringing in hopes it will get me through whatever is about to come.

I brace for an ambush, an attack, or something as my eyes lock on the keep, fearful for the inevitable.

“Princess?” a guard addresses me, extending his hand to aid.

I swallow thickly. “Thank you, sir.”

He holds the reins as I dismount.

When my feet hit the gravel, the door to the castle opens, and Marian, skin full of color and life, brightens, running straight for me.

My knees almost buckle, relief tugging at my chest seeing her whole. A choked sob leaves her as I sprint and meet her in the middle, clutching her in an embrace.

“Vi!” She grunts when she wraps her arms around me.

“You—you’re alright?”

“I am. Are you?”

“I’m here. I’m alright.” I reassure her, refusing to budge.

“I didn’t know when you were coming back. Or if you even were coming back.”

“Hey.” I break away and hold her shoulder, squeezing it twice. “I will always come back for you.”

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, sending a surge of alarm through my veins.

“Are—are we safe here?” I ask under my breath, hating the unease deceiving me and my heart.

I brought her to Torgem because I couldn’t save her, and I thought I could get Beau’s aid.

But the longer I stand in place, the more I worry I came here for my heart more than for my kingdom. The idea is chilling and petrifying, and the fear crawling up my spine and settling into my bones tells me I’m not strong enough to be near him.

I won’t be able to work alongside him without tearing myself to shreds every night about how we will never be. And as much as I believe he could help Belmur and the infection, I don’t know how I would ever get away with asking for his assistance.

Hope is intangible, something I should never allow myself to dwell on. And it makes me feel—makes me believe in something that can’t happen. Will never happen.

Footsteps sound from the keep, and I shake her with more urgency. “Marian, are we safe?”

We need to get back to Jean and Pierre. I need to get my head on straight and get our provisions, my pack from yesterday, and be on our way.

She reaches for my hand, squeezing it twice. “They act as if no time has passed, but it could be a front.” She pinches her features, and her lips form a grimace. “I think we are until they can question both of us.”

“Okay,” I sigh, understanding our arrival was unexpected as I pull her in for another hug, masking our conversation. “We’ll play along.”

She nods into the crook of my neck as we end our embrace.

I avoid eye contact for a few more moments as Marian and I spin to our old friends and lower into a curtsy.

My insides twist, and I fight the lump in my throat, wanting to calm my thoughts. Nervously, I release a long breath before rising to people I’ve known for most of my life.

All four of them stand a few paces away, taking us in.

Prince Leo, the next heir to the throne, towers above his sister, Princess Christine. The siblings share the same upturned nose and high cheekbones. And their blue irises study me as Christine’s golden blonde curls billow in the wind.

Jules, a lifelong friend of the Rosselots and the Sylvianes, brushes away small wisps escaping her raven plaited hair. She is the shortest of the group, her frame slender, face oval shaped, and jaw sharp like the man beside her.

Marcel, Beau’s best friend, maintains indifference as he crosses his arms, his muscles flexing underneath his dark tunic, the same shade as his complexion and deep-set umber eyes.

Jules and Christine look exhausted and worn down from hurrying to the keep, where Leo and Marcel remain unfazed, thanks to their tall, muscular builds probably used to more brutal ways of training and remaining fit.

But my friends part, and I squeeze my thighs together as golden honey irises lock on me.

Each step he takes is with command and purpose, the scent of pine and lemon drowning my senses as King Beauvais approaches, stopping mere feet from me.

Time halts as we remain fixated on one another.

The quiet of the world and the years of not seeing him sends a deep ache through my chest.

Goose bumps prickle up my spine in our silence. My heart thunders, my core clenches, and my eyes never leave his.

He blinks once and bows. “Princesses.”

Marian and I curtsy. “King Beauvais.”