Page 3 of Bloody Black

Roger’s laughter echoes through the sparring ring .

His strikes come faster, sharper, the playful edge in his movements replaced with something more serious. I meet him blow for blow, each clash of steel sparking in the frigid air. Even though my arms burn with effort, I don’t back down.

But William holds his own.

Though he might have the face of an angel, the boy from Rivelle fights like a demon. Tactical, furious, relentless, he sees through every feint and immediately identifies my weaknesses.

He’s handsome. More than handsome. He’s smart. Disciplined. I like that about him.

This inconveniently timed realization lands right before William elbows me in the ribs, causing me to double over. Instead of giving me room to breathe, he pursues, presses his advantage.

Ruthless, he drives me back with sheer force. My muscles strain as I parry another blow that nearly knocks the sword from my hands.

“Getting tired, Ares?” he asks, his voice annoyingly steady, as if this is just a warm-up.

I grit my teeth and push forward, determined to break past his defenses. I strike high, but he anticipates the move, deflecting my blade with a twist of his wrist. His sword whirls in an elegant arc, forcing me to sidestep and stumble on the uneven ground.

“Focus,” he murmurs, like a teacher chiding a distracted student.

My frustration flares.

It never takes me this long to win. Most likely, because he’s not letting me beat him. He’s not handing it over easily. He wasn’t paid off or cajoled or threatened. Me choosing him was completely unexpected.William is the first to really fight me.

All of Ben’s choices yielded, one without even lifting a sword. But a true challenge? Not one. Ben was too worried about me.

I lunge again. For a moment, it seems like I might have him—our blades clang like a bell, the sound filling the snowy field. But he shifts his weight and steps in. Too close. I feel his breath on my face, almost like a kiss. It takes me by surprise.

Before I can decide what to do, or how to react, he sweeps my legs out from under me. I hit the ground with a jarring thud, my sword slipping from my grasp.

Flat on my ass.

The air rushes from my lungs; the crowd gasps.

“Yield.” William’s blade is at my heart. He isn’t even winded. Meanwhile, my pulse roars in my ears, and my thighs tremble from the effort of keeping up with him.

Ben is aghast–I never lose, and it’d been scant over a few minutes. “Cheap move!” he shouts.

William tilts his head, a playful smirk on his lips. “Does he always speak for you?”

Flustered, I stare up at him. “As a matter of fact, he does. And it is deeply annoying.” I glare over at Ben from my place in the dirt.

William extends his hand. “Best out of three?”

I grip his palm and allow the soldier to haul me to my feet. This breaks another rule of royalty: no touching.

William spins his sword, settling back into that maddeningly relaxed stance. As if he has all the time in the world. This time, my blade slices through the air with more force than finesse, and again William blocks me easily.

“Careful.” He steps aside as I swing again, this time aiming for his ribs. “Don’t get sloppy.”

“Shut up,” I hiss, growing frustrated as every blow is met with effortless precision. Every step, he counters with a pivot that leaves me chasing him.

“You’re fast,” William admits. “But your teacher has made you too predictable.”

The fury building inside me threatens to boil over. My chest heaves with exertion, my palms slick with sweat inside my gloves. I grit my teeth and dodge left, then right, trying to catch him off guard. Of course, he sees through it, parrying my blade with a lazy flick of his wrist.

On my next attempt, William sidesteps my thrust and hooks my wrist with the guard of his sword.

The movement wrenches my blade off course, but at least it forces him to take me seriously.

When he slips, I swipe. My foot shoots out, catching his ankle, and he goes down hard, landing on his knees in front of me.

Success!

“Yield,” I murmur, voice rasping, the tip of my sword at his throat.

Before I can celebrate, he grabs me around the thighs, flips me over his shoulder.

“Ooof!” I cry out, landing squarely on my back.

William straddles my chest, a knife at my throat. His blue eyes study me. Sapphire, unlike any I’d ever seen. A jolt races down my spine, as if yanked by invisible strings.

The bulge under his pants stiffens. Directly at eye level. Unmistakable. It’s not as if I was looking for it. Heat scores through me, tingles that go straight through my ribs and down my belly. My cheeks heat. Clearly, I’d underestimated the man with the golden hair and heart-shaped face.

Soldiers chatter all around us. “Ayeee, he is sitting on her! Two out of three! Fair is fair! You aren’t allowed to touch the princess! A boy from Rivelle, no less! ”

William’s smile tightens for a fraction of a second—there and gone, like a knife sliding back into its sheath. Apparently, he didn’t appreciate being referred to as a boy.

He stands, then offers his hand again. Helps me to my feet. “We’ll call that one a draw.”

Ben glares, positively murderous.

“Again,” I tell him.

Our third round passes more quickly than the first. William is tiring, yet he leaves me no opening to work with. Finally, out of sheer annoyance, I attempt to crowd him, taking a more aggressive and offensive tack. This, too, he deflects.

I’m so focused on winning, I make several mistakes, and William hooks my arm with his, whirls me around. My injured hand wrenches painfully, loses its grip, and my sword clatters to the ground.

This time, my back is to him, his mouth dangerously close to my ear. His hands drift over my waist. It’s very inappropriate, and again, unexpected.

“You’re going to lose,” he whispers. He’s actively touching me. The heat of his chest seeps through my jacket, my shirt. Into my skin. My pulse thrums in response, giddy with every inch of contact.

Exhaling slowly, I force myself to relax in his grip. “Not if you lose first.”

“I’ve seen all your moves. Watched you practice. Seen your battles . ” His tone is soft. “Nothing you could do would surprise me.”

Besides Ben and Soren, no man in my father’s army has bested me.

None of the soldiers have ever spoken to me, much less put their hands on me like this.

None would dare, not ever. He’s a common soldier, yet he’s looked me in the eye.

Like an equal. He’s not warning me, he’s…

I’m not sure what he’s doing. Trying to help me?

Tell me that I picked the wrong opponent?

He releases me, and I jerk away.

“Let’s call it a day. Walk it off, and I’ll buy you a drink. A bit of rum makes everyone friends.”

“Unless they’re the enemy,” quips an onlooker.

Up on the dais, my father grits his teeth.

William winces, then squares his shoulders.

They’ll hang him if he wins. I’ve seen it before. Conscripts from Rivelle make our own soldiers unsure. Inevitably, they go missing or ended up mysteriously dead. Even if William didn’t win, now I’ve drawn attention to him.

Celestia’s soldiers will kill him, if not out of a sense of misguided loyalty, then pure jealousy.

There’s nothing you could do that would surprise me.

He’s not boasting. His tone is, if anything, admiring.

My gaze drifts to his lips. Soft and full, like halves of a peach.

Kissable. He’s calloused and sure, covered in dirt…

besides Ben, he might be the best fighter in my father’s army. Handsome. Tall.

Not quite knowing what possesses me, I leap. It’s a standard move to direct the attention to the right hand, while also stabbing forward with the left. If he’s truly seen me practicing, he will know it’s coming. He’ll have seen exactly how Ben escapes it.

My body swoops through the air, my right hand driving my knife toward him.

William blocks with one fist, sweeping it aside—

In my left hand is another knife, the tip pressed low to his kidney. He doesn’t block, even though he shifts exactly as he should. Exactly as Ben would.

Quick as a flash, he clasps my wrist. Saves himself from serious injury… while still allowing me to win. He could have blocked me, and the tight grip proves it.

His thumb, feather-light, strokes across my skin. “There,” he says quietly. Meant to be heard by only me. “The final man to beat. Now you’re free.”

Free to marry whomever I want.

His eyes hold mine for several beats. His loss is completely believable. No one will think that he did it purposefully. No one, that is, but me.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Princess,” William murmurs, releasing my wrist. He steps back, readies himself to go.

A terrible thought occurs to me. He’ll fade back into the lists, and I’ll never see him again.

As a reward for his kindness to me, he’ll be punished mightily…

at best he will be forced into hard labor, or shipped off to some remote battlefield within the week.

At worst, the other men kill him, slowly and painfully.

“Wait,” I call out.

William freezes. Of course. He has no choice but to obey my orders. Patiently, he returns, coming to stand in front of me. Maybe he expects beheading.

Ben perks up. “What are you doing?” he mouths at me.

Piss off, Ben.

Slowly, I pull off my glove. Then, looking into William’s blue eyes, I press my wounded palm to his chest. I’ve made a sovereign blood claim, unmistakable. William is now mine, officially untouchable.

“I declare you to be my…” I grapple for something. Anything. Consort? No. What would be socially acceptable? “my Shield-Bearer.”

Yes. That will do. Who knows if any princess of Celestia has ever had one of those; I’ve completely made up the term. And I’ve done it with dozens of witnesses.

Ben doesn’t bother to hide his gasp. “Princess Anne.”

“Also, I will take you up on that drink.” I glance over at my father. He’s standing, his expression inscrutable. “Although if you do not mind terribly, I do believe King Francis will be joining us.”