Page 19

I walk back to my quarters, the early morning light filtering through the high windows, illuminating the polished floors, stares following me as I exit the tower. Those who observe must know from whence I come. Let them talk. Though I didn’t achieve my end goal, rumors will spread regardless.

And paint a target on my back.

The air feels cold against my heated skin, my arousal fading slowly. My body is exhausted, my mind now a tangled mess of new emotions. I’m confused, frustrated physically as well as mentally, and not sure what to do from here.

The Overprince is a surprise I hadn’t planned on, and the further I get from him, the harsher I am on myself for walking away.

I face the breakfast hall with a resolve carved from sexual frustration, knowing I must smell of it and not caring if the princesses catch that scent.

I don’t linger over the meal, as is my way, instead liberating a cloth napkin and piling it with food, taking it with me to my quarters to eat in peace.

It’s clear from the furious stares in my direction that they’ve already heard where I spent my night. Vae’s loud use of cutlery is my only satisfaction.

She follows me to my door, and I’m tired enough that I don’t notice until we’re almost there. Vae, radiant in a gown of rose silk, doesn’t touch me to turn me to face her. She uses her voice for that.

“He might use you for sex,” she snarls, “but that’s all you’ll be to him.”

“Like you’d know,” I say, now very weary and uninterested in jousting with her.

She flinches, looks away. “I see,” I say. “Turned you down, did he?” The rage in her strikes through her eyes, but I’m immune to that attack. “A shame. He’s quite well endowed and happy enough to learn from someone with more experience.”

“You fucking bitch.” She spins and runs off, slamming her bedroom door behind her while the other princesses, all come to spy on our talk, stare at me in shock.

True to turning me down, he’s rejected us all. I salute them and go inside, sighing as I lean back against my closed door. Well, at least he’s consistent.

I do feel a bit guilty over claiming him, though, and will apologize to him this time when I see him again. Hopefully, he won’t mind so much. Especially if it gives him the deflection from his father’s unhappiness that he’s looking for.

That has me thinking, undressing with a plan unfolding. By the time I head for the bathing room to wash away the ache of his denial, a quick and deft touch of my own in the warm water bringing me the orgasmic ending he could have assisted with, I have a seed of an idea that might work.

If I can convince him to agree, that is.

I need sleep, but this new idea drives me to wander through the Citadel, feeling restless, seeking the Overprince.

I pass through manicured courtyards filled with exotic flowers, their sweetness cloying, return to his study, only to find it empty.

When I fail to unearth him, morning turning to noon, I finally toss my hands and accept that he will only be found when he chooses to be.

Irritated, I accept that truth and reach for the only thing that will bring me peace.

I need to move. I need to swing my sword and remember the lessons of blade and war.

Time to find somewhere to train.

My wanderings have led me to a less frequented area of the palace, and as though the gods themselves planted the idea, I hear it—the sharp clang of steel on steel, the grunt of effort, the rhythmic thump of a practice dummy being struck.

My heart quickens, weariness falling away.

I push open a heavy wooden gate and find myself in a small exercise yard.

It’s a simple space, ringed by a high stone wall, with weapons racks and a few practice dummies, the round center thick with sand.

Several palace guards are working out, their movements stiff, almost theatrical beneath their padded jerkins.

They spar half-heartedly, their forms unrefined, their breathing shallow.

The air here smells of sweat and oiled metal, an honest scent that is a welcome change from the palace’s cloying perfumes.

As I step into the yard, their heads turn.

Their expressions shift from boredom to shock and nervous attention as they recognize me.

I might be in one of the ridiculous dresses I’ve told myself I will wear, but they clearly know who I am, even out of armor.

One of the guards, his hand heavy with a wooden sword, pauses mid-swing and turns to face me.

My breath hitches as recognition flashes on my end this time.

Zenthris. The gorgeous rogue from the city, the one who smirks and steals keys. His dark red hair falls across his forehead, clinging to his tanned skin in a circle, amber eyes narrowing as he takes me in.

What is he doing here? Openly, disguised as a palace guard.

Or wait. Is he a guard? Or is he hiding in plain sight, a wolf among sheep?

Beside him, sparring with another guard, is his big friend, the hulking drakonkin.

His movements remain quick for his size, his strikes powerful.

The light catches his pale eyes as he looks to me, then his friend, bald head uncovered, faint scales showing in the sunlight that’s cleared through the clouds.

I gesture for them to resume, and they all do after a moment of hesitation. I circle the ring, observing, silent and watchful. Knowing I make them nervous has me grinning on the inside, even if I keep my expression stoic on the outside.

It’s obvious the other guards—with the exception of Zenthris—treat the drakonkin man poorly.

They are dismissive of him, avoiding his gaze, making snide remarks under their breath that I can’t quite catch.

They treat him like something lesser, an intruder beneath them, to be endured, not respected.

The longer it goes on, the more their disrespect infuriates me.

My code of honor, a warrior’s prowess earning its due regardless of origin, flares. I will not stand for such injustice.

Without thinking, I step forward. “Your forms are sloppy,” I say, my voice cutting through the dull thud of their practice. “And your tactics shameful. Your commanders should be embarrassed by your lack of skill.”

All the guards freeze, their eyes snapping to me.

“Lady Remalla,” one of them sputters, clearly shocked by my intrusion.

“General,” I snap. “Or highness. Princess, if you must. But if you call me lady again, I’ll snap your fucking neck.”

They all stare. Good, I have their attention.

“I asked for sparring partners, not a display of ill-discipline,” I go on, my voice cold.

“And a warrior respects strength, no matter its source. If you cannot deliver me a worthy fight, you do not belong in this yard.” I gesture pointedly at the drakonkin, whose gray eyes meet mine with a flash of surprise.

My tone, my directness, has them silenced. The guards exchange glances, then, muttering under their breath, gather their things and leave the yard. Only the smirking rogue and his drakonkin friend remain.

Zenthris salutes me. “Kell doesn’t need you to fight his battles for him,” he says. “He has me for that.”

His big friend grunts, sour expression comical. “Enough, Zen,” he says in his rumbling voice. “Highness.” Kell nods to me, still wary but clearly curious. “Nice to see you again.”

“And you two,” I say, helping myself to a wooden sword. I haven’t used one before and instantly despise its clumsiness. Mother insisted I always carry steel, even as a toddler. “Did you find the place your newfound key belongs?”

Zenthris shrugs, tossing aside his helmet, shaking out his thick waves as he grins at me with a slow and sexy smile that I believe he’s grown used to disarming women with. “Not yet,” he says. “One simply doesn’t thrust a hard key into any old hole. The right match can be hard to find.”

Kell rolls his eyes with a groan while I laugh out loud.

“Do such tactics actually work on the women you frequent?” I swing the wooden length between us before thrusting it toward him with an abrupt match from my hips.

He really is beautiful. And he knows it. Zenthris’s hot eyes stare at my waist before he meets my amber eyes with his again. “Sometimes,” he says.

“He gets slapped a lot,” Kell comments with a shrug.

I laugh again. I can’t help it.

Zenthris tosses his friend a frown before returning his attention to me. “Well, princess,” he says, his voice a low, teasing rumble. “Are you here to pick a fight? Or do you need something else?” He winks at me. “Or two somethings?”

The drakonkin looks shocked by the suggestion.

“You’re a bit obvious with the deflection,” I say, circling slowly, sword held in a casual stance as I weigh their measure both. I could take them, of course, either on the field or between the sheets. The question is, however, which will be more fun?

I’m still frustrated from Altar’s rejection, so the second, of course.

“Am I deflecting?” Zenthris’s faked innocence is meant to beguile, no doubt. “We’ve heard you’re quite the hand with a blade.” His gaze drops to the wooden length in my hand. “Care to prove it?”

A fight, then. Sex can come later. Again and again and again…

“Only if you can keep up.” As my foot hooks the second sword abandoned in the sand.

And now I have two.

“Oh, I think we can manage,” Zenthris says, taking up his single sword, Kell doing the same. Only the drakonkin looks hesitant as his friend opens the sparring session with a sudden lunge.

Zenthris is fast, agile, his movements fluid and unpredictable. Kell is a force of nature, powerful and quick, his bulky frame moving with deceptive speed. I know this about them already. I’ve clocked them both thanks to our meeting in the library.

Against another opponent, they’re a formidable pairing. But it’s clear that they’ve never fought a warrior of Heald before.

I’m faster, more precise. They fight as they’ve been taught to. I fight like someone whose life has depended on it. I breathe the battle, drink combat like fine wine. It’s quickly clear that they are skilled, yes, and likely have faced their own deaths a time or two at the end of a blade.

Still. No match, not even close. And they know it. Kell accepts it immediately, but it takes Zenthris a few grunting moments to accept.

I dance around them, skirt not the distraction I considered it might be, deflecting their blows, finding openings they don’t expect.

The sound of wood clashing on wood is music to my ears, though I would prefer metal.

I’m having fun, laughing as I slide and leap and twist and parry and never mind the dress that gives them both a view or two.

Zenthris jumps when I spank him with the flat of the left blade, Kell stumbling when I insert the right between his knees and send him sprawling.

The sheer joy of movement, of being truly challenged, of proving my worth in a language I understand, fills me as I wish Altar had filled me.

This will do. And perhaps I’ll still get the pounding I need after I finish giving these two the one they’ve asked for.

“The library,” I say as they pant and fight to gain ground that I take before spinning away.

Zenthris, feinting and parrying with a desperate expression growing on his handsome face, stumbles. He tries to fight back with that infuriating, charming smirk, but it’s falling short. “Library? What do you mean, princess? Kell and I are merely loyal palace guards.”

Kell grunts, retrieving the sword I just sent spinning, shaking his hand from the sting my blow left behind. “Never been to a library.” His silver eyes are wide with feigned innocence. “Zen can’t even read.”

I laugh again, a genuine, joyful sound. They are terrible liars, on purpose. Zenthris’s flirting, meanwhile, is wickedly attractive, his movements a dance of power and grace, and the longer we spar, the more intensely I want to know how good he is with the sword he carries between his legs.

No doubt, he’s talented in that regard, too.

I press them harder, enjoying the challenge, the thrill of the fight.

Finally, with a quick series of thrusts, I disarm Kell, sending him to his ass in the sand before spinning and doing the same to Zenthris.

I finish with a playful tap to his chest, second blade at his throat.

He’s breathing hard, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple.

“You’re very good, princess,” he gasps, a grin spreading across his face. “Remarkably good.” He raises his hands in surrender. “I concede, at least in this regard. You passed.”

“Passed? Passed what?” My arms lower, but my eyes narrow. “You’re testing me?” Me? For what purpose?

Before he can answer, Kell’s head snaps up. “More guards,” he mutters. I hear them too, but only just. “We really need to go.”

Why a new batch makes them nervous they don’t tell me or give me time to ask.

Zenthris curses softly under his breath.

He gives me one last, lingering look, his amber eyes sharing a wealth of unspoken meaning.

“I guess we’ll have to get to the other kind of play another time.

” He backs away, retrieving his helmet, and retreats.

“We’ll continue this conversation, Remalla of Heald,” he promises, his voice low.

Then, with a shared glance, he and Kell exit through the archway at the far end of the exercise yard, melting into shadow. They disappear just as the sounds of approaching guards grow louder. I stand alone in the sand, my two blades still in my hands.

Whoever they are, whatever they are up to, I can’t afford to get distracted, even if the allure of their mystery lingers.

Except I can’t shake two questions as I replace the wooden swords on the rack, while the new round of startled guards see me there, saluting them as I leave.

Who are my new rogue friends, really? And what test, exactly, did I just pass?