Page 31 of The Warlord’s Princess (Warlords of Tempest #3)

ASHA

I watch from a distance as Elena argues with Ramsey, wondering what it is they’re discussing.

She was right to steer me away from him, as he is so dour, I don’t think my spirit could handle being around him constantly.

Lies!

Elena turns, and I hurry back across the village, to the longhouse where Gaerth is arguing with Amber.

“We must tend to the hides!” he grinds through clenched teeth.

“Then tend to them,” she snarls back.

“It is your job?—”

“Not anymore.”

“Elena—”

“Can’t make me do anything!”

“She is your chieftain!”

“I didn’t vote for her.”

I grab the weave I’ve been working on and head outside.

It’s easy to get lost in the treads, the world falling away as the pattern comes together.

Though it’s gotten harder to do that as of late, as my mind often goes to places it ought not.

Was there ever a path for us to be together? I think not, yet I mull over the possibilities endlessly.

Looking up from my weave, I see two Tempest men watching me intensely.

I know it would be good for me to take an interest in one, but the very thought of taking someone other than Ramsey fills me with dread.

“Oh, mother,” I whisper to myself. “If only you could see me now.”

I’d wanted to hate Nori for what she revealed at the meeting, but I quickly got over it, because the fault lies in one person and one person alone: my father: the King of Penticar.

I remember being ripped from my home shortly after my mother’s death, and how confused I was that I no longer had the title princess.

My new mother sat me down, sternly telling me that if I ever tried to use it again, I’d be whipped so hard, my skin would be stripped bare.

I was only five.

They concocted a story about me being the child of a cousin, destined to one day inherit Castle Louderbend, as they had no natural children.

I never forgot who I was, though. Or my mother.

A growling mutter grabs my attention, and I see Ramsey arguing to himself as he makes his way over to his hut. Which he does often, and for reasons I cannot say.

Not that I care.

I do care.

Elena warned me she didn’t believe he could make me happy, and she was probably right.

Still, I can’t help but think about him, and I know time won’t help, for several tall, attractive blue men have now shown interest in me, and none of them have made me forget him.

Why do I worry about being miserable with him if I’m so miserable without him? The way I see it, I’m doomed either way, so I might as well be with the man I want.

And yes, I do want him. Every time I see him, an insatiable hunger grows in my loins. A memory of how he made me feel.

But my desire extends beyond lust, to a home we could make together. To our children. What it would feel like to fall asleep in his arms every night.

I close my eyes, imagining him glaring down at me, lamenting about my scent, and nearly giggle.

How could two people, so unalike, be drawn together as we were?

As we still are… It might seem prideful for me to assume he still has feelings for me, but Ramsey is handsomer than the other Tempest men, and is high-ranking in his tribe.

He could have easily courted almost any other Penticari woman, yet he chose me and has not looked to another.

And I choose him.

But will he even accept me after I rejected him?

It’s hard to say, as his pride is prickly, but hope dares to linger, growing larger until I can think of nothing else.

From across the way, I see Kairi rushing toward me; her face twisted in frustration.

“I don’t have the thread yet,” I say before she can get a word out.

“Orvell is getting ornery.”

“Getting ornery?”

“More ornery.”

I understand her plight, as I’d been forced to share a hut with someone who’d loathed me, but my tormentor had a change of heart and now accepts our tribe.

Hers has not.

“I hear Elena’s thinking about putting together a festival of sorts. Maybe that will make him easier to work with.”

“I guarantee you it will not. Now, when can you get me the thread?”

“I’ll try to spin some tonight.”

She sighs, her shoulders slumping. “Hopefully, that’ll hold his temper.” She spins on her heels and walks back toward the cleric’s hut as though she were marching toward her execution.

“Ah, if it is not the strongest of the Penticari,” Argen says, drawing me from my thoughts. In his hand is a leaf full of meat that I know is intended for me alone, not that I could finish it in three days.

I force a smile, regretting all the times I’ve accepted food from him.

“There were no juicier pieces to be had on the spit,” he boasts, smiling widely.

“Thank you, Argen, but I’m afraid I must decline.”

His face falls, and for a moment, I nearly take back my words.

But I refuse to settle.

“There are several other women who I’m sure would be happy with the kind gesture.”

Argen nods curtly, with a slight smile, but there’s a stiffness to him that wasn’t there a moment ago, and I can only hope that I didn’t wound him too grievously.

I look over at Ramsey’s hut, wondering how to approach Ramsey. I could simply walk on over and tell him how I feel.

But something about that doesn’t agree with me. For one, I don’t know how Ramsey will respond, as he is ever prideful and rejection is difficult for anyone to get over.

But also, our love story deserves more than second thoughts and regret. It deserves relentless determination, the kind bards sing songs about.

I look down at the weave on my lap, mulling over my situation, thinking of all the ways I could court him.

Yes, that’s right—court him.

Because that’s exactly what I plan on doing.