Page 50 of Warrior Princess Assassin (Braided Fate #1)

At first, it’s sweet, like warm cinnamon, and it’s probably why I gulp two swallows.

The burn hits me a moment later, and I pull it back from my lips, sputtering—but not before a third swallow makes its way down my throat.

I have to wipe my mouth in a way that is certainly not ladylike.

Asher is watching me, but his expression isn’t daring now.

In the flickering firelight, his gaze is full of heat.

To my right, Ky is watching me, too. His eyes are gleaming and fixed on my mouth. Warmth crawls up my jaw, and I have to lick the last of the liquor off my lower lip. Something in his gaze instantly tightens.

Oh. Oh.

I shiver, but it has nothing to do with the chill in the air. I’m definitely blushing now.

For an instant, the soldiers are silent, and their eyes go from me to the king to Asher and back. Their moods have been lighter since we’ve eaten, bolstered with confidence now that they’re back on their own soil. I can’t tell if they want to tease or if they want to start trouble.

The temptation for mischief must be too strong. Callum grins and says, “You won’t have any trouble sleeping outside if you keep drinking like that.”

I laugh a little, abashed—but pleased. “Well, I think I’ll need a good bit more before I use the trench.”

That makes them all laugh, including the king, and I smile. When I turn to pass the bottle to Asher, he takes it with one hand, then reaches up with the other to brush a damp line of whiskey off my cheek.

“Don’t be too brave,” he murmurs.

The touch is brief and his fingers are cool, and I’m sure that’s meant to be a warning. But I’m so aware of him to my left and the king to my right.

Especially since none of the soldiers are grinning now.

I force my eyes back to the fire. This whiskey has struck a match to my insides, and I’m not sure what to do with it.

I didn’t realize it was possible to feel so hot and cold at the same time.

Do they hate Asher? Do they hate that he touched me?

Is this part of their loyalty to their king, as if I somehow suddenly belong to him?

I don’t like the track of these questions.

Asher doesn’t take a sip at all, and he just continues passing the bottle, half-rolling onto a knee to hold it out to Roman. The soldier seems ready to reach for it, but Nikko, beside him, smacks him on the arm, and Roman goes still.

“What’s wrong?” Nikko says to Asher, his voice rough and quiet. “Too good for our whiskey?”

Asher hasn’t withdrawn the bottle, but his eyes narrow. “No.”

“Then why don’t you drink?”

At once, everyone’s focus tightens. Asher’s gaze flicks around the circle, his finger tapping against the glass of the bottle.

“Maybe I want to keep my wits about me,” he says.

“Why?” says Garrett. His voice is casual, but his eyes are sharp. “Worried something will happen?”

For the first time, I realize that we may have stripped our armor and gear, but most of the Incendrian soldiers haven’t.

There are still plenty of weapons, plenty of armor, plenty of ways for this evening to turn from lighthearted banter into.

..something very bad. My heart gives an uncertain beat in my chest, and I glance at the king, wondering if he’ll intervene or call his men to order, the way I’ve seen him do several times now.

He doesn’t. He pulls meat from a bone and watches. His golden eyes are shadowed and intent.

Callum whistles, low, through his teeth. “Is Stripes nervous?”

“No,” says Asher. He looks coiled and dangerous, like a snake waiting to strike. The bottle is hanging loosely from his hand, and I watch him carefully set it on the ground.

I’m regretting that healthy swallow of whiskey right now. It’s churning up my insides.

“Hey, Nik,” says Garrett. “Didn’t he offer you a rematch?”

“He did,” says Roman.

Asher hasn’t moved, but his body is practically vibrating with violent potential. I wonder if they can see it, if it’s adding to the heightened tension, or if I just know him so well that it’s only obvious to me.

Nikko hasn’t responded. His eyes are locked on Asher now.

Asher, who’s still in pain. I’ve been watching him move stiffly all day. So have they.

Beside me, Charlotte reaches out and grips my fingers.

“It’s all right,” she whispers. But I really don’t think it is.

The king eats another piece of meat, but says nothing. Captain Zale leans in to murmur something to him, and Ky goes still, then shrugs.

I look around the circle. “Whatever you’re all doing, you will stop it .”

For half a second, I have their attention. The threat in the air seems to hesitate. But then their eyes shift to the king. It’s clear who will give the order here.

Ky glances my way, and his voice is mild. “Asher did offer a rematch,” he says. “He can withdraw the challenge if he likes.”

My breath catches, and I wait. Withdraw , I think. Withdraw.

But Asher says nothing. His eyes haven’t left Nikko.

The king speaks into my silence. “He has not asked for your defense, Princess.”

I almost flinch. I don’t think he would. I’ve never been able to help him before.

“You said we would be safe ,” I say, a little desperately—but it’s not really what he said at all.

He said I would be safe.

“If he wins,” says Garrett, “he’ll be perfectly safe.”

Throughout all of this, Asher and Nikko have been completely still. I’m not even sure they’ve taken a breath.

My heart feels like it’s stopped beating, as if it’s not sure it can handle this.

Nikko is the one to break—and when he moves, he’s fast . He’s off the ground, sword and dagger drawn, and Charlotte gives a little shriek—just before she grabs my arm as if she’s going to pull me out of the way.

Or maybe she’s stopping me from jumping between them.

Asher still doesn’t move, and Nikko barrels down on him.

Those blades will be buried in his chest before I can do anything about it.

But at the last possible moment, Asher dives under the weapons, skidding through the dirt beside the fire.

He’s shirtless, and I realize he must have unbuckled the jacket before he leapt.

Maybe that’s what took the extra time. Nikko is already spinning, but Asher rolls, avoiding the blades again.

His shoulder collides with the ground, dirt sticking to the burn.

He grunts and falters midroll, letting out a sharp burst of breath.

It gives Nikko an opening to swing his sword arm down.

I gasp in alarm, but Asher twists inside the movement, getting closer, and the sword scrapes dirt behind him.

Asher surges off the ground and grabs hold of the soldier’s breastplate with one hand, then throws a handful of ash from the fire in his face with the other.

A few glowing embers flare in the night air, and Nikko jerks away, sputtering.

It only buys him a second, but Asher clearly needs less than that.

I barely see him move, but he’s used that grip on the soldier’s armor to swing onto his back.

Asher gets an arm around Nikko’s neck, the edge of a blade tucked tight against his throat.

I don’t even know when he got a weapon.

Everyone is frozen in place, and I’m straining against Charlotte’s grip, ready for the other soldiers to explode off the ground and go after Asher. Two of them are already on their feet. Boots scrape in the dirt, and hands flicker toward daggers and swords.

But Asher doesn’t move farther. He grips the blade right up against Nikko’s throat, but he hasn’t broken skin. A bloom of sweat coats Asher’s upper body, mixing with the dust and grit from the ground, and I realize he’s panting, his chest heaving hard.

Nikko, on the other hand, isn’t breathing at all. His face is turning red from Asher’s grip. The soldier drops his weapons in the dirt, then taps two fingers against the palm of his other hand.

“Asher,” says the king. “He yields.” His voice is low, his expression reserved, a complete contrast to the strain in the air.

Without hesitation, Asher withdraws the blade, then uncurls his arm to spring to the ground. He’s still breathing hard, and I can tell he’s well aware of the other men watching him. I don’t want to imagine how much that hurt—or how much effort it took.

The soldiers don’t look threatening anymore. Now they’re just staring.

Nikko doesn’t take his eyes off Asher, but he swipes gray ash off his face and coughs hard, then fetches his weapons from the dirt. When he straightens, Asher holds out the blade he stole from somewhere. Nikko blinks in surprise—then does a double take.

It’s only then that I notice the sheath on his outer thigh is empty, too.

Callum whistles through his teeth again, but this time it’s not taunting. “Stripes is fast .”

Asher makes a derisive sound. “No. Lucky.”

Nikko surveys him for a long, quiet moment. “That was skill. Not luck.” He doesn’t seem happy about this, but he takes the offered blade and slides it home, then turns to sit back down.

Captain Zale’s gaze is more assessing, his voice cool. “You said you Hunters were trained to kill, not fight.”

“I said they weren’t trained to fight.” Asher returns to where he was sitting, but I notice that he doesn’t pull the jacket back over his skin.

A dozen bleeding abrasions run up the side of his back opposite the burn scar.

He still seems to be breathing too hard, especially for such a short fight, and his skin seems a little pale in the firelight.

I wonder how close that really was.

He glances at me. “What’s with the look?”

I want to tell him that I was worried he’d get himself killed. I want to say that he’s so fast and agile that it’s almost poetic. I want to tell him he’s my only friend, and I can’t lose him now, like this.

But then I remember everything he said last night. I remember the way he took my hand and said, I’m still here.

I consider what he looks like right now, half-glistening, half-dusty, cords of fatigued muscle bunched across his shoulders .

Friend suddenly feels like the wrong word. I need to stop staring.

The gulps of whiskey have fully hit me, so what I end up saying is, “That was very brave. And very stupid .”

Asher chokes on a laugh as if I’ve genuinely surprised him—and so do a handful of the soldiers.

Ky doesn’t laugh. He’s looking between the two of us. As always, his eyes are intense and unyielding, the fire reflecting off his features to paint gold in his hair. Is he angry? Jealous? I can’t tell.

Asher sobers, regarding him. For a heartbeat of time, emotion flickers between them, and my heart stutters. It feels like a challenge. A warning. The air shifts, and Asher’s form takes on that ready stillness again. So does Ky’s.

My breath catches. The king won’t go down as easily as Nikko. Not in front of his men. Not in front of me .

I can’t watch that again. I can’t.

But the king shrugs one shoulder and sits back, his posture almost lazy in the firelight. “You’ve earned a rest, Asher.” His accented voice is low and silky, easing through the tension in the air. “Take it.”

At that, Asher blinks, as if the simple words catch him by surprise. But he swallows, and the aggressive bracing in his body melts away. He pushes sweat-damp hair back from his face, then picks up the abandoned bottle of whiskey and holds it out to Roman. This time, the soldier takes it.

I’m still studying the king, however. Asher’s fight took my breath away, but there’s something so fascinating about this , the king’s quiet resolve.

The way he’s able to unravel tension before it spirals into something worse.

I’ve seen it for days, in the way he spoke so thoughtfully when tears were on my cheeks, or how he was prepared to stand in the snow and guard my carriage, simply because his men were hungry and tired.

It’s in the way he put a gentle hand on Asher’s neck, or offered food from his own dish.

Maddox Kyronan has a reputation that long precedes him, and from everything I’ve seen, that reputation is hard won and well deserved.

He slaughtered those assassins like it was nothing, and he still wears armor bearing their blood.

But what I find so surprising is that the most formidable part of his character seems to have nothing to do with his magic, or his soldiers, or his strength.

Instead, I’m discovering that the most powerful thing about him—in fact, the most compelling thing about him—has nothing to do with violence at all.