Chapter Five
Piris
After the incident in the middle of the night outside the traveling house, Piris and Jarok operated under a calm truce the next morning. Piris missed it slightly, the back-and-forth she’d had with Jarok since they met, the push and pull that caused her heat to rise and the sensation to zip across her body. She knew it was for the best. She and the prince would be in each other’s lives for a long time, what with her best friend happily married to his brother. Better they remain cordial instead of causing scene after scene sniping back and forth, or even worse, one day coming to blows.
Never mind the disaster that might arise if she was honest about her words the night before, or how his hand on her naked throat had caused her pulse to race in lust instead of fear.
She could admit, at least to herself, Prince Jarok Borau was handsome. Devastatingly so, despite the smug look often plastered across his face. She’d learned it was often a type of mask. He was a prince, surely used to a certain amount of deference whether he realized it or not, but she could honestly say he didn’t always try to put himself above others. The way he treated everyone on this trip—from her to the coachman who he made sure stayed safe and warm wherever they were—proved as much.
The mask was the perfect visage of noble snobbery and jest, something she’d heard other ladies of the Winterlands whisper about when she was allowed to be close to them. They deemed her insignificant enough to ignore as they freely gossiped among themselves. Ghel was the blood Borau, but that didn’t matter to the king and queen, which meant it no longer mattered to most Winterlands nobles, at least that they admitted aloud. Which meant, because of Ghel’s gruff nature and warrior demeanor, the women in her world gravitated toward the joking, flirting, and chivalrous Prince Jarok.
Piris had thought them crazy when she’d first met the man. He was rude, infuriating, and snide. She saw nothing to admire even if his outward package was devastatingly beautiful, with his full lips, glowing flaxen skin stretched tight over high cheek bones, a wide-set nose, a strong and broad forehead, and a slightly pointed chin. His hair, short on the back and sides but left artfully floppy at the top, glistened like thick-threaded onyx. And those earth-brown eyes with a small upturn on the outside edges, surrounded by wisps of black lashes and haughtily arched black brows, were deep and dark and sometimes sparkling when they sparred. He could drag someone under like the currents of the Great River with the depths of those eyes. Nevertheless, his attitude, how much it reminded her of other lords she’d known, combined with his instant dislike of her, made her skin prickle in his presence. Yes, she could admit he was lovely to look at, but it paled against who he was.
Then she’d seen him in action, not fighting but in the royal ballroom. He’d moved from group to group effortlessly, without a care in the world, flirting and laughing and dancing as he did. She knew then why the women in the room leaned deep into him, breathed him in, fluttered their lashes and gripped his shoulder tight when they danced across the floor. Because when he focused on someone, he could make them feel as if they were the only person in the room.
Unfortunately for Piris, he’d often used that skill to needle her, make her feel watched and studied like something other, a feeling she already fought in her mind without him helping the matter along. He had the night of the ball and had continued to do so, up until he’d stepped into her with his blade pushed into her throat ever so slightly, his warm fingers loosening around her when he realized who she was. Something had shifted between them and her blood pumped harder, fiercer, not in fight but in another, more enjoyable response. She’d be an idiot to pursue it, but sitting in the carriage in the light of day, hours after she’d felt him against her, she could also admit to herself she wanted him. Her body wanted his body.
Her personal revelations were halted when she heard the coachman call a warning “whoa” seconds before the carriage thumped over some large bump in the road. She thought nothing of it, as Winterlands roads were icy and rather bumpy at the best of times, until she heard a soft sound of feet landing on top of the roof.
Gem heard it too and pulled herself up straight, threw off the blanket she’d been burrowed under, and unsheathed her short sword in seconds. She put a finger to her lips, signing for Piris to remain quiet as she moved toward the carriage door close to her side. Piris had already pulled a sharp dagger from her thigh holster, ripping the pocket of her traveling dress as she did, but she freed it easily, flipping it in the air so she held the hilt firmly in her fist in case she needed to quickly stab someone with force.
The dark curtain of the carriage had barely lifted before the ghost of a hand appeared and, in a flash, the door was unlatched and opened. A Fae man in a gray cloak and leathers came in the door feet first while the carriage swayed, the coachman having finally noticed something amiss and calling out to Jarok and Cylian ahead.
The carriage slowed and the hooded figure crouched low to the floor. She and Gem were at a disadvantage, pinned against the opposite door as they were, but Gem used one had to push Piris back as she sliced out with her sword. The man easily maneuvered around her wicked blade, quite a feat in the confined space. He even managed to grasp her sword hand at the wrist. With a vicious pull, Gem stumbled forward, and the man used her own momentum to send her tumbling out the open door of the nearly stopped carriage.
Piris was enraged at the treatment of her new friend and stood as tall as she could, her forearm a band across her body, ready to lash out and stab if the man came any closer. He didn’t, and instead moved to sit on the back-facing bench, pulling this hood back as he did.
If she’d thought Jarok pretty, she could say the same of this man. His white-blond hair was short-cropped, a thick, glowing mass around the sharp angles of his pale face. His nose was strong, pronounced in a masculine way, and showed the slightest sign of crookedness, like it’d been broken a time or two. His eyes, a green like ice freezing the boughs of an evergreen, took her in quickly as she studied him. His lips were a stark ruby red adorning his pale face, full with a perfect bow crowning the top.
He had another type of bow slung across his back, along with a large quiver of arrows. Piris shook off these quick observations and went on the offensive, kicking out with a leg instead of her dagger hand to try to catch him off guard.
No such luck. His strong, sure hands gripped her ankle and twisted, not enough to hurt but enough to show her he could in an instant if he wished. Given the circumstances, a reevaluation was necessary on her part.
She stared at him, waiting, as he blinked her way. Finally, a forced smile spread across his lips, showing a slight skew to his teeth. “Lady Piris Volesion,” he stated with a dip of his head. “A pleasure.”
A second later, the door beside her flung open and wind tore through the carriage, forcing the stranger back against the bench and causing him to drop her foot. She didn’t wait to look outside. Piris bolted out of the space to have more maneuvering room, the wind somehow keeping the man frozen as it also helped her alight.
“You have to be kidding me,” Jarok growled when he glimpsed the man in the carriage for the first time.
Their Fae attacker, now freed for some reason, stepped from the carriage, causing Piris to back up and crouch into a fighting posture.
“Greetings, Prince Borau,” the man said, straightening his cape as if he weren’t facing down a ring of armed fighters.
With a sigh, Cylian said, “I thought you were meeting us at the inn.”
The man shrugged and turned to look Piris up and down before stepping forward. Jarok growled like an animal, which made the stranger pause.
“Apologies, Lady Volesion. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Darin Marco, emissary of the Springlands Court. At your service and pleasure, m’lady.” She didn’t believe the pleasure part for a second. Because those beautifully green eyes were cold as ice, unfeeling. Unconcerned with anyone around them. A chill snaked up her spine. The man screamed danger with every look and movement. She hoped the service part of his introduction was true. As dangerous as he seemed, she’d admit it would be nice to have such a Fae on their side.
Piris grinned to herself, trying hard to remember the tentative truce she’d been thinking about earlier in the carriage. Gem, dirtied by the road, had taken her confrontation with Marco with a good-natured smile and a swift, hearty pat on his back. Impressively, the man remained tall and straight when even Piris herself flinched at the sound the slap made against his leathers. Gem had quite an aggressive way of greeting and testing.
Her half smile, hidden as she took more time than necessary to slip her dagger back into its thigh sheath, centered around the curses Jarok was flinging at the newly met ally. Darin Marco ignored the prince in favor of greeting Cylian.
“How are you, Lord Padalist?” the man asked, a firm, clipped nod in Cylian’s direction punctuating his words.
“Fine, friend. And please, call me Cylian.”
“As you say,” he said, turning to take in the surroundings. “I take it you are Gem Aurora?”
Gem simply looked back at him, obvious in her perusal of his figure. It was quite a figure; Piris would give her that. He was lean, tight muscle over a tall frame. His shoulders, broad and honed, tapered down into a small waist. Long arms, muscled in all the right places, crossed a chest that looked like it might have been poured into his leathers. With his blond hair, angelic face, and that body, he’d have women everywhere drooling. Piris would be too, if it weren’t for the edge of danger hanging around him.
Maybe it was the fighter in her, but she saw it shimmering around him like a dark aura. Partly communicated with the hard planes of his face and partly shown in the stiff lean of his muscles, he practically screamed, “Do not touch.” At least to her. Maybe Gem appreciated a dangerous tumble, but Piris thought his type of danger was too real, too dark for her liking. She preferred the adrenaline of controlled danger in her lovers, not this clear, uncontrolled menace leaking from this man for anyone with trained eyes to see.
Jarok stalked up and placed himself in front of her slightly, as if protecting her. Piris rankled at the move, although a small part of her felt a shiver from the heat of his back lightly touching the front of her right shoulder.
“You are reckless, Marco,” Jarok spat.
“Now, Prince—”
Jarok cut the prince off with a withering look. The diplomat knew to pick his battles, so he simply shook his head and raised his hands in front of him in surrender.
“Why attack us?” Jarok asked, leaving her front chillier as he moved closer to the man staring at him with cold green eyes.
Darin Marco looked unconcerned with the wind whirling around the prince or the anger oozing toward him with every word. Instead, he stayed calm and aloof, as if nothing could move him if he did not wish it to do so. “A test, Your Highness.”
“A test which could have hurt my cousin or Piris, for no reason,” Jarok hissed back, stopping an inch from the other Fae’s face.
Marco didn’t flinch, didn’t falter. Simply replied, “They are perfectly well.”
Again, a growl like soft howls of wind bubbled up from Jarok’s chest, and he turned to his left, ripping a hand through his thick black hair. Together like that, one in front of the other, the differences between the two Fae were drastic, light and dark in appearance, the opposite in feeling and comfort for Piris. Rather interesting, in her assessment.
She finally stopped pretending to do something else and joined in the fray. “Jarok, all is well, as Marco said. Right, Gem?”
“Aye,” she huffed out before Piris kept going.
“We need to get back on the road if we want to reach the inn by sunset.”
Jarok visibly stilled himself, forcing his tight muscles to relax before he agreed. Eyeing the Springlands ally, he finally asked, “Where is your horse?”
“I don’t have one with me now,” the man said, no hint of care in his voice, his words basic fact and nothing more.
Jarok again cursed. Loudly. Looked between Marco and Piris for a few beats, before straightening his stance and giving a command. “You’ll take my horse. I’ll ride in the carriage with Piris and Gem.”
The other Fae didn’t argue. As he walked forward, Cylian gestured toward his and Jarok’s lead horses as he slung an arm across the man’s shoulders, which tensed at the contact as if disliking the touch. Or maybe unfamiliar with touches of friendship or affection. It tempered Piris’s assessment of the man; anyone not used to care would be a dangerous person, but also a lonely person.
The coachman, reassured by Jarok after he noticed the man’s nervous energy, went back to his perch as the two other Fae men mounted the horses a few feet ahead. Gem swept into the interior, Piris followed, and Jarok took up the rear, then snapped the latch of the door closed a little too aggressively as he muttered under his breath about thoughtless assassins.
Piris started at the title. They’d never mentioned his job title, what he might be in the Springlands Court, to her. Thinking about the man, his demeanor and overall impression, she had no problem imagining him as a killer for his king. He practically exuded assassin energy.
“I see why you dislike him,” Piris mumbled to Jarok as he moved to the bench across from her to sit beside his cousin.
“Exactly,” he bit out, shaking his head as if trying to get the man from his thoughts. “He could’ve… What he did was stupid and irresponsible.”
“Smart, actually,” Gem admitted, “even if it bruised my backside.”
“Smart? You’ve got to be kidding, Gem. It was impulsive and uncontrolled.”
“You can call that man many things, but stupid and uncontrolled are not two of them, Jarok. It’d be in your best interest to remember that.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Jarok bit back. “He had no reasoning behind his actions.”
“Sure, he did,” Gem said, snuggling into the corner with her ubiquitous Aurora sky blanket and closing her eyes as if she weren’t having an argument with an angry Jarok. “He tested our security. If he’s to be our ally, an ally in service of his royal patrons in his own court, he needs to know how we’d react to an attack. He seems to know Cylian fairly well. I know you don’t know him well because you avoid him whenever possible. I’ve never met the man, and neither has Piris. He needed to know our reaction times and fighting styles in order to evaluate.”
It made perfect sense to Piris when she heard it put that way, and from the grinding of Jarok’s teeth and the clenching of his jaw as he looked away from his cousin, he thought the same. Gem huffed a mirthless laugh and flipped the blanket over her head, something she’d not done up to that point in the trip. As if giving Piris and Jarok some privacy for whatever reason.
Jarok closed his dark eyes, heaved in a deep breath, and thunked his head back against the wall of the carriage. Piris left him to his thoughts, but she heard his voice, so soft it was like another breath, ask, “Are you okay?”
Piris looked around, making sure he was speaking to her, before she replied. “Yes. He startled me, but Gem took the brunt of his attack. Well, except for a misplaced kick I tried to land, which meant he trapped my leg for a time.”
“Trapped how?”
Piris shrugged. “He held my ankle, not in a way that harmed but firmly, so I couldn’t get loose. Not until your wind whipped through the space.”
More teeth grinding came from Jarok, and Piris couldn’t help herself. “You keep that up, you won’t have any teeth left.”
Jarok relaxed his face and jaw and muttered an apology.
“No need to apologize. You did nothing wrong.”
The prince smiled. “Something my mother says. Often. She hates people apologizing for no reason.”
“Good on her,” Piris said with a little sniff. “People do it far too much. It’s annoying.”
Jarok barked out a deep laugh, which startled Piris, not only because she’d rarely heard him make the sound but because it made a sharp zing trail down her back, a bolt of something heated but comforting she’d not felt before.
They dropped the conversation and sat in a peaceful silence for long miles, winding their way down the wintery road ahead.