Chapter Eleven
Piris
As Jarok pulled out of her, Piris bit the inside of her cheek to stifle the moan crawling up her throat. She wouldn’t show that, not to him. Not after she’d set clear boundaries she’d meant. Piris didn’t want attachment of any kind. Her secrets were hers to keep, locked up tight. She had all she needed with her parents and Strella.
That wasn’t exactly true any longer. Gem had shoved her way into Piris’s small circle rather quickly. Cylian had made his way there before the trip, thanks to him helping save Strella’s life, but his presence these past few days had made her appreciate him more and more. Even Darin, whom she remained wary around, was becoming something like a friend.
Jarok… Well, Jarok riled her in the most infuriating ways. A simple smirk or side slide of his dark eyes or a flip of his floppy hair could get her hackles up in an instant. Yet, he’d shown such care and concern this whole time, she’d come to think of him as someone who could be her friend at some point in the future. She didn’t know if it could ever go that far, not with the way they constantly rattled one another.
The delicious kiss-and-grope session in the inn had heightened things, as did his reveal about his first kill when she’d desperately needed those words. Earlier that day, when he’d stooped to admire the silver fir saplings, something in her chest had twisted at the sight, growing tighter and tighter like a twining rope around her ribcage until she’d made her decision. She needed to have Jarok, get him out of her system somehow. Before she burst with desire.
She wanted him. Sure, she’d wanted a number of Fae in her life—and had had them. She was secretive by nature and need, which meant she often followed desire only with people she could ignore or dismiss after: young lords who’d also want to keep their dalliances with her a secret and the occasional sailor or merchant visiting Volesion Peak from other Fae lands. Like most Fae, she saw no issue with sating desires when they popped up for her. Desire for someone she knew and would have to interact with again wasn’t something she’d dealt with before. She’d thought ignoring the pull of the prince would be enough, but each day after their first kiss, after feeling the heat of him on top of her, strained her resolve.
Unused to denying herself her physical desires when she had to stuff down so many other desires and dreams, she’d decided if she set clear boundaries, they could enjoy one another and be fine after. Piris hadn’t counted on the way he dominated her, the delicious pull and tug of his rope work, or how every thrust into her drove her pleasure and emotions higher and higher, as if they somehow intertwined when she was connected to this Fae man.
Not good. Not good at all.
She was left biting her cheek, hanging limp from the ropes, unconcerned with the pinch in her shoulders because her mind was whirling too fast.
Jarok bit out a curse after straightening himself. He looped an arm around her waist, pulling her tight into his hold. She kept her mouth locked down because another moan wanted to leak from her lips. Told herself to get a grip when he pushed her up, taking her weight in his strong arm as he worked to untie her wrists with deft fingers.
When she was free, she sagged against the man, and he shifted his hold to make sure her feet were on the ground while still keeping her weight in his arms.
“Can you stand?” he whispered, the words a caress across her flushed cheek.
She gave a nod and stiffened her legs, shifting herself to take her own weight. Jarok hesitated a moment, as if he wanted to keep her where she was, but dropped her back without a struggle, letting her find her bearings.
She absently rubbed one wrist with her opposite hand and muttered, “Thanks.”
Jarok’s eyes narrowed on her hand, then he touched her again, the zap and heat of him roaring back to life in her blood. He rubbed her wrists in soft, gentle circles with his deft fingers, loosening the small sting there. He brought them up to look as close as he could in the dim light and turned each over several times before satisfied with whatever he saw. “No bruising or chaffing,” he said.
He let his hands fall with hers still in his grasp, so they stood inches apart, hand in hand, facing one another. It was too close, too much, after a whole lot of too much had just happened. “They’re fine. No problem,” Strella said as she shook his hands off. An odd blush hit her, someone rarely embarrassed, when she realized her leathers were still down, leaving her exposed. “Damn it,” she said, pulling them up, though she took the opportunity to take a step to the side, give herself some physical distance.
Jarok let out an odd cough, and their eyes locked a moment. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but shut it with an audible snap of teeth.
“We should return to the others,” Piris said into his silence, looking off in the direction of their camp for the night. She hoped to avoid whatever words he wanted to say or whatever his eyes might tell her.
“One moment,” he said, his voice rougher, less controlled than usual. She didn’t look to him, but heard the snap of rope against bark. When she steeled herself to turn to him again, she saw him rolling his rope tight, lashing it back to his belt. Heat rose up, delicious but unwanted, so she spun on her heels, taking the lead back to the camp. In her mind, it was best not to talk, not to look, then everything might be able to go back to normal soon enough.
No one commented on how long they were gone or what might have happened between them out in the woods, which made Piris thankful for their ragtag group. Even Gem, who was prone to jabs at her cousin for stress relief and entertainment, must have sensed making jokes right then might not be in her best interest and only stared long and hard at Piris as she prepped her bedroll. Darin ignored them, as usual. Cylian greeted them but said little else, moving to bank their tiny fire with his magic.
Piris turned her back toward everyone, damn the cold, and willed herself to sleep. It took time and a good bit of willing, but it came. When she got up the next morning, she willed herself to not reach for Jarok when she saw his sexy, sleep-addled eyes on her when she rose from her roll. They talked, planned, calculated, and all came to the same conclusion: if they picked up the pace, they’d be at Volesion Peak much sooner than expected.
This thought sobered Piris a great deal. In one or two days, she’d stroll into Volesion Peak and have to tell her parents their secret was out. Not only out but out with the royals of the Winterlands, a lord of the Autumnlands, and a famed Aurora Clan warrior. Gods willing, no other attacks would occur, else the assassin of the Springlands might also discover she was a mimic. Her mother would be devastated. Her father would be livid. Both would hurt her to see, knowing it was her choices that made them feel such pains. She wouldn’t take it back, even if she could, because it had helped Strella save her prince. Still, it wasn’t fun, imagining what her mother and father would say to her in a few short days.
Even with this hanging over her head, easing her lust for Jarok, it was only slightly calmed. Sometimes she’d see him looking at her from the peripheral, studying her like a puzzle he wanted to solve. Once, she’d been thinking too much on too many things and had tripped on a rock buried in the snowy forest floor. He’d somehow been right there, moving to grab her elbow and right her before she fell face-first into the ground.
“Sorry,” she’d muttered, and he’d only nodded back at her, flexing his hand as he walked away.
Luckily for her, something in the air changed the closer they came to Volesion Peak, a comforting blanket of home settling around her. She’d always felt itchy, unsure, on edge everywhere else in the realm. Here, in the familiar fir forest around her estate, the sounds of the Great River rumbling closer and closer as they walked, her shoulders eased a touch and her guard dropped slightly.
“We’re only a few miles from Volesion Peak,” Piris called back to the four Fae following her. She’d somehow taken the lead. Darin wasn’t even scouting ahead now. Murmurs of acknowledgment went up all around, and Piris smiled, thinking of home, forgetting her worries for a time. Her steps came quicker the nearer she got to the house. They were technically just inside the confines of the vast estate, which struck Piris as odd. Her father had security patrols regularly, and wards around their perimeters. She would easily slip through, of course, but the others shouldn’t have been able to do so. With furrowed brows, she spun around to talk to the group about this, and as she pivoted, she felt the whiz of an arrow fly by her abdomen, narrowly missing planting itself right in her gut.
She didn’t think, just reacted, shifting her weight so she dove to the ground instead of spinning fully around to face the others. Sparing a look to make sure no one else was hit, she saw everyone else crouching for cover and pulling out their weapons. Darin jumped into a thicker section of tree line, his own bow slipped from his shoulder and notched with an arrow in a blur of movement. Like a good assassin, he was off to gods knew where to hopefully pick off whoever had attacked them. The Benders were great bowmen, but she doubted they could compete with Darin man-to-man. Only problem was the fight wasn’t likely man-to-man but man to several men.
Piris had no real time to strategize and instead focused on taking in as much of the scene as possible to quickly find an opening to exploit. About one hundred yards ahead, she spied three Benders atop horses, all with notched bows aimed right for them. In a blink, they let their arrows rip. She rolled several feet to her left and popped up on her feet at the last moment to make a crouched run for the tree line. The clearing offered little cover.
She noticed Jarok a second before he clamped a hand around her wrist to plant her firmly by his side and quicken her steps. Scanning the opposite side, she let out a sigh when she saw Cylian and Gem both well and mostly covered by the branches of a large fir. “Plan?” she asked.
Jarok went to open his mouth, but a steady beat of hooves filled the silence, and his focus shifted to the Benders barreling toward them. More horses sounded in the distance, and Piris prayed they weren't more Benders set to attack. Right that second, a Bender’s arrow whizzed by her head—by her head instead of in her head because Jarok had pulled her a step to the side before she was skewered by the thing.
She didn’t have time to thank him for the save. Two other arrows thunked into the tree trunk behind them after the prince had also pulled her to the ground. Seemed the three were set on getting them, or more likely Jarok, than going after the whole party.
A grunt, horribly close by Piris’s estimation, sounded and she saw one Bender fall fast from his horse, an arrow she recognized as Darin’s planted right in the man’s eye socket. The assassin wasn’t looking to take prisoners.
Two more arrows sailed toward them, and this time Piris dove for the save, landed hard on Jarok, and rolled him on the ground. A hiss came from the prince; an arrow had scraped across his upper arm, but she saw nothing of immediate danger.
Scrambling on the ground, she turned and saw Cylian attacking with a fireball, small but effective. His fire startled the horses, and they reared up, toppling both riders to the ground. Both rolled and popped up without hesitation. One, wielding a large hammer, plowed into Gem, who’d planted her feet in the middle of the clearing with her sword gripped tight in both hands. She was still healing from the arrow to the shoulder she’d taken in the last Bender attack, but her two-handed grip and her hard stance didn’t falter. Not yet. Piris knew she wouldn’t last long, and from the looks of Cylian, he couldn’t help a great deal in the moment. He was clashing with the other Bender, whose massive broadsword was crashing down heavy on the rapier and dagger combination the fiery Fae favored. Even with flame dancing across his blades, the Bender looked like he might have an advantage in strength and determination on her friend.
Her friend, someone she liked. Had come to care for. Another arrow from Darin zipped through the air, thudding hard against the back of the man bringing his heavy hammer down on Gem’s sword again and again as she gritted her teeth against each clang of metal. The way the arrows bounced off the men was clearly the work of some form of magic, be it wards or artifice. Not on their heads, because she’d seen the arrow in the eye earlier, but along the broader, much easier to hit parts of the Fae attacking. They had magical protection, which made the fight so much harder.
Jarok pushed into the fray, coming in beside Gem to deflect a savage downward strike of the war hammer with his slim but sturdy falchion. She took a moment to observe, watch the way the Benders moved, and could tell they were well trained, even in defense. They kept their heads down, knowing there was a skilled archer around them somewhere and that was their vulnerability. She didn’t even know where Darin was, but she hoped he was ready to take advantage.
She stepped out, not with her dagger or her short sword in hand, but with her magic tingling. She needed a surprise, something to distract them. Sadly, she’d never met Engad Monti, who would be the best person to mimic for his minions. She figured they knew enough about the royals to recognize Ghel’s booming voice. She opened her mouth and let it out. “Step away from my brother,” she yelled, Ghel’s gruff command ringing in the clearing.
The gambit paid off. The Bender fighting Gem and Jarok jerked upright at the sound. His neck exposed, Gem thrust forward and buried her blade deep into his throat. He gurgled blood as he dropped like a stone to the ground.
Cylian’s attacker must have hesitated somehow too, as he allowed Cylian enough time to shove a fireball right into his chest. Whatever was protecting him from arrows seemed to keep the fire at bay, but no one was immune to the terror of thinking they’d burn to death. He flailed, screaming as he pounded his own chest in an attempt to put out the flames. An arrow flew from behind Cylian’s shoulder and landed once again right in a Fae’s eye. Darin was an excellent shot.
Everyone breathed hard and heavy, preparing themselves for the horses they heard coming closer and closer. In seconds they were close enough for Piris to see clearly, and she yelled to her group, “Not Benders!” She moved to stand in front of everyone else as Darin slipped in from whatever perch he’d taken to fire at their enemies.
Her father came barreling into the clearing, jumped from his trusty stallion before it had a chance to fully stop, and stalked up to grab his daughter tight in his arms. Like most healthy Fae, he looked younger than his two hundred years, only a slight smattering of gray at his mostly brown temples hinting at older age. He squeezed her hard and tight before setting her down, bronze eyes assessing her then the rest of the group. “What is happening here? Why are you traveling on foot with my daughter, and why were these men attacking you?”
He moved to stand beside Piris, taking in the members of their party. “And where is Prince Ghel?”
He’d heard her then. No more hiding it. Piris swallowed the lump of fear in her throat, gripped her father’s hand, and said, “That was me, Father.”