10. Soren
Chapter ten
Soren
She’s magnificent.
This odd, feisty princess of the deep is intelligent, brave, and—gods above—she’s funny . Even now, as she hops in a quickening pace through the sand, her legs flailing as if on fire, she’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. I bite my tongue to keep from laughing. She’s nothing like the stuffy, power-hungry princesses I've met. And deep in my gut, I have a feeling my mother finally hit the mark.
“Would you like me to carry you?” I ask in a calm, unprovoking tone. “It seems your feet are bothering you.”
At my words, she trips over her feet, careening in a face-plant toward the ground—right for a rogue patch of prickerweed. Instinct propels me. I scoop her legs, and her smooth skin brushes mine. For the second time today, I’m aware of her lack of clothing. I glance down—just for a moment—and instantly I’m hard at the sight of her small, round breasts, those pink nipples puckering under my attention.
Then the pain hits me. It starts as a burning, sharp and hot along my ribs. Then the tearing, the slickness of blood dripping down my side. The female in my arms—moments before helpless and hopping—has sprouted a fan of thin, black spines, armoring the length of her forearm, and just raked them across my abdomen. My blood stains her skin. She glares at me with wide purple eyes. Her mouth parts in a snarl, revealing two wicked fangs.
My first instinct is to drop her on her ass and cater to my wound. But then she says, “Let me go,” and flashes those fangs, and I tighten my grip.
If these spines are some Abyssal trait, I cannot ruin my future marriage by reacting poorly now. For all I know, it could be a mating ritual to stab your betrothed. Mentally, I curse myself for not paying more attention to my Abyssal customs tutor.
I clench my teeth, grinding my molars hard to redirect the pain. “Neat trick.” I limp toward the keep, pain flaring up my side with each step. “Who taught you that one?”
She frowns at me, wriggling in my arms as if she might escape my grip. Her legs kick to no avail. Those wicked spines flex in and out of hidden sheaths beneath her skin.
“No one taught me,” she says finally.
“Does the king have them too? Your sisters?”
Her brow furrows, revealing a dimple so soft and contradictory to the sharpness of the rest of her. She chews on her bottom lip, silent again.
“That’s all right,” I say. “You’ll warm up to me eventually.”
“Planning on sticking around?”
I laugh and shake my head at the suggestion. As if I have a choice not to. Where this morning that same idea filled me with dread, my heart is light and easy now. Maybe my destiny won’t be so terrible after all, if it means spending a life unpacking the mystery of her.
The gate is close now. I can make out the shapes of the soldiers standing guard—more than usual. They clump together, ten of them. The housekeeper, Clio, stands among them, next to an unamused Captain Nara.
Relief washes over me at the sight of my friend unharmed, followed quickly by confusion. If Nara is here, then why would the princess have been left alone…?
And then I spot her: a tall, silver-haired female, dressed in an elaborate darksteel chest piece, standing with the erect posture of a royal, the rounded ears of magical blood. Nara calls out a greeting, and the female turns. Her eyes are a piercing shade of blue, nearly white, and she locks her gaze with mine. There it is, in her pale eyes—the appetite of a princess.
My stomach turns over, and my nausea returns. The female in my arms—my wicked little dancer—is not my betrothed. All the joy and anticipation slips from my body like water down a drain.
The female squirms again, trying to wiggle free. This time, I set her upright without a word. With the corner of her loincloth, she wipes my blood off her arm and steps away from me.
“Thank you,” she mutters.
“What are you?” I whisper, more to myself than anything. If the silver siren is the real princess, then this Abyssal female must be her special escort, a personal guard perhaps, or a handmaid.
The female, smoothing her spines into their sheath with the flat of her palm, stiffens.
“Enna, darling, come join us,” says the silver siren, stretching out her hand. “Clio was just about to give us a tour, if you’re done making…” She eyes me again, her gaze snagging on my bleeding side. “…friends.”
Three things happen at once. First, the housekeeper rushes forward, having spotted my injury. Clio flutters her hands and fusses, procuring a towel from her bottomless apron pouch.
At the same time, the captain chuckles. “Your Highness, allow me to introduce Prince Soren, crown prince of the Kingdom of Coral.”
And in my head, I hear the echo of the female’s name, meaning the edge of a sword. A wicked name for my wicked beach dancer.
Enna. Enna. It feels like gritting teeth.