31. Enna
Chapter thirty-one
Enna
I flinch awake, wildly snuffing out the remnants of my dream. My skin is sweat-soaked, sand clinging to me after tossing and turning all night. After another sleepless night of wandering the keep, I’d curled up on the beach next to these rocks instead of on top of them. Turns out to have been a shit idea.
I shake out my hair, flinging sand. Growling, I drag my claws over my scalp. The sting sharpens my focus, distracting me from my greatest discomfort—the pool of wetness between my thighs.
I’ve never had a sex dream in my life. I’ve had plenty of sex, but it’s never been good enough to filter into my dreams.
Last night, I had three, and they all starred the cocky Coral Prince as he took me three different ways—across that tavern table, then in his bathtub, then again on the goddessdamn kitchen floor.
Had it been the ale? I didn’t even get drunk. The conversation, perhaps? I knew it’d been a bad idea, sitting alone with him like that. I should have gone with Odissa to relieve herself. That would have prevented any and all sex dreams for the rest of my life.
Fuck. I squint up at the sky. The sun is a sickening pink, the color of Prince Soren’s tongue as it dragged down my neck. I clench my thighs as another thrill flutters through my core.
I lurch to my feet and march to meet the surf. A quick swim should cool me off, put these thoughts to rest.
But the water is already piss-warm. The currents caress my sensitive folds, and I can only stand it for long enough to clear the sand from my hair. I burst through the surface and stomp back onto the beach, shivering and quivering with irritation.
This is ridiculous.
I unsheathe a dagger, testing its weight. Dragging a breath in through my nose, I settle into my fighting stance. My enemy appears before my mind’s eye—a wispy figure for now—and I form his body and weapon, leaving his face blank. Already, he looks too much like the prince. Too large and looming.
I attack my imaginary opponent, slashing the air where his arm would be. My attack feels off balance, too quick in the dry air. I hiss, digging my toes into the sand to root myself. I slash, dodge, and whirl to kick his stomach. He bowls over, and I slice through his throat.
I tilt my head left, then right, popping the tension from my muscles. Already, blood is flowing hotter in my veins. The dream crawls into the back of my mind where it belongs. Good fucking riddance.
I repeat the exercise until I’m a blur of muscle and movement. I have no room for thought.
Then I hear his laugh, that dark, satisfying baritone, and I freeze. My imagined enemy dissipates. I shake my head—the laugh must be left over from my dream. I shove down the intrusive thought with an inhale and settle back into my stance.
“Am I interrupting?” the prince says.
I blink, and he’s there, a lopsided grin on his face.
“Yes.”
He’s in a cotton shirt today, robe-like and loose. The fabric ripples in the breeze, caressing his muscled chest. He clutches a whitesteel trident.
When his gaze clashes with mine, my heart leaps into my throat. His lips curve, and once again, I’m thinking of those lips dragging down my neck, those white teeth grazing my nipple. I shake my head to clear the thought.
“Excellent,” he says, untying his shirt.
It parts to reveal the broad expanse of his stomach, his chest. A speckled pattern of emerald green scales covers his skin, congregating in a trail leading to the deep V of his hips. His shoulders rotate, broader and stronger than I’d imagined last night. The linen pants barely cling to his hip bones, obscuring the rest of him from view.
I swallow hard, willing the fluttering in my core to stop. I’m already fucked. The prince runs a hand loosely through his hair, and my own scalp cries out for the same touch.
His gaze lingers on my form a second too long, his eyes sparkling. “Do you have a thing against our fashion?”
I look down at myself, noting, once again, that I’m wearing nothing but my loincloth. My chest piece is discarded in the pit where I slept last night, having torn it off in my sleep.
“Clio can get you some workout clothing, I’m sure.” He gestures to his pants, and I can’t miss the strength of those thighs visible through the thin fabric.
“Too restrictive,” I spit.
The prince crouches into a fighting stance, tossing the handle of his trident lightly from palm to palm. The tines are curved and sharp, with a wicked serrated point in the center. The golden staff laces with curling white detail, the spiraled shell crest etched in the steel. I eye it with longing. It’s the prettiest weapon I’ve seen, and it’d make a lovely addition to my personal collection. If I had the room.
“Can’t say I’m surprised you have a knife,” he says. “It suits you somehow.”
I should stop him before he learns more of my secrets, before he pushes me to reveal my whole self. But my blood is boiling, and my body screams for a fight. I cannot release it on shadows alone, and lucky or not, the prince is the only one around to volunteer.
“Contact or blood?” I ask, circling him slowly in the sand.
Gripping his trident firmly in his right hand, his legs tense in the tell of a lunge. Before he can connect, I sidestep without breaking my stride. He skitters through the sand.
“Contact,” he growls. “Can’t have the princess asking questions, can we, Wicked?” He rotates the staff again, readjusting his grip on the handle. If he’s not careful, I’ll knock his fancy fork out of thin air.
The prince’s face twists tighter the longer we circle in our silly game. I sneer.
His patience cracks, and he comes for me again. I see it coming before he moves, but I allow him the satisfaction of getting close. I duck swiftly, bending low and coming up under his arms. I slide the flat of my blade against his ribs, nicking a green scale. Blood oozes from the seam.
He rolls his shoulders, ignoring the cut as we dance back apart.
“One, zero,” I say.
“I said contact.” He spits into the sand.
I shrug. “I’m getting bored.”
A wicked smile curls his lips. “I can fix that,” he says, his voice dropping into a deep rumble.
He stalks toward me, his jaw set in determination, and I blink to clear the sudden image from my dream. Except it’s not my dream version of the prince wearing this expression. He’s here in the flesh, sauntering across the sand and looking at me like I’m a freshly roasted seaweed crisp.
My spines flex, lifting in warning.
“You want to make this more interesting?” he purrs.
I swallow against the lump in my throat and take a step back, meeting the edge of a boulder. I brace a hand on its surface as I rake my eyes up and down his body, enjoying the sight of this male despite myself.
His shadow covers me until I can see nothing, feel nothing, but the nearness of his towering, muscled body before the morning sun. I feign a faint and he leans in, touching his forehead to the rock above my head, framing me with his hands. He inhales deeply and hums, the deep sound reverberating through my bones.
His lips part, releasing a warm breath that spills over my forehead. The curve of his bottom lip is begging to be bitten.
“You like to get under my scales, don’t you, Wicked?” he whispers, as if he thinks he’s won.
I lift my knee, jabbing it between his legs. He grunts, bending low. I twist the trident from his hand and land a punch to his gut. He drops to the sand. Before he can recover, I squat over him, holding his weapon to his neck. He stares up at me with wide green eyes, the cocky little fuck.
“Two, zero,” I whisper, staking his fork into the sand beside his ear, and stand. “Again.”
His hand wraps around my ankle, yanking me back to the ground. I kick at his face, but he ducks, reaching for my other ankle.
I hiss, trying to aim a solid kick to his jaw.
He grunts, but he doesn’t let me go. We clash again, kicking and clawing, slashing and parrying.
Soon, our bodies enter the smooth rhythm of battle. The knot of tension in my stomach fades with every lunge and duck, the embarrassment of my dream evaporating with my sweat.
He’s a surprisingly well-matched partner. Where I’m quick and evasive, he plows forward. Where he’s strong and forceful, I’m lithe and precise. But he’s not as predictable as I thought. He throws in the occasional quick dodge or graceful twist to keep me guessing.
He may be smart, but he’s too confident for his own good. So I play dirty, trailing my fingers down his spine, tracing the sweat beading there. His skin ripples and flexes wherever I touch. He turns to watch me and fumbles his footwork, and I hook my foot around his ankle. An elbow to his back sends him tumbling forward, and he grunts, once more falling in the sand.
I lay the flat of my blade against his neck, laughter bubbling behind my lips. “Seven, zero.”
He grips my wrist, leaning into my knife. His gaze is liquid fire, and a grin spreads across his face. The pretty prince has a death wish, so I press harder with my knife.
“No,” he growls, his Voice menacing. Energy snakes out in green ribbons of light, wrapping around my wrists. He yanks me off him, sending my knife flying into the sand.
“Release me!” I sing, my own magic surging forth, meeting his magic where it holds my wrists captive. With one quick note, my lightning slices through his control and dispels the green light.
I roll through the sand, scooping up my knife and landing in a crouch.
The prince stands, swaggering toward me with that grin. His magic curls around his arms, twists around his legs, and expands around him into green mist.
“So, you are Voiced,” he says, triumphant.
This is one giant mistake. I shouldn’t be fighting him, shouldn’t be showing him all my tricks at once. I’ve been careful to maintain my handmaid identity up until this point, but that careful disguise is cracking by the second.
Never have I fought an opponent with both song and blade. He’s already seen too much. Why not have a little fun?
The prince whispers under his breath, sending his magic snaking toward me. It wraps around my stomach, and before I can react, he lifts me into the air.
Impressive.
I struggle in his grip, every inch of my skin lighting up with the Voice. I push the light outward from my body, pressing against his restraint. He tightens his grip, pressing back. I clench my gut, bare my fangs. His eyes glow the same color as his magic, focused on me with bright green intensity. The pressure of his magic increases, pushing back my boundaries.
We lock gazes, two raging infernos.
Energy spirals out of my stomach at a steady rate, giving me a few minutes until it runs dry. I shift my arms within his restraint, grasping the hilt of the dagger strapped to my hip.
“One, seven,” he says, smiling.
I mirror his smile, letting him think he’s won. The moment the pressure of his magic wobbles, I unsheathe the knife and hurl it past his ear. The blade slices off a stray lock of his hair.
His magic releases completely, and I land on my feet, diving for the knife. He reaches for me, but I’m quicker, and within seconds, my blade presses flat to his ribs.
“Eight, zero.”
He groans. “Why can’t I best you?”
He bends to pick up the curl of his hair, weighing it in his hand while he pins me with a glare.
“Because you’re a royal playing with knives and magic. And I’m a…” I trail off, cursing myself for the near slip.
He frowns. “You’re a what?”
I shake my head, sheathing my knife. “I’m a wicked handmaid, late for her morning duties, Your Highness.”
“Stay,” he says, his voice rumbling with authority.
I bare my fangs.
“Please,” he says, reaching for me with a hesitant hand. I eye it, my heart pumping furiously the closer he draws. He cups my cheek gently, rubbing a soft thumb over my cheekbone. His hand is warm and soft, and I lean into it, closing my eyes.
“What are you?” he whispers, the echo of his question the day we met. “Just a handmaid? I think not, my lady, my wicked dancer.” His other hand comes up to cup my face, and he holds me in place. “Enna.”
My pulse quickens at the sound of my name on his lips. I try to pull away, but he maintains his hold.
“You have the Voice, and a strong one at that. You fight better than the Coral Captain. You sprout spines when you’re angry, and you have the face of a moon goddess.”
His thumb continues to trace the crest of my cheek. “Beautiful.”
I open my eyes to stare at him, finding his gaze burning with heat.
“I’m convinced you’re not a handmaid at all,” he says. My stomach flips over, twisting into a painful knot. “You’re some sort of Abyssal warrior in disguise.”
My mouth parts involuntarily as the rebuttal stirs my tongue, but I snap it shut just as fast. If I’m quiet, he can’t learn the full truth, or at least what’s left of it.
“I see I’ve hit the mark.” He smiles. “Are you here to kill me, then? Is this all some elaborate ruse?”
“No,” I say. Too quickly. This cannot be happening. We were so close, and I’ve just ruined everything. Today is the day everything crumbles, all thanks to a silly dream.
That damn dream lit me on fire, and I couldn’t contain it. I couldn’t control myself. And now, I’m ruining the assignment spectacularly.
“I don’t care what you are, Enna. I don’t care why you’re here.” He pulls at me, tugging me closer. “Those eyes,” he whispers, his breath warming my face. “They’ve haunted me since the moment we met.”
His fingers trail down my neck, my shoulders. Slowly. My scales rise in the wake of his touch.
“I shouldn’t want you. Everything about you screams off-limits.” He passes over my forearms, coaxing a slight lift of my spines. “I can’t have you. Tell me I can’t have you, Enna, and I’ll walk away.”
I will my heart to slow. I will my skin to extinguish the blaze that ignites repeatedly under his touch. My lips part, but the words stick in my throat.
His hands slide around my hips, gripping me. “Say something, Wicked.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Your Highness.” My voice wavers.
“Soren,” he corrects me. “Please.”
“That’s inappropriate, Your Highness.”
“What if I don’t want to be appropriate with you, Wicked?” His voice is hoarse, as if the words choked him on their way out.
“Then walk away.” My careful control crumbles in an instant. I drag my claws over his knuckles. The heat between us ignites, threatening to swallow me whole.
“You’ll be the death of me,” he declares, lifting me into his arms.
And I, shoving aside all my internal warnings, hook my legs around him and hold on tightly.