13. Killian
Three days of forced proximity. Then I’m free.
I’ll have everything I ever wanted. Property. A title. I can hunt the monsters on that mountaintop and sell their parts for income.
I’ve never needed much in the way of luxuries. Never cared to have servants trailing after me. I’ve been taking care of myself and my belongings since I was in the orphanage, where any possessions you didn’t keep close track of went missing. It’s a habit so ingrained that it’s apparent in the way my dragon scale armor hangs clean and gleaming dully in the afternoon light. My freshly shined boots sit beside it.
Quarters for the royal guards are spartan at best, but at least I have this cell to myself instead of a bunk in the barracks. The cramped space contains everything I could possibly need.
A bed. A trunk of clothing. A change of boots. Hooks to hang my array of personal weapons, selected and honed until they feel like extensions of my own body.
And then there’s my official uniform, which, for once, I’m expected to wear.
White leather. Who chose that, for fuck’s sake? Impossible to get bloodstains out. Which is one excellent reason why mine is practically brand-new. I’ve worn it maybe three times in all the years I’ve been the black sheep of the royal guard, and never in battle.
I tug the stupid hat over my still-damp hair and sigh. At least all the white leather is offset with a maroon and navy jacket and trousers. There are enough gold buttons to tempt a pirate and more gold braid than any self-respecting man should have to wear, but at least I don’t have to sport this getup every day like the rest of the guard does.
In three days, I’ll never have to don it again.
Flexing the hand on my injured arm sends unease slithering through my middle. If only I’d been a split-second faster, that damn bird wouldn’t have scored my flesh. And hers. It nicked her, too.
If only I’d rushed over to Briar’s coffin-bed, I could have been the one to awaken her with a kiss. Not that it would have changed a damn thing. Alistair wanted her, and as prince, he gets to claim her.
There’s no point in dwelling upon what might have been. I almost hope Briar does get attacked so that I have something to do instead of following her around the castle watching Alistair’s flailing attempts to seduce his wife-to-be.
I take deep, disgusting satisfaction in the fact that she isn’t interested in him. If I can’t have her, then I at least want the man who does to be denied, too.
I am, undoubtedly, the worst friend that ever existed. No wonder I don’t have any others. Alistair and I are two hard-hearted, arrogant, selfish, horny, peas in a pod. We deserve one another.
And yet our longtime friendship is coming to an end. I should resent Briar for its destruction, but I don’t. I’m only disgusted with myself for wanting the same thing every other man in this kingdom does—to bury myself between Briar’s thighs, damn the consequences of doing so.
If I allow my thoughts to continue in that direction, I’ll be too stiff to walk. Fortunately for me, the uniform’s jacket is cut to conceal a cockstand. Probably because so many of the guards spend their days following around ladies of the court, trying not to be tempted by their tits displayed like ripe fruits on a platter.
At least I get a castle for my service to the crown. Those poor sods get a meager paycheck and board. Nothing more.
When I arrive at the dressmaker’s workshop, I’m told to wait near the door. The princess takes her sweet time. There’s nothing to do except stand there and wait, unless I prefer to sit and browse through fabric samples. I stand ramrod straight with my back to the door.
Feminine titters from behind the screen. Whispers. I swear I hear the women giggling about the white leather on my boots, gloves, and hat. My ears burn. They must not know how keen my hearing is, because if they did, they wouldn’t be talking about me that way.
Women can be even filthier than your average solider. I never fall for the innocent flower routine. They’re as horny as we are, if not more so. They simply have more reasons to conceal it.
“We need a man’s opinion,” one seamstress announces. Briar demurs.
“Everyone in the kingdom is going to see you anyway. What’s one preview—” her voice lowers, but I can still hear every syllable “—to the handsomest man in Belterre?”
“He’s arresting, not handsome,” another protests.
If my ears weren’t burning before, they certainly are now. I hate being talked about as if I’m no more sentient than a wooden post.
A flurry of rustling silk obscures whatever they’re whispering, except the giggles.
“Sir Ironheart,” says the first seamstress. “Would you be so kind as to offer your sincere opinion upon the princess’ gown?”
“I have nothing to offer on the subject of women’s fashion.”
“I told you he would refuse on principle,” Briar says.
“But we need a man’s opinion,” the seamstress insists. “You happen to be the only one available. Please?”
“No.”
Words always get me into trouble. I keep my opinions to myself.
“Fine. But we need to use the long mirror, so you’ll have to endure looking at the princess anyway.”
Endure. She’s not wrong.
I’d relaxed fractionally, a posture which could be forgiven in light of my recent illness. Briar shuffles out from behind an elaborate curtain.
She was glorious before, in that hideously overdone gown Alistair stuffed her into for her presentation ceremony.
In the confection of a wedding gown they’ve created for her, she’s breathtaking. A vise tightens around my ribs. I’m back on that horrible bed in the inn, dreaming. Hallucinating a goddess again.
Her hair tumbles down her back, a golden fall of waves past the indentation of her waist, the soft waves dangling above the swell of her hips. The skirt bells out from there. My fingertips twitch with the need to clutch her gorgeous ass. Rip away the silk. Find her center and plunge deep with my tongue, my fingers, my cock.
I flex my hands inside the white leather gloves, feeling the pull of still-healing skin.
Then, Briar turns around, and my control snaps.