22. Killian
After cutting apart the gryphon and sending parts of it away for preservation, I make a detour to the showers in the knight’s quarters to clean away the filth.
Alistair’s performance with the gryphon will be accepted as proof that he killed the beasts adorning his trophy room. It shouldn’t bother me. I know the truth.
I killed those beasts. Until Briar came along, I never cared if Alistair took credit for my work. Suddenly, I do, and I don’t like the way it makes me feel. Full of rankled discontent. As if I didn’t have enough of that already.
Cold water streams over my body. A deserved punishment. I’ve sunk lower than ever before in my life, and the worst part is that I don’t even care.
Briar was right about Alistair’s self-destructiveness. But what she said has me thinking I’m the same way.
I don’t like pondering the inner workings of my heart—before we went up that mountain, I’d have sworn I didn’t have one. The fact that I’m willing to consider the possibility that I have self-destructive tendencies is proof that Briar has changed me. The question is whether or not those changes are temporary, or permanent.
Temporary. They have to be. Once she’s out of my life, I’ll be?—
Devastated.
The word slices through my mind, my heart, my soul. I rub my aching forearm absently. The thick, puckered scar tissue protests mightily at the abuse it endured today. Too much strain on a newly-healed wound, even one healed with magic.
Why would a monster come here?
Monsters have hunted humans of Belterre ever since we arrived in this beautiful, deadly land centuries ago. We may have worshiped the fae as gods, but that didn’t stop us from driving them to the farthest reaches. They left behind their beasts and the dregs of magic my mother became addicted to while I was growing in her womb.
The gryphon came for her. Briar Rose.
Who is she, really? A lost Isanthian princess, yes. From all accounts, the Isanthian peninsula is a verdant, wealthy place, but full of magic the likes of which we in Belterre can hardly imagine. I’ve always avoided traveling there due to my hatred of all things magic.
But now I have to ask myself whether I’ve become addicted to the stuff in the form of one beautiful woman.
Briar
The last thing I want to do is sleep, but Alistair drags me to my room and locks me inside. There’s nothing else for me to do.
My frustration and annoyance have morphed into outright dislike of the Prince of Belterre.
While I was at the ball, my room’s windows have been bolted and boarded up against any further monster attacks. I unpin my hair and shove the dress off, dropping it on a chair for my maids to deal with whenever they return.
In my nightdress and wrapper, tucked into my overstuffed bed like the good girl I very much am not, I try and fail to lose myself in one of the books I borrowed from the library, a history of Belterre.
Flipping to the center, I’m startled to discover an illustration of myself. The artist has taken liberties with my appearance. My breasts are absurdly large. Obviously painted by a man.
The accompanying story is short and tells me little about my origins. No new clues to discover about myself. One impatient turn of the page rips a small tear in the paper. Embarrassed by the accidental damage, I contritely settle in to read properly.
Soon, the tome does its job and drops me into a restless sleep. I dream of claws and teeth and fangs, with Killian’s face and his sword hoisted high. But in my dream he isn’t fighting against them.
He’s fighting with them.
Then I’m flying over Belterre, my heart thundering joyously as we swoop over the land. Feathers tickle my cheek.
I awaken with my hands curled into claws. The blanket is halfway to the floor and the book is lying face-down, its pages bent. Guiltily, I restore order to my bedding and set the book aside.
This time, I put my hand between my thighs and take my time revisiting all the delicious things Killian did to me with his wicked, wicked tongue. The way he licked and sucked, reveling in my climax. The pinch of pain when he thrust his fingers inside me.
So close to what I wanted, yet I’m still suspended between an empty ache and satisfaction. Release comes with difficulty, a tepid shadow of the forceful climaxes he coaxed out of my body.
I need more of him.
Damn Alistair for locking me away. Why doesn’t Killian come to see me? What is he doing now? Surely the gryphon’s body has been removed from the ballroom by now…
When my maids arrive in the morning, it feels as though I hardly slept. My eyelids feel like sandpaper as they scrape open. While I’m still half-awake, the women attempt to truss me into another pink gown.
Alistair wants me draped in pink and red. I prefer blue, but roses don’t come in that color and thus I am denied my preference in favor of symbolism.
Today, I’m overtired, worried about Killian, and pining desperately for the dark knight’s touch. I am in no mood to indulge my husband-to-be’s preferences.
“The blue one,” I insist, pointing.
“You already wore that one,” one maid frowns. I suppose I ought to learn their names, but I remember from my first time as a princess in this castle that they’re more like spies than potential sources of friendship.
I should be thankful Killian had the presence of mind not to leave any marks yesterday. These women would have noticed. They would report to Alistair. Killian was wise not to leave evidence of what we’d done on my skin, but that only makes me want to mark him. Score his back with my nails. Leave bite marks on his skin. But he kept me at bay, always under his power.
What will it take to unleash him?
This unquenchable need for his touch only grows more unbearable by the hour.
“I’ll wear it again. I don’t need a new dress every day.”
The maids exchange speaking glances, as if they’re daring one another to remind me that I am a princess now, and royalty do wear a different fancy gown every day. Her clothing is remembered. A mark of status.
“It’s too plain, my lady,” objects the second maid. “This would be a more appropriate selection for today.”
The gown she offers me prompts a full-body shudder.
“It’s pretty!” she insists, holding it to her front. “I would give my right arm for a gown like this.”
“Keep it, then.”
She gasps. “I can’t, Your Highness. That gown was custom-made for you. It wouldn’t fit me even if I did have an excuse to wear it.”
“Yes, it would fit you,” the other one snaps, almost viciously. Her figure is riper than her slimmer companion’s, and this isn’t the first time I’ve heard them taking potshots at one another. I have no patience for their bickering this morning. Birds are singing outside my boarded-up window. I need to get dressed and get out. See the sunshine. Clear my head.
But I’m determined to wear blue.
“A compromise, then.” I stick my arm into the overflowing wardrobe and pull out the bluest dress I can find, a reasonably slim creation of silk that’s closer to white but at least this is a battle I can win. Instead of waiting for their assistance, I pour it over my head and start crawling up to the opening.
“You cannot wear that,” the first maid says in dismay.
“Watch me.”
I yank the black laces comfortably tight. The woman I offered my unwanted dress to assists me wordlessly.
“It suits you,” she concedes. The other huffs and turns up her nose.
I take comfort in this small victory. If I have to fight every single step of the way to claim some degree of independence, then it’s a battle I’m willing to fight.
Once dressed, I find Killian waiting outside my door, his hands crossed at the small of his back, his stance wide. Today he wears ordinary trousers and his dragon scale chest armor, with otherwise plain garb.
The sight of him makes my heart hiccup, a startled double thump. Gray shadows beneath his steely eyes indicate that he slept about as well as I did.
“Where to, Sir Ironheart? What does the day have in store for me?”
“I have been ordered to escort you to the archery range and then to a late breakfast on the lawn with your family.”
“Is that wise?”
“Is what wise?”
“Being outdoors.
His brows pinch together. “No. But Alistair is determined to honor the traditions. There are hundreds of armed guards stationed around the archery range. You’ll find everything you need ready for you if you wish to compete.”
I was a decent shot once upon a time. My brother taught me to use a bow and arrow before my mother declared such activities unladylike.
“Brunch.”
He looks at me askance.
“We used to call it brunch when you had a single meal for late breakfast, early lunch.”
Killian looks blank. I sigh. Apparently, that has gone out of fashion, too. Probably for the best. There is no denying that Belterre has prospered during my century-long slumber. Growing up on the farm, we used to have brunch and dinner during the lean months of winter as a means of conserving food. Two meals a day stretched farther.
If people don’t have to do that any longer, then that’s a good thing. Their bellies are full.
If I don’t marry Prince Alistair, will the country continue to prosper? Or will it fall into decline because I couldn’t resist the allure of a hard-hearted knight?
I don’t like to believe that I’m simply being selfish, wanting to gratify my base urges with the man at my side instead of the prince I’ve been told to desire, but I’m forced to consider the possibility.
Killian adjusts his stride to match mine. The turmoil in my heart dogs my thoughts all the way to the archery range.