Chapter 25 – Ayer
AYER
Istalk through camp with a scowl on my face, glaring at the younger soldiers, all of whom are craning their necks for a glimpse at the Sitari princess.
I knew there was an interest in our faerie prisoner, but this is ridiculous.
“Don’t you have duties to attend to?” I bark at the nearest group. Stones, you’d think they’d never seen a faerie before.
Then again… most of them probably haven’t.
The kingdoms are largely kept separate. It’s rare for humans from Kovaria, even soldiers, to cross paths with fae unless they’re stationed along one of the border villages—or unlucky enough to be caught up in one of their raids. And even then, the fae never seem to push past Calter Pass.
A shout breaks through the camp behind me.
And unlike the ones I’ve heard hurled at the princess over the last few minutes, this one is a shout of alarm.
A second shout gets my full attention, just in time to watch the princess bring down Lieutenant Serik like he’s just a baby recruit, fresh off the turkey farm.
“Twelve moons,” I mutter under my breath, already moving. What did I say about keeping fae prisoners alive?
A crowd is already forming a thick circle around the pair, soldiers circling around my new pet and the lieutenant like vultures, waiting to see what she’ll do next.
I shove through them, drawing out my own knife when I see the flash of steel in her hands. Where in the hells did she get that from? I track the blade’s movement as she holds it at Serik’s throat, just like she’d done to me last night.
I have to kill her. Right here. Right now.
It’s an important lesson for the men. Fae will always act like fae. No matter how dainty they might look.
And all fae are monsters. Not an ounce of compassion in the lot of them.
I’m almost within reaching distance when I hear it: her voice, low and deliberate, just loud enough to where she thinks only Serik will hear.
“Don’t. Touch. Me.”
It’s a warning; quiet, controlled, and utterly deadly.
I hesitate for a second, my eyes narrowing as I look between the two of them again.
The princess is already lowering the knife when I reach in, hooking an arm around her middle and hauling her off of Serik with ease.
She doesn’t bother fighting me, though I feel the way her body goes rigid at my touch.
I release her as soon as she’s clear of Serik, glaring at her before turning my attention to the sputtering lieutenant still on the ground, tearing the rope from his neck. His face is a bright shade of red, either anger or embarrassment flaming his cheeks.
The princess scowls up at me when I snatch the knife clean out of her hands. Noting that they remain bound, I realize she didn’t even bother trying to cut herself free. Her green eyes are ablaze, defiance dancing in them.
“Swords scorn, Theo,” I mutter, resenting the prince and his godsdamn idiotic plan to keep her breathing.
“I thought you weren’t going to be any trouble?” I growl through my teeth at the defiant little menace, holding her wrists up and taking care to check the ropes binding them thoroughly, tightening them despite her hissed protests.
This is on me.
Already, I underestimated her. What did I say to my men? Just this morning. Princess or not, even I seemed to forget fae are fae. And she’d just gone and proven just how dangerous even a vapid, delicate, little princess can be.
I release her hands.
“I don’t recall making any promises,” she sneers, looking far too pleased with herself.
I can’t mistake the challenge gleaming in her eyes.
We’re going to have to be careful—so bloody careful—in the Wyldewood with this one in tow.
It’s not too late to drug her and throw her body on the back of my horse like luggage.
My fingers tighten around the hilt of the knife I just took from her, resisting the overwhelming urge to bring it to her throat. Instead, I turn my back on the princess, fixing my attention on my lieutenant.
The seasoned soldier remains on the ground, carrying on with his dark promises—everything he wishes to do to the little faerie—at my back.
I take a step forward, clamping down hard on my temper, but that doesn’t stop me from releasing the knife. It twists through the air like a loosed arrow, burying itself in the dirt right between Serik’s legs—inches from his goods. The lieutenant’s face drains of color.
“Oi! Ayer! What gives?” Serik shouts while tugging at the hilt of his blade, attempting to wrench his knife free from the dirt.
“I thought,” I drawl, closing the distance between us, my eyes flickering briefly to the enraptured crowd of onlookers who all have the good sense to stay quiet—smart, “you might want your knife back.” There’s a dark edge to my voice, and the man pales even further.
I stalk closer until I’m crouching down beside him. Taking my time, I wrap my fingers around the hilt of the blade, easily yanking it free from the earth. His eyes track the blade in my hand, wariness in his gaze. He swallows hard when my eyes find his, but wisely, his mouth snaps shut.
Good. He’s learning.
I stare down at the blade in my hand before flipping it. Trying not to enjoy the way Serik flinches at the movement.
I’m well aware of the darkness he sees gleaming in my eyes when I hold it out to him, gripping it by its blade.
Serik hesitates, eyeing me nervously—as if suspecting a trap. Slowly, he reaches out and retrieves his knife without another word.
I rise back up to my feet, while he lets out a ragged breath of relief.
“Oh, and Serik?”
He chokes out, “Yes, sir?”
“She’s not yours to touch.” I cock my head to the side, my eyes narrowing.
Serik’s eyes go wide, flicking once between myself and the princess, then he gives a desperate nod of agreement before dropping his gaze from mine.
“Excellent.”
Turning on my heel, I glare sharply at a sheepish-looking Wyatt as I pass him, taking the princess’ rope with me as I go.
I won’t make the mistake of handing her off again.
Keeping a tight grip on the rope, it grows taut when I find its end.
I give it a strong jerk, nearly taking the princess off her feet as I drag her after me.
“You better watch your back, Ayer, bedding that serpent,” a voice snickers from the crowd.
More than a few shouts of agreement ripple through our little audience.
Despite myself, I let the corners of my mouth tick up in a conspiratorial smile.
“She’ll learn her place.” I stop short, turning back to face the princess, who nearly stumbles in an effort not to collide into me.
I let my gaze drag over her slowly—deliberately.
Allowing it to linger on the tears in her skirts, on the exposed skin underneath.
She notices, of course she does. Her bound hands rush to cover her thigh, gathering the fabric together; her eyes wide, sensing the danger in my gaze.
I look back toward the others. “Won’t be long before I have the Princess of Sitara where she belongs.” My lips curve slightly. “On her knees.”
Her reaction is immediate. Wariness turns to flame-fueled rage as she glowers up at me.
I give her a little wink. And to add insult to injury, I give the rope another sharp tug, turning forward again as laughter breaks out all around us. A few men clap me on the back as I pass.
The taste in my mouth is bitter. But she’ll think twice before she crosses me again.
“To the fall of the fae!” someone shouts.
The camp erupts again with the chant. I don’t look back as I drag the princess with me toward the edge of camp. I can feel her burning gaze of fury at my back—hot and unrelenting.
When we reach the horses, I run a quick check of the gear and tighten the cinch on my saddle. Dash tosses his head, eager to set off. His dark mane falls into his eyes and he snorts, his eyes curious when he notices the little fae behind me for the first time.
Wanting to be away from this camp as soon as possible, I take the rope and secure it to the saddle before mounting.
“Don’t fall behind.” That’s the only warning I give before nudging Dash forward.
My men fall into formation around us, and together, we move out, one by one disappearing into the darkness of the forest. The raucous sound of the camp at our backs fades away behind us.
Nevertheless, I can’t shake the thought: bringing the Sitari princess with us is a mistake.
Because the little rose… has thorns.