7. Hungry
Hungry
Faren
In his sleep-addled mind, the first thing Faren noticed was the deliciousness of her weight: the pressure on his chest, the firmness of her strong thighs around his torso, the heat of her body through the thin blanket.
The scent of rosemary and the compelling musk of her skin filled his nose.
It’d been a long time since a woman sat astride him, and the sensation stirred up a craving he hadn’t felt in months, a hunger he’d been ignoring.
Even when he opened his eyes, there was a split second—before the recognition—where he saw the wild dark tangle of her hair and the guarded cunning in her expression, and he felt momentarily… ravenous.
Then she opened her mouth.
“Buttercup?” he asked.
She sat forward slightly, putting firmer pressure on his sternum. Her shins dug into his forearms, and though he was strong enough to throw her off him, the blade she had against his neck didn’t bode well for sudden movements.
“Golden and fragile, like all Mighty Knights,” she clarified sweetly.
“And here I thought you were calling me a pretty flower.”
Her smile was wicked. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I know I’m pretty,” Faren said. “But I think it’s best to get this rejection out of the way now: when you inevitably fall in love with me on the road, don’t bother mentioning it out loud.”
Mariana shifted, her knees digging harder into his arms; his fingers were beginning to tingle from a lack of circulation. “You seem to think highly of yourself,”
“You seem to enjoy sitting on me.”
Her blade skimmed his jugular. “Threatening you,” she corrected tightly.
He let out a quick, silent laugh, his breath gusting over her wrist. Goosebumps prickled along her skin, unmistakable, even in the dim morning light. Was she a touch magician like him? This wasn’t the time to wonder.
“Consider me threatened,” he drawled.
The faintest headache was prodding his temples, and it reminded him of the night before.
His opinion of Mariana had once been drawn in charcoal, but Shae’s warning had added new shading and color, like one of his sister Kate’s watercolor paintings.
The picture he saw now…it was not frightening, exactly.
Just more complicated. The new details didn’t clarify his opinion of her—they muddled it.
And—fine—maybe she was a bit frightening, considering that she had a dagger against his neck. For fun, it seemed. His throat worked, causing the sharp edge to scrape against the stubble under his chin. One false move on either of their parts, and it would cut.
He felt as if a wildcat were sitting on his chest. She was feral, unpredictable, and it occurred to him that she might not be kidding.
How many monsters had she killed? How many men?
He couldn’t imagine her ending him in cold blood—as Oderin had pointed out, her Oath would at least discourage it—but that was the thing about Mariana.
He didn’t know what she valued. Faren was secure in the way he saw the world, but Mariana was a blind spot. Her power was her volatility.
His heart rate kicked up, thudding in his jugular. His calming inhale wavered a little, and he hoped she didn’t notice. In service of his Order and his pride, Faren was determined not to let her get under his skin.
Besides, he reminded himself, her tactics weren’t novel.
His sisters had wielded chaos against him for the entirety of his upbringing.
He knew how to end this standoff—and it wasn’t with the bridge-and-roll wrestling maneuver he practiced every week in training.
It was with a move he’d learned much earlier, from being a brother.
Faren licked the inside of Mariana’s wrist, right along the edge of her vambrace. She let out a surprised, rather girlish squeal, and shoved off from him.
Faren sat up. Without her weight on his chest, his laugh was hearty and full.
Clear on the other side of his room, Mariana was wiping her arm on her trousers with a look of abject disgust. Faren noted Warner’s empty mattress behind her—thank the Fates his bunkmate had found another person’s bed to sleep in last night; he would’ve never lived this down—then returned his attention to Mariana.
“Will you be waking me like that every morning on this mission?” Faren asked.
Mariana scowled as if he’d just dumped a bucket of cold water on her head.
He smirked and went over to the neatly folded clothes resting atop his already packed bag.
With his back to Mariana—demonstrating how unthreatened he felt in her presence—he pulled on a loose shirt.
It took all of three minutes to fasten his armor into place and strap his twin shortswords to his back.
When he faced her again, she was leaning against the desk with her arms crossed over her breastplate. A crease had formed between her eyebrows, as if she were annoyed by his nonchalance. Good.
Faren shouldered his pack and gestured toward the door, which was already ajar from her break-in. (How had she even gotten in here?) “Shall we?”
Mariana pushed off the desk and strode toward him, clipping his arm with her shoulder as she walked past. He smelled her again—herbaceous and earthy—and he tried not to like it too much as he followed her into the hall.
A few Mighty Knights eyed her warily as she sauntered down the corridor, but when they spotted Faren—following unperturbed—they nodded at him without comment.
Outside the barracks, a gelding—dark gray, almost black—stood with one hind leg cocked in rest, his reins looped loosely around a hitching post. When Mariana neared, the horse perked up, nostrils fluttering with a low nicker of greeting.
Mariana procured a small oat biscuit from her pocket and fed it to the beast, patting his neck.
Maiden Morta Killer, Lee had called her. Notorious thief, Shae had said. Kind to animals, Faren thought. He had to hand it to Mariana—she had range.
When she turned back to Faren, her brow furrowed. “What?”
He smoothed his features into a bored expression. “If I ask you to wait here while I retrieve my horse, will you be gone when I return?”
Mariana shrugged and swung up into the saddle. “You’ll find out, won’t you?”
“Deviant,” Faren muttered, heading for the stables.
“Prick,” Mariana called after him.
To his surprise, she was still in the courtyard when he returned atop his mount.
She took one look at his horse and burst out laughing, so loud and harsh that a pair of Mighty Knights at the other end of the green halted to stare in their direction.
“Could you have a more stereotypical steed?” she asked, practically wheezing. “You look like a fucking storybook character.”
Faren looked down at his dapple-gray warhorse, fitted with golden barding. “You mean I look like a knight in shining armor?”
“What’s his name?” Mariana went on, mocking. “Storm? Thunderbolt? Maximus?”
“Close. It’s Buttercup,” Faren said, patting his gelding’s neck.
“Wait, really?”
“No,” Faren said as they angled their horses toward the gates. “His name is Sunny.”
A snort.
“Seriously.”
“But he’s gray.”
Faren shrugged. “My sister Beatrice named him.”
“How old was she when she named him?”
“Twenty-eight.”
Mariana stifled another laugh, her cheeks tight with amusement, eyes squinting—unguarded, for the briefest of moments. “I’m surprised you didn’t insist on a more pretentious name.”
“Do you want me to be clichéd or not?”
“Apologies, I’m just not accustomed to golden brutes possessing any depth.”
Faren scoffed, but the comment stung. Did she really resent his Order that much? She’s a criminal, he reminded himself. Of course, she resents your Order. Your Order represents lawfulness and honor—of which she has neither.
“What’s your horse’s name?” he asked. “Midnight? Shadow?”
“Simon,” Mariana replied. “Came with the name and I felt weird about changing it.”
“You have feelings?”
Her jaw pulsed. “On rare occasion.”
Their horses’ hooves clattered as they transferred from the manicured grass of the bailey to the cobblestones outside the castle gates.
In the pallid light of morning, Faren could see the dark circles under Mariana’s eyes, the thin scar that bisected her full upper lip.
Given the peril and hardship she’d endured, it was a wonder she had a sense of humor at all—but, then again, perhaps that’s how she’d survived the trials of her life.
That, and being a fucking menace.
He tightened his fists around the reins and tore his gaze from her profile, facing ahead.
Going into this mission, he’d had a clear opinion of Mariana: uncooperative criminal.
But the more he learned, the more conflicted he felt.
Getting to know her was pertinent to his mission…
but it also seemed dangerous, somehow, like walking across a frozen lake and not knowing the thickness of the ice.
You have a strong moral compass, Faren, Oderin had said. I chose you…because I want you to use it on this mission. The only way to navigate this slick footing would be to hold true to his honor.
Beyond the walls of Castle Might, they rode in tandem through Fenrir City’s winding streets.
The capital had been built into the side of Mount Shield in a series of plateaus, the city a maze of switchbacks.
All around them, neighborhoods were waking up: shopkeepers opening their shutters, folks queueing outside bakeries and butchers, merchants unloading crates in alleys, wagons and carriages congesting the roadways.
As they wove their way down the mountain, people pointed at Faren’s armor, called out with good cheer, and bowed their heads in respect.
He’d never gotten used to the renown of his Order, but he wore it with pride, waving back to each and every citizen, reaching down to shake the hands extended to him.
When a woman gripped his leg, he hid how his touch magic winced, and reined his horse to a halt to accept her favor.
Mariana kept on, glancing over her shoulder with a look of confusion and disdain, as if the respect were an inconvenience.