35. It Meant Nothing
It Meant Nothing
Faren
Faren watched her go, too stunned to follow.
He lifted a hand to his mouth, his lips tingling.
With Mariana in his arms, his magic had consumed him, rising to the surface of his skin to bask in the lean curves of her body pressed against him, the plushness of her lips, the silken strands of her hair tangled in his fingers, the coiled enthusiasm in her touch.
As he stood there on the grass, the bonfire at his back, watching the shimmery fabric of her dress disappear into the night, he tried and failed to strong-arm his magic into calm.
Never mind his common sense. One taste of her, and Faren could hardly remember what a terrible fucking idea it was to want her.
He was a Mighty Knight. She was a criminal planning a rebellion against his Lord.
His loyalty was being tested. Yet she’d tasted like the sugar-dusted blackberry jellies he’d bought for her.
She’d laughed as he twirled her around the fire. She’d consumed his thoughts for weeks.
He didn’t want to lose this. He didn’t want to lose himself to this. His head hurt from the whiplash of their situation. The worst part was that she wanted him, too. She would’ve never let her guard down tonight if she didn’t. She never would’ve been so pliant in his arms.
The thought had him striding after her, away from the bonfires and through the line of vendor tents.
Clouds were gathering overhead, the stars winking out one by one.
The wind gusted, causing tent flaps to flutter and support beams to groan.
Faren was numb to it, now—numb to anything less than the addictive pleasure of Mariana’s touch.
He was not unaware of his surroundings, though.
As he broke through the congestion around the tents, the wind blustered a second time.
Something creaked and groaned, followed by the sound of ropes snapping.
There was a collective gasp among the revelers, pierced by a chorus of shrieks.
To Faren’s right, a tent was swaying precariously, the crowd scurrying out of the way.
He rerouted toward the chaos, dodging frightened partygoers in hopes that he could get to the collapsing tent in time.
Noble got there first, bracing his hands on the central support beam. It was the largest tent in the parade ground, housing a myriad of food vendors who were now fleeing the scene. Open grills were spitting fire; if the beam and canvas fell, the tonight’s celebration would go up in flame.
Another harsh gust had Faren running. Noble couldn’t possibly hold such a heavy beam on his own, not in this weather—it was only a matter of time before the tent buckled.
But when Faren arrived at Noble’s side, slamming his hands against the rough-hewn beam, he did not feel so much as a tremor in the wood.
It didn’t make sense. From afar, it’d looked as if the entire tent was going down, yet the support was steady in Noble’s grasp.
Noble’s eyes went wide, as if Faren had caught him in a lie. Then he schooled his features into cool authority. “Douse the grills,” Noble said. “Make sure everyone is out. Once it’s safe, we’ll allow a controlled collapse.”
Another raging pulse of wind had Noble bracing his feet, the scars on his knuckles paling as he gripped the beam—yet still, it did not fall. “Go,” he ordered.
Faren got to work, scrambling to ensure everyone was out of the tent.
Idris appeared, and though he was wobbly with drink, he hastened to help Faren put out the fires.
Soon, the space was safe and empty, with the crowd watching the tent from afar, and they were returning to Noble at the central beam.
“Help me lower it,” Noble said, but when Faren and Idris gripped the broken support, Faren barely had to flex to guide it down. It seemed their efforts were more for show, obscuring Noble’s impossible strength as the canvas of the tent draped gently over them.
As the trio made their way out of the collapsed tent, their hands holding the limp canvas over their heads, Noble nudged Faren’s shoulder. “Thank you for your help,” he said. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Seems you could’ve,” Faren replied.
“He couldn’t,” Idris insisted.
“I would appreciate your discretion,” Noble added.
About what? Faren wanted to ask. He hadn’t fully wrapped his head around what he’d seen. Inhuman strength made no sense, except—
—maybe, in Noble’s case, it did.
“A symptom of your Order?” Faren asked.
“A gift from my rescuer,” Noble replied.
They’d reached the end of the canvas, the untethered edge flapping and snapping in the worsening wind. When they emerged from the wreckage, the crowd clapped and shouted. Anya and Hattie broke free of the onlookers, racing into the arms of their beloveds.
“Are you harmed?” Anya asked, touching Idris’s flushed cheeks.
“I’m fine, dearest,” he soothed.
“Why would you attempt heroics in your drunken state?”
“It’s my wedding,” he said, silencing her scolding with a kiss. “I can be a hero if I please.”
Hattie and Noble, meanwhile, were whispering amongst themselves. She was holding his hands in hers, rubbing her thumbs delicately over his scars. “No one saw a thing,” Faren overheard her saying, and when Noble glanced in Faren’s direction, he gave the other man a quick, affirmative nod.
“Where’s Mariana?” Anya asked Faren.
The devastation of their kiss hit him all over again. He stared blankly at the bride, itching to continue his pursuit.
“Probably went back to the Possum,” Hattie told her friend. “She appeared quite overwhelmed earlier.”
“She’s not much for crowds,” Idris pointed out.
“Make sure she’s alright, would you? I heard other objects crashing farther afield,” Anya said.
“You’re concerned about Mariana?” Noble asked.
“It’s my wedding day, I’m drunk and sentimental,” Anya replied tartly, wrapping her arm around Idris’s waist. “The weather is worsening. If we want the party to continue—”
“Are we not packing up early? We could return to the inn and…” Idris dipped his head, whispering something in Anya’s ear.
A coy smile spread on her lips, and she placed a hand on his chest, pushing playfully.
“We can’t abandon our own party,” she chided.
“Besides, don’t you recall the story of the Astrophel the year I turned twenty-five?
If a blizzard won’t stop the citizens of Waldron from celebrating, a little wind and rain will hardly deter them.
” She swept her gaze out at the other tents, which were shuddering in the wind.
“But we’ll need to collapse the rest of the tents before they turn into kites—come.
” She began leading Idris toward the crowd, shouting orders, rallying the flushed and tipsy onlookers into organized action, with Hattie on their heels.
With a final, meaningful glance, Noble turned away, too, leaving Faren behind.
Faren didn’t need more prompting, nor did he have the mind to investigate Noble’s strangeness further—not now.
In the ever-shifting landscape of Faren’s duty, Mariana had become the only reliable ground.
He raced down the hill, past extinguished lanterns and wind-shredded flower garlands; petals, ribbons, and wrappers blew across his path as he hurried back to the Possum.
The inn was dark and quiet when he burst through the door.
An uneven pattering of rain tapped on the roof; the wind carried an ethereal echo of distant music from the revived party, gusting against the closed shutters.
Faren took the stairs two at a time, flying over the floorboards, his pulse a frenzied mess in his chest. When he reached the door to their room, he flung it open, chest heaving.
Mariana was there, pacing. She halted at the sight of his wind-mussed hair, rain-freckled waistcoat, and agitated state.
The candles in the room cast Mariana’s face in a strange patchwork of light and shadow, making her eyes appear particularly dark and unreadable.
She’d draped the shawl he’d bought her on the bed, revealing the elegant neckline of her copper-colored dress.
Faren felt vaguely taunted by the bare points of her shoulders, the deep grooves above her collarbones, the graceful and alluring shape of her.
Fates, she really was exquisite. He felt foolish for what a sap the observation made him, and also foolish for not admitting it to himself sooner.
Throughout his life, he’d built himself up to be steadfast and confident, his golden armor a symbol of his importance and authority—his mightiness.
Mariana made him feel stripped of his pretense, utterly ordinary, and it thrilled him.
He felt more like himself in her presence than anyone else’s.
Just Faren: flawed, earnest, and faithful to a fault.
And Mariana—she was every quality he admired and strived for: brave, fierce, tenderhearted, principled. A true protector of the realm.
Earlier tonight, swept up in the remarkable sum of her beauty, her goodness, and her effect on him, he’d had no choice but to ask her what she intended and hope that she took pity on him.
As he stared at her now, alone in their room at the Possum, he knew that there was no part of Mariana that he did not want.
His fingers began to tingle, yearning to hold her again. He took three stuttering strides forward, crowding her, then remembered his restraint and retreated. He knew how sensitive she was—inside and out—and with his arrival, she appeared wide-eyed and caught.
A terrible thought occurred: what if he’d pushed her too far tonight?
“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I should’ve been more measured, or perhaps stopped it before it started, but—” He broke off, releasing a rough sigh. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”
She ran her palms over her cinched bodice and the jut of her hips, as if to smooth the silken fabric of her dress—and perhaps her nerves, too. Then she stared down at her hands, tangling her fingers together.