Chapter Two
Loreleivnna
I chew the inside of my cheek and curse my past self for getting us tangled in these weeds. Pikr would never call me a pretty petal if he knew to whom he spoke. He’s called me few things other than Princess Loreleivnna in the past, and most were variations of brat.
“Very—ahem,” I clear my throat, remembering to alter my voice at the last second. “Very well. I’d like that.”
Below the curtain of my hood, I see him cast me an odd look. His jaw works, but before he speaks, Iyllo returns.
“One brandy and a tray of cheese curds.” Iyllo notices the discolored spot on the counter. He gives me a tight-lipped smile and snaps the towel from his shoulder to dab at it. “Haven’t you somewhere to be, miss?”
There’s caution in his tone, and he’s completely right. I shouldn’t blooming be here. I nod and start to rise, but Pikr places a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“She’s right where she needs to be, and she’ll have a lunar cider.” Pikr releases me, and I slowly ease back down onto the stool. He flicks his wrist at Iyllo. “Gratitude.”
“Yes, Vir Pikquarrys. I’ll open a new barrel.” Iyllo gives a terse bow and turns on his heels, sending me a wide-eyed look.
Fuck, fuck, I am so fucking plucked.
“So, ah,” I stutter. “Vir Pikquarrys. Are you excited for the Lunaplume Ball?”
I clench my fist, cursing my instinct to babble when caught in an awkward situation. All of Pikr’s attention is on me, and I can’t help the furtive glances I cast him from under my hood. I must look so silly, hunched over a horn, trying to make small talk with a hero of the realm.
Pikr grunts, shifting away from me. “That’s for the youth.”
Wow. Apparently I lost all my petals the moment he walked in. Of course he’s not excited for a frilly harvest festival that forces him away from his beloved forge. It’s all I can do not to groan at my own foolishness. At least he’s not staring at me anymore.
“It’s not all for the youth.” Shut up, shut up, shut up, stupid blooming mouth! “Pretty sure even the Fallen Stars would luxuriate in a casual frolic. The moondust ensures it’s enjoyable, doesn’t it?”
A cheese curd pauses on its route to his mouth, which I catch myself staring at too late. His alluring mismatched gaze briefly meets mine, glinting with devilment.
“You fancy a casual frolic?” He quirks a brow, and I quickly avert my gaze, landing on his solid bicep. It’s easily the size of my waist and doesn’t cool the heat pulsing through my veins. “You do realize what happens in those trunks at night?”
My cheeks burn. I swivel my gaze down the bar, searching for Iyllo.
Pikr chuckles, the sound similar to a nicker. “No need to be skittish, Petal. I’m too old to frolic.”
“Must be older than the ancient Fallen Stars, then,” I mutter.
His laughter grows. Heat boils low in my belly, simmering outward. My lips tug upward. I want to say something else to make him laugh, but Iyllo shows up with my lunar cider and places the horn in the stand in front of me.
“Drink up!” he says through gritted teeth. “Up, up, up!”
Grateful for the reminder, I nod and lift the horn to my lips, gulping down half its contents.
I must flee this place before Pikr discovers my true identity and hauls me to the palace for punishment.
It’s not like Father would spank my bottom anymore.
I’m a full-grown adult. Still, the image of Pikr standing nearby, my sore bottom bare and stinging as Father’s laughter echoes through the throne room, is enough to make me wilt.
Although I wouldn’t be opposed to a spanking from Pikr, so long as Father is far, far away.
“She’s plenty fine without your heckling,” Pikr scolds Iyllo, his voice low and foreboding.
“I assured the lass that the staff here is moderately competent, despite the establishment’s reputation.
Prove me wrong, and you’ll spend the last two weeks of the festival with your arm up your ass, searching for the enchantment I’ve planted in you. ”
Iyllo blushes and mumbles an apology before scurrying away, leaving me alone with my jaw on the counter, lost somewhere between mortified and aroused.
Pikr puts a hand on my wrist and guides my horn to the stand.
“My apologies, Petal. I don’t remember the staff here being so pushy.
The seven days of reflection just blooming finished!
Don’t rush yourself–that’s how you wind up sleeping in the stables for the whole week of harvest. You’ll never make it to the ball like that. ”
“Right, ha.” I stare at the way his grip shrinks my wrist into naught but a twig. “Then we’d never get to share that moonlit frolic.”
This time, the laughter that pours from his gorgeous, rugged mouth is part whinny, accompanied by the stomp of a hoof. I grin and turn toward him like a blooming flower, basking in the light of his joy.
“The thought of a stunning elven petal like you frolicking with a centaur who you just compared to the Fallen Stars is almost enough to make me consider staying for the week of celebration,” he chortles. “You know they’re said to be the most ancient beings of land and sky?”
I roll my eyes and sip my cider. “You can’t assign age to beings who are eternal.”
“They’re relics from the beginning of creation.”
“You truly believe they used to walk the earth?” I challenge. Pikr lifts his shoulder in an exaggerated shrug. “Trees grew from their ejaculate. Does your semen make plants? Or foals?”
His laughter charges forth like a sudden squall, filling the room with the revitalizing afterglow of a thunderstorm.
I giggle, and his laughter fizzles out. The look he gives me dries up any humor. “You sure we’ve not met before?”
My heart slams against its cage, and I cover my face with my drink, taking a long sip as I face forward.
I’m caught. He saw me. He knows. He definitely, definitely knows.
“And, anyway, about your age.” My mouth starts yapping, hoping to distract him, hoping that he’ll at least play along. “I was being sarcastic. It’s nothing a little moondust oil couldn’t fix.”
Pikr chuffs. He slowly lifts his horn, peering into it for a moment.
My leg starts to bounce. I glance over my shoulder. The path to the exit is clear, but I can’t just up and run away now, in case he hasn’t realized who I am yet. That would certainly cause suspicion.
“Moondust oil,” Pikr muses. He takes a sip.
Warnings blare in my mind like feybells in a blizzard, but I ignore them. “Yes, moondust oil. Ever heard of it?”
He snorts. “You think I require moondust oil to please a lover? Centaurs are built differently than elves.”
“I’m fully aware that centaurs are half-horse, half-barbarian,” I tease, hope filling my chest. Perhaps I’ve talked my way out of the weeds. “Even the old ones.”
“Ah, if I’m so old, a frolic is out of the question.” He wags a cheese curd in my direction. “I should bury myself in the Spiritgrove instead, and you can find a nice, ripe creature to fornicate with over my soil.”
“Oh, plucked rose! You’re younger than your fopweed of a comrade, the king,” I babble to ignore the way hearing him say fornicate makes my heated folds feel slick. “Even with a centaur’s lifespan, you’re a ripe age to plant roots.”
“Such bold speech.” A heavy hush overtakes his demeanor.
Whoops. Not many would casually call Father unflattering names. “I jest,” I say quickly. “My, erm, employ grants me some time with the royal family. They’re quite proper. Makes sense he’s particular about his appearance.”
“Hmm.” Pikr’s hand drops a fraction, still clutching the cheese curd. “Why does a servant lass your age know so much about my age and relation to the king, anyway?”
“It’s a small kingdom,” I retort with what I hope is a careless shrug.
“Not that small,” Pikr argues. He reaches for my hood, and I flinch back, but my legs refuse to move from the stool.
I am so fucking plucked.
“You’re a hero of the realm!” I squawk, hoping flattery will distract him. “Plenty of people know the story of the friendship between the king and the great Vir Pikquarrys.”
Iyllo materializes, his timing impeccable. “Miss, I really think your absence will be noticed by now.”
“Yes!” I shout before Pikr can scold Iyllo again. “I have, erm, things to do.” With my head bowed, I turn toward Pikr and give a sloppy curtsy as I fumble off of the stool. “Thanks for the drink.”
“I must be off, too,” he says as he backs away from the bar, his powerful hind muscles flexing in a way that makes my throat go dry. “I’ll walk you out. As the Vir Pikquarrys, I get to spend the day with my dear friend and his brat of a daughter.”
Anger overtakes the carnal heat that’d burrowed into my core. I glare at his back hooves and brush my hands on my worker’s apron.
“Nope, I can walk myself.” I snap my heels and march toward the door.
“Wait, lass, you shouldn’t walk this part of town alone—” he calls after me.
I wave a hand in the air without turning back. “I’m rosy. May the sun favor you, Mister.”
Outside of the tavern, tears sting my eyes. I yank the hood tighter, holding it to either side of my face.
For a moment there, I’d thought maybe he truly had recognized me and chose to keep flirting. I’m a fool. I’ll never be more than his best friend’s brat.
A vineball whizzes past, rippling my skirts. I instinctively release my hood to hold down my skirt.
“Heads up!” someone calls. A little too late. “Oh, Lori, what are you doing out here?”
Shit. I squeeze my eyes shut and bury any evidence of my tumultuous emotions before turning to smile at Dhek Starcrag, a kind satyrus who I went to school with.
He’s from a noble family known to be nurtured by the Fallen Ones with impressive affinities for fruticulture, producing much of Svitaeryl’s fruit on their farms and orchards.
“I could ask you the same,” I chirp. “Or I could tell Chef Starcrag that you’re playing vineball with Dimword miscreants.”
His wide lips curve upward in a sly smile, and I notice how cute his triangular button nose looks all scrunched up with mischief.
“You could,” he agrees, shifting on his hooves as he tosses the vineball in the air. “But it wouldn’t be as interesting as the youngest princess sneaking out to the seediest tavern in Svitaeryl.”
“Oh, pluck you!” I whinge. Grabbing my skirts, I hustle down the pathway.
Dhek’s laughter chimes in the air behind me. “Roots guide your step, Loreleivnna!”