Chapter Twenty-Two
Loreleivnna
Pikr lies as unmoving as a corpse on the ground.
Something isn’t plucking right.
I fight against the nagging rope that cinches around my heart like a vice as it tries to pull my attention from Pikr’s mangled body, but I fail.
My gaze lands on Halor as he saunters back to his starting line.
His head is down, features obscured by hair and mane, but I see it: vapory wisps spilling from all-white eyes, like bits of sky leaking from the sockets.
“Magic!” I breathe. “Halor’s using magic!”
Father and his councilors are close enough to hear me. Their heads swivel.
“Halt!” Father shouts, his gleeful tone opposing the disappointed murmurs of his councilors. “The challenge is forfeit!”
I shove my way free of the crowd and sprint toward the track. My heart squeezes as I fight against invisible fraying rope, my attention solely on the unmoving centaur.
“Pikr.” I drop to my knees and clasp his face in my hands.
His eyes flutter, and I let out a choked sob, smiling through the pain.
“He lives!” I shout over my shoulder. Then, burying my head in his neck, I try to convince myself. “You live.”
“Princess Loreleivnna.”
Pikr winces, and I pull away. “Sorry, sorry!”
“Mine,” he whispers, his eyelids fluttering closed. His right hand twitches, grasping my wrist in a weak hold. “Mine.”
Cinnamon mum petals slick as moonsilk slip through my fingers. I pick another from my basket and weave it into the crown alongside white stonecrop, vibrant orange marigolds, and gray hollowoak acorns, pausing every few moments to glance at Pikr.
After the joust, Father had Pikr carted to his cottage and commanded our best healers to tend to the injured hero.
They propped his upper half on a reclining cushion board set to a fifty-degree angle and gave him intravenous tonics with fluids straight from the Soul Springs and coated his wounds with luna hazel salve.
He’s been sleeping ever since. I’m ever indebted to the Wise Ones, for it’s thanks to their many blessings that Pikr was able to receive such care.
Without lunaplumes, we wouldn’t have anything of value to trade in exchange for undiluted Soul Spring water, and Pikr’s wounds were far too severe for our little river.
My thoughts spiral. I take a deep breath, inhaling the earthen scent of Pikr’s stable-suite to calm me.
Other than to gather supplies, I remained at his side all of yesterday and today, as is my wifely duty.
It’s my own naivety to blame for this whole situation.
If only I’d listened, if only I’d never run off, his body would not be so broken and frail.
Halor is being held captive in his guest suite. The council wishes to interrogate him without his enchantments, so they wait for Pikr to wake. I won’t feel safe inside the palace until that’s through.
Satisfied with the flower crown, I carefully sift through my basket for a unique adornment.
The only thought that comforts me is that Father now has no choice but to accept whatever happens between Pikr and me.
He endorsed the challenge, after all. I must remain hopeful that Pikr will come to see me as more than a prize.
A groan distracts me, and I set my work aside, jumping to my feet to crank the recliner to seventy-eight degrees, then prepare a horn of water.
“Stay still,” I warn, circling the lounge and cushions to the bench. I place my hand on his shoulder and lift the horn to his lips. “Drink.”
Pikr’s eyes flutter, giving me glimpses of his bloodshot white iris. He bats the horn away.
“Drink, Pikr. Please,” I beg.
“Loreleivnna.”
He takes gentle care of every consonant, and blood rushes to all the hidden parts of me.
“I’m here,” I tell him. “Drink first.”
I try to stay firm, but his large hand closes over my wrist.
“Loreleivnna.” My heart stutters. Each time he says my name without my title, it’s like the first time I’ve ever heard the collection of sounds. “My mate.”
Mate. A shiver courses through me. Hearing it from his hoarse voice makes it feel real. My eyes fall to where his hand shrinks my wrist. Images of erotic illustrations in my favorite naughty stories flash through my mind.
I swallow and meet his glazed gaze, his black iris deep and endless, inviting me to fly down and make a nest within his soul.
For as long as I’ve been aware of what mates do together, I’ve desired to share those experiences with Pikr. That knowledge has fed my imagination many nights, perusing books, picturing Pikr doing those things with me.
But he never saw me that way until I tricked him in the tavern, and now he’s stuck in a marriage he never wanted. All because I fell for a wicked enchantment.
“Yes,” I breathe. “You won the joust. I’m yours.”
“Mmm,” he groans, his eyes drifting closed.
The raw power lurking under his rumbled groan makes me shift on my feet. I lick my lips, glancing involuntarily to the blanket draped over his equine hips.
“Drink this.” I nudge his lips again. “Please.”
Pikr’s eyes peel open the slightest amount. He wraps his lips over the rim and takes three long gulps, which I watch flow down his throat.
“Loreleivnna.”
Ancients bless me, if he keeps saying my name with that throaty rasp, I’ll be plastered to the bench with my own slick.
“Yes, Pikr?”
“My workshop, a gift.” Beads of sweat appear on his brow. “Top drawer.”
“For me?”
He nods briskly. I lift the horn to his mouth again, supporting his neck with my hand as he drinks.
“Be a good girl and fetch it.” The words come out in a rush, ending with a sigh.
I nod and hurry to obey, not wishing to cause him any further stress. I rush through the swinging doors of his stable-suite, across the living area, into the compact workroom.
I’m greeted by the woody scent of fire and linseed wax, and the smell comforts me.
The workroom consists of a hearth, a firepot the size of a large boiling pot, a stump and anvil, and other tools I don’t know the names of.
In the center is a long worktable. Inside the top drawer, I find a polished willowisp box the size of my forearm from elbow to longest finger.
It’s lightweight, and so lovely, it must be what he’s referring to.
A groan sounds from the other room. I grab the box and rush back to Pikr’s side.
“This?” I hold it up. Something shifts inside.
He grunts, eyes fluttering with the strain to stay open.
“What is it?” I start to open the box, but Pikr reaches out, then clutches his head. I freeze. “Don’t exert yourself! The healers said—”
“Use it,” he says, his words already fading. “Decide if you truly want what you think you want.”
“Okay.” I have no idea what I’m agreeing to, but I set the box down and rush to give him another sip of water. “I will.”
I sit back down on the bench and resume working on my flower crowns. I select a half-broken tuskrabbit tusk to attach to the front of this one, glancing at Pikr now and then until I’m sure he’s asleep.
Once his soft snores fill the space, I lift the box and rest it on my lap. My lip slips under my teeth as I realize he had to have made this before the joust.
The smooth wooden lid slides off, revealing a metal item in the middle of cream moonsilk padding. The item itself is no bigger than my middle finger, and twice as wide. It looks dainty and unassuming inside the oversized package.
I scrunch my nose, casting an incredulous glance at the sleeping centaur. He’s so pretty, so unassumingly gentle, propped upright as if his stunning two-tone eyes will open at any moment.
“Decide if you truly want what you think you want.”
I lift the small, cylindrical object. What does he think I want?
My mind replays all of our recent encounters as I run fingers along the smooth metal. There’s a raised lip at the three-quarters mark. One end is flat with a slight flare, and a slit in the very center.
Oh.
Oh.
My cheeks heat, my thighs simultaneously growing damp as the purpose of the object becomes clear.
It’s the spitting image of the drawings in my dirty novels, but adorably miniaturized.
I drop it back into the moonsilk-lined box and cover my face with my hands, unable to stifle a giggle.
Pikr is a master at spellcarving. If the size of the box is any indication, the trinket won’t stay miniature forever.
Dragging my fingers through my hair, I send a sly smirk toward the centaur who fought for my hand, protecting me even when I forbade him to.
“Barbarian,” I mutter.