CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I’d seen Jaron on the field from where I stood on the pavilion—seen his hair, his eyes, his black armor.
The way he moved his body as he rode his stag through the crowds, claiming favors and ribbons.
But this was the first time since that night I was seeing him up close.
That he was near enough for me to see the shine of the curls peeking through his black helmet, to see the individual hairs of his eyebrows, or parse out the stubble on his chin.
And the rough scar that marred his bottom lip, that discolored the skin just below. The scar I gave him. The constant reminder of what he was. A liar. A monster.
A rapist.
And yet, he was grinning widely, easily, his body relaxed, his air of privilege and wealth untouched.
This was the same man who strolled into my tavern and made me think he was a prince.
The same man who, when he realized I was going to fight back, waited until dark and returned like a fucking coward to attack the girl he knew would not.
Aside from the Goddamned scar on his mouth, aside from what I now knew, there was almost no difference between those men—even two years later.
And that infuriated me far more than anything else in the last few days, and I had a lot to be fucking infuriated over.
My hands curled into fists in my lap as he brought his stag even closer, its bright eyes searching over the edge of the stage, nostrils flared, and winged feathers rippling in the wind.
I had to look at the stag, because I didn’t want to look at Jaron. I didn’t want to see him or hear the false charm in his words.
But he was upon me, and I wasn’t Samara—or even Alyra, the girl he knew. I was Princess Olivay, barely swallowing back the bile in my throat, as I smiled at him.
“Your Highness, Princess Olivay.” Jaron grinned in return. “I was just on my way to see you.”
“Is that so?” I asked.
“But of course. I came to beg you for your favor before the presentation.” He winked, all of the old charm snaking through his voice. His tongue poked out, wetting his lips, and it slid down the length of his scar.
“My favor?” I asked, barely hiding my disdain.
“Yes, yours, Your Highness. I dearly wish to have your favor.” He shrugged.
“What more could a man want before a brutal joust than the luck and well wishes of the most beautiful woman in the realm,” he said, his voice as boastful as I remembered.
His charm, his flirtation, the way he made you feel like the only person in the world when he spoke to you.
It was sending me back to when I was Alyra, to when I was a fool. A shiver ran down my spine. My wrist burned.
“To our Lady of Beauty.” He edged his moonstag even closer, his voice low and full of honey. “Though truth be told between you and I,” he winked, “I wish things might have been different between us, that I was the one betrothed to you.”
I stood up then, not liking that I sat on the floor for this, or at the king’s feet. If I was going to face the bastard, I needed to be standing, needed to be on even ground, even without the king’s permission.
I walked to the very edge of the stage and stared down. “My Lord,” I said, confused. “I am to be your cousin.”
“And?” He shrugged again. “Can I not share my dreams with you? Can cousins not be close?”
“I fear you are too bold in sharing your dreams with me,” I said, stepping back again, anger now touching my voice.
His stag’s eyes lit up, his head turning to track my movements. Suddenly he was pushing himself against the stage, his nostrils widening, sniffing me.
Recognizing my scent–the one thing I couldn’t change, couldn’t alter, no matter how many times I changed my skin or clothes.
Jaron was even closer than before, his eyes running up and down my body with propriety, as if he owned me.
As if I weren’t betrothed to his cousin. To the crown prince himself.
But Barron was still acting strangely, and it was becoming more obvious to anyone who saw.
“I think he likes you,” he said. “Strange, Barron hardly ever likes anyone.” His eyes narrowed to slits.
“The last woman he liked …” He frowned suddenly, his own nostrils flaring before he shook his head, his gaze distant.
When his eyes had refocused, his jaw tensed, and he looked me up and down, his expression full of suspicion.
“I am quite fond of animals,” I said, “and they are fond of me.”
“I think he’s more than fond of you, Your Highness.” Jaron cocked his head to the side. “I think he wants something from you. Like I do.”
“I thought you came for my favor,” I gritted my teeth.
“I did.”
“Calm down that damn beast,” the king growled. Barron was trying to push his head against the floor of the pavilion, his ears pushed forward, like he wanted me to touch him. Pet him.
I’d seen him do that before.
“Well?” Jaron’s eyes narrowed from below his helm, his visor pulled back. “Why don’t you pet him? Give Barron what he wants.”
My blood was boiling, my pulse racing, but I bent forward, stroking the moonstag’s head, just between his antlers. He calmed beneath my touch. Too quickly. Without warning, Jaron’s hand sought mine out, and his fingers squeezed.
“My Lord,” I said in warning. My stomach turned, my chest tightening with pain. A sudden connection formed between us. Powerful, strong.
A memory.
I’d just come off the stage from my dance set. My hair was red, my name was Alyra, and Jaron had been front and center of my show, not taking his gaze off me once. Already his eyes were hooded, his lust eking toward me, feeding the Azete.
“Have your eyes yet had their fill of me?” I’d asked, pulling my sweaty hair from my shoulders.
He chuckled. “My lady, how can any man ever have their fill of you?”
“You don’t even know me,” I retorted, already surmising his station, wondering if he was indeed who I was beginning to suspect he was.
I’d seen the crown prince before—only once.
When I was a girl, King Tirian came to visit my mother for negotiations.
The prince had stayed in my tower with his companions, and I’d snuck down to their room just long enough to catch a glimpse.
He’d been sparring, and he saw me. For one second—his green eyes had held mine.
And I’d always remembered. Until King Tirian’s men helped kill my mother.
Then I’d banished those eyes from my memory.
And I wondered if perhaps he was not like his father at all.
“Well, I cannot deny the truth,” Jaron said. “I don’t know you. But I will.”
“Bold.”
“That I am, and I think you are, too.”
“Perhaps,” I’d said, with a wink. I sent a burst of magic to my breasts, and they swelled, nearly bursting from my coin bra. Another dancer lingered nearby, but I shook my head, warding her off. This one was mine, and I was going to get far more than gold that night.
I stepped closer to him. “What exactly do you want with me?”
He grinned, his coin purse already jingling. “There are many things I want from you. Things I cannot speak aloud.”
I snatched my hand back from his, my heart hammering with an even greater intensity.
Jaron grabbed the reins of his stag and retreated several steps, his eyes glazed and dizzy.
“Do you …” He frowned. “Do you enjoy dancing?” His eyes flicked past mine to the dancers on the field. They were standing around, no longer performing.
I blinked. “I dance when I must,” I said. “Formally. As any princess might. At balls, and special occasions. If that is what you’re asking.”
“No.” He dragged his gaze back, eyes narrowed. “It’s not,” he said.
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” I said, affecting my voice to sound as innocent and confused as possible.
“You—” He froze. “You remind me of someone,” he said finally, his nostrils flaring. The accusation was in his voice, emanating from his body, and wafting toward the Azete.
I was going to vomit.
Jaron’s mouth tightened, the scar running through his bottom lip reddening. I wondered how he’d explained that over the last two years. Chimera attack? Street brawl where he saved the life of a commoner? Assassination attempt?
My heart continued to hammer, so loudly I was sure he could hear it. What was I supposed to say? Yes? No? Or give the answer I wanted to give? That the only favor I’d ever offer would be to shove his lance so far up his ass it came out his throat.
Jaron licked his lips, his expression thoughtful as he eyed me up and down. “I still would ask for your favor tonight.”
I gestured around the tourney. “With all these other women here?”
“I ask you to honor me as well, Princess. May I have your favor, as your soon-to-be cousin and friend?” His mouth curled over the word in a way that made it unmistakably clear that it was not his intention.
No. Absolutely not.
But he was still the nephew of King Tirian.
Cousin to the crown prince. And I’d misstepped.
Greatly. He didn’t know it was me, or what I was.
He couldn’t. It had been two years since we’d last seen each other.
And Alyra was gone—literally, and in his mind, he’d been told she was dead.
He might have remembered her face. Gods, I expected he did, because of what I’d done to his face—because of the scar on his lip.
But that was it. There was no other way he could possibly know.
And yet, it was becoming clear that this close to him was even more dangerous than I’d imagined.
And then, without warning, he looked past me again, to where the musicians and dancers stood, taking a break, quiet as the knights scoured the crowds for favor.
Cecelia stood in the center. I saw the moment it happened. When Jaron saw and recognized her, and when she saw him in return. Her skin paled, her scar suddenly bright pink.
She could not be here. She was not safe.
I stepped forward again, attempting to draw his attention back to me.
“Your eye wanders,” I admonished. “Away from a princess.”