Chapter 12
Anya Delemond
Blackbird bounded along the cobblestone path, swinging her leather pack in her hands. “A wyvern? You mean it? Sweet Spirits, Anya, this expedition is already amazing!”
Anya was several paces behind her friend.
Cherry blossoms swirled around them, a shocking pop of color amidst the still-sleeping sun drops and magnolias.
She sighed through a weak smile. “Of course. I don’t enjoy jesting about my fears, Blackbird.
Wyverns are basically the horses of the sky.
” She shivered. There were no hooves, but who knew what a wyvern could do with horns and claws?
Probably far more damage. She gulped.
“Ha!” Blackbird barked a laugh. “Horses belong to the genus equus, and wyverns are draconi majora. Not even close!”
“You know what I mean.” Anya tried to match her friend’s energy, but her efforts were proven false by a yawn.
Between stewing about the awkward dinner her parents concocted, Cyrus handling her royal duties, and the looming sky-high terror, sleep had eluded her.
Why couldn’t they have had a normal strategy meeting with Lord Bryson? Why dinner?
A petal hit Anya smack in the face. She puffed it away in annoyance and hoisted her matching pack higher over one shoulder, her quiver and bow around the other.
Her cutlass was holstered securely in her scabbard.
They woke early to pack as light and effective as possible.
They planned to buy the majority of their supplies in Little Wing.
The last thing Anya wanted was Lord Bryson prodding her for packing like a princess.
She wasn’t above doing some laundry on the ship.
Her clothes would smell like salty sea air—the smell of freedom.
Her chest felt lofty as the reality hit her.
She would be away from the palace for weeks, months even.
The sensation quickly faded, then dropped like a stone into her gut.
Her cousin would have every opportunity to usurp her duties and boost his reputation while she was gone.
He was essentially the acting Prince. She couldn’t ask her parents not to have him help.
She had countless duties, and their kingdom was growing while her parents grew older every day.
She could only hope her success would outshine Cyrus’s political posturing.
The stable yard came into view, where Sir Oshfeldt was perched on the log fence picking his teeth. The dusty riding arena was taken up by a plum-colored wyvern. Lord Bryson stood in front of its snout, resting one hand on it, with a cigar in the other.
Is he talking to it?
“Lady Rowan!” Sir Oshfeldt waved and hopped down from the fence and ran to meet them. “It wasn’t goodbye after all, eh?” He blew a lock of silver hair out of his face. “Are you two ready to fly?”
“Yes!”
“No.”
Anya and Blackbird looked at each other and laughed. Hers was riddled with nerves; Blackbird’s was overflowing with glee.
It was time to fly.
Roderick Bryson
Roderick stiffened as Octavio called out to Lady Rowan and Anya.
This was real. This was happening. His mind was suffocated by the smallest anxieties.
Where would Anya sit? Would she have to hold onto him?
Perhaps it was safest for her in front of him.
He could reach Yomira’s horns around her.
Even though he despised her, he needed to bring her back in one piece.
You don’t despise her. The purple wyvern lashed her tail back and forth.
“Yes I do,” he insisted. It was definitely an adjustment having a not-so-negative voice in his mind all the time.
If he was near Yomira and she wanted to talk, she could hear his thoughts.
Though the reverse was not true. He couldn’t get into the wyvern’s mind, and he had yet to figure out how to shield his mind from her.
Whatever you say, Rod.
“Don’t call me that.” He puffed on the peppermint cigar the wyvern had lit for him.
Fine. Rick. Yomira huffed through her nares.
“Or that.” His eyes flicked to Anya as she and Lady Rowan approached with Octavio.
They packed surprisingly light, with only two packs and a small cinch bag between them.
But perhaps it was a magic bag that could hold all the trappings a princess surely couldn’t live without.
Maybe that was where all the mana stones went.
He had once thought her cut from a different block than other nobles.
She could wield a blade with passable skill and split her own arrow in two.
But she turned out to be just another silver-gilded snob with no appreciation for his efforts during the evacuation.
She’d surely be ten times as insufferable since he tried to keep her from the expedition so publicly.
Admittedly, it was not one of his finest moments.
“Good morning, My Lord.” Lady Rowan curtsied. She wasn’t a lady of land and title, but a lady of the court. Regardless, she was far better mannered than Anya, who refused to look at him or Yomira. Did she think both of them monsters?
She will if you don’t introduce me. Yomira lowered her head next to his and stared at the newcomers.
“Lady Rowan, Anya, this is Yomira, first egg of Sorenti, heated and hatched by her father Romen.” The wyvern insisted this to be her full name. Quite a mouthful.
A friendly rumble rolled in Yomira’s throat, the one way she could communicate without an ear-piercing shriek or threatening growl.
“You are beautiful!” Lady Rowan dropped her pack and boldly approached Yomira. The wyvern’s single red eye flew wide as Lady Rowan placed a hand on her scaly snout. “Thank you for flying us! I hope we aren’t too heavy.”
Yomira pushed into Lady Rowan’s palm. The wyvern could understand when other people spoke but couldn’t speak to them as she did with him.
“Blackbird!” Anya hissed. “What are you doing?”
“Yomira is not a monster, Princess.” He glared at her.
“I know that…but it isn’t exactly good manners to rub your hands on someone you just met.”
I’m fine with it. Yomira closed her eye and relished Lady Rowan scratching on her nares.
“She is fine with it,” he said curtly, tying their packs to the leather band around Yomira’s stomach. “Now. How would you like to ride?”
“Lady Rowan can ride in front of me,” Octavio said with a smile at Lady Rowan.
“I can hold onto Her Highness,” she added. The Princess seemed to relax at that.
“Then that’s settled. Yomira? May we get on?”
Of course! Yomira laid on the ground to allow them to mount. Octavio helped Lady Rowan onto the wyvern’s back, then settled behind her. The knight was positively smitten with Lady Rowan, though she seemed not to notice.
“After you, Anya.” He offered her a hand. She stayed rooted to the spot, her canine eyes darting between him and Yomira. He pulled his hand back. Did she not want to touch him? Was she scared of Yomira? Of both of them? Perhaps that was why her cheeks burned every time she saw his fangs. Fear.
Just ask her, Yomira goaded. Hearing you think is exhausting.
“Anya, we have to depart. We should get to Balcott before sundown.”
What’s wrong with her? She remained frozen for another moment.
“Anya.” She flinched as he grasped her hand, but she did not pull away. “We have to depart. Are you all right?”
“Yes…” she murmured.
“May I help you up?”
“Yes, thank you,” she answered quietly.
With a gentle grip on her waist, he lifted her onto the wyvern’s back, then climbed the thick shoulder muscle of Yomira’s winged arm and slid into place at the base of her neck.
Two horns protruded from her neck, perfectly spaced for a rider’s grip.
A breeze flitted on his back, reminding him that she had yet to grasp a hold of him.
He sighed. “Anya, you have to hold on to me. Lady Rowan can’t keep you secure enough.”
Anya silently snaked her arms around his waist, then threaded her fingers together.
His pulse raced as her claws pressed ever so slightly into his stomach.
The memory of riding to The Three Hares with his mystery maiden flooded his mind.
Anya was trembling just like she had. He couldn’t resist comforting her the same way.
He brushed a hand over hers and whispered, “Everything is going to be fine. Just hold on to me.” She nodded against his back, holding on more fervently.
He smiled. Not because of her fear. But because in this moment, she needed him.
He could finally, finally help her with something—and she had to accept it.
Yomira pumped her wings up and down, whipping up dust from the stable yard.
The stomach-lurching sensation of flight hit him as the stables grew smaller and smaller.
Anya’s grip grew tighter with every wing beat, as if she were going to gut him like a fish.
Though he had no doubt she probably wanted to.
The lurch faded as Yomira leveled off to a smooth glide. The port and its billowing clouds of sails and busy ships whizzed under them. He could just make out citizens below looking up and waving.
“I won’t let you go!” Lady Rowan yelled over the winds. There was nothing but sapphire seas below them now.
They flew in silence for several long minutes. He hadn’t known the Princess to be so quiet. A flicker of worry stirred in his heart but was quickly stamped out by Octavio and Lady Rowan belting out a tune in their ancient tongue. Those two were thick as thieves already.
Anya’s death grip gradually loosened as they sang, but he could still feel the impressions where her claws had dug into his stomach.
There might even be marks. His face grew hot at the thought of the red scratches he’d noticed in the mirror the night before.
Dear Divine, he treasured them. He wanted that masked woman to tame him like a beast. But he was left sorely unsatisfied in body and mind.
When Millicent left for the inspectorate, the Rhodias flowers had the added effect of stifling his lustful thoughts.
They were still there but far more manageable.
He hadn’t even considered the gradual return of such a constant flame when he foolishly disposed of the flowers aboard the Lupus Star.
He would surely burn to ash as he laid down tonight.
He tried to wrestle his mind into submission, but his faculties were too weak, chipped away by the lack of Rhodias and the wolf-masked woman’s howling laughter, beaming smile, and devilish whispers.
Your wanton expression is a work of art. It seems a shame to sate it and erase it, but I think I may have to.
But instead of the masked maiden, Anya infiltrated his mind’s eye.
He imagined her standing barefoot on the bow of the Lupus Star in a gorgeous yet practical gown, golden hair blowing in the salty breeze, and his fang marks in the soft curve of her neck.
Those marks would prove that she was his, and the scratches from her claws would be a delightful, stinging reminder of her claim on him.
He shook his head violently. I’m disgusting—such unbecoming thoughts about a woman who despises me—the Princess!
And I’m confusing her with a woman I will never see again.
Anya’s hair doesn’t flow free on the breeze.
It’s tight, rigid—just like her. And bare feet?
A princess wouldn’t be caught dead without shoes.
His subconscious heaped insults upon him. The wandering star was within his heart, and the Princess was inside his head, biting and scratching at his very center—proving her words true.
You’re an insensitive, self-absorbed rake!
He wanted to pound his head on Yomira’s neck to pour the thoughts out of his mind and into the ocean below. Just as he was about to give in, the wyvern belched a tongue of flame below them, accompanied by a smoky, sulfurous afterburn that brought his mind back to the moment.
Thank you…He heaved a breath.
You are welcome. A roil akin to a laugh built in Yomira’s throat. Derick.