15
“You’re late.”
Quietly, I closed the door behind me. “You said after lunch.”
“Which ended a half hour ago.” The Valadorn prince sat on the side of his bed, arms on his spread knees, and his hands clasped between them.
A brief encounter with those dark blue eyes warned he wasn’t jesting.
I’d known he wasn’t, yet I stood stunned by the door.
“Well,” I started, and jumped into explaining.
“I was talking to Celestine, then I needed to go to my room, and on the way to the stairwell, Priestess Mala found me and asked if I could focus on the vegetable garden for the next few days because it—”
“So many words.”
I scowled. “I was telling you what delayed me.”
“You were giving excuses. A lack of punctuality is a sign of disrespect.”
Fear gnawed, causing me to open my mouth when it was best to keep it shut. “Life doesn’t always let us obey the constraints of time and promises.”
“You control what you do with yourself.”
“Should I have ignored the priestess and let her watch me venture up the stairs to the males’ rooms?” I waved the small story I’d made. “Should I have left this in my room when it might help you learn how to read?”
“Getting caught could indeed keep you from me.” His brows furrowed. “What good is that parchment?” His eyes rose from the story. “You should know that if I struggle to read, then I cannot write.”
“That will soon change,” I said.
A brow arched skeptically. His gaze latched onto mine.
The room suddenly felt far smaller than it was. “So,” I said. “We should get started. Where do you want—”
“You will kiss me.”
I blinked.
Before I could hope to find a response, he said, “Once I have endured this torture, you will…” He smirked and spread his hands between his legs. “Reward me.”
My drying throat croaked my question. “Reward you?”
Voran nodded once.
But…
He couldn’t do that. Not now that I was standing here, finally confident that I could repay this debt. “We had an agreement.”
“Did we?” he asked. “Or did I let you believe we had one so that you would come to me when instructed, willingly and gladly?”
So that I would be trapped in this room, should he wish it. And the lupine glint in his gaze, the cold and calm authority lacing those accented words, said he wished it.
I glared at him.
He merely watched me with that unflinching apathy.
“If I refuse?” I asked, though the question was futile.
“Then we have no agreement, and you will spend the rest of your days marked and worrying how and when I might seek repayment.”
My stomach tightened as I stared at him in shaken disbelief.
His determination to kiss me was no longer so terrifying. It was simply confusing. Kissing, for many, led to other places. Places this prince had claimed were useless to his uncle, who was indeed winning this war. But another reason to get his bloodstained hands on me lingered.
Perhaps, just like his uncle, Voran believed my father was responsible for his father’s death. Perhaps tormenting me was purely about revenge.
He knocked me from my spiraling thoughts by nodding at my hands. “Show me this parchment.”
I swallowed and glanced at the story. True intentions aside, I was here. Cornered because of an agreement I’d foolishly made. Not only was this prince an assassin, but also a direwolf.
I wasn’t leaving this room unless he allowed it.
So I crossed to stand a safe distance before him. “I made it.” Staring down at the little book, I began to feel foolish for different reasons. “It’s not very good, I must admit, but I do believe it’s challenging enough that if you master it, you can move on to something even more—”
The parchment left my fingers.
Voran turned it over in his hands, then sniffed it. “You made it.”
Unsure what to do with my hands now, I linked and squeezed my fingers. “As I said, it’s not very good, and I’m terrible at—”
His eyes leapt to mine. “For me.”
The intensity of his gaze created an instant flush. I tried to hide it by ducking my head. “It will make this easier for us both. I hope.”
I heard the parchment flutter and looked up. He was staring at the first page. Carefully, he traced the words I’d written with his large pointer finger, then the picture of a stag standing within a forest.
“The drawings are laughable. It’s just that many of the books I read when I was young had pictures, so I thought…” I was no longer sure why I was talking. No longer sure why I’d drawn anything when this prince was most certainly not a youngling. “May I sit?”
“You may,” he said absently, and turned the page.
But he didn’t move.
There wasn’t a lot of room between him and his nightstand. Which meant there’d be little room between us. My fingers twisted together. I could sit on the floor. Of course, that would make it difficult to help him unless he also sat on the floor, and he likely wouldn’t.
I needed to stop overthinking it. He wasn’t going to harm me. Well, he already had, but that had been to mark me, then to feed from me, so hopefully he—
The bed had been made, the blankets pulled taut enough to creak when I finally sat down.
Stiff and regretting my choices, I stared at his nightstand as he perused my poorly crafted story and tried to ignore the warmth radiating from him. Tried to ignore the way his scent permeated and his immense presence dried all of the musty air in the small room.
The book of rhymes sat beside his unlit candle, which had burned low. Splotches of wax marred the worn wood. For something to do, I picked at some closest to me.
Then I startled when Prince Voran shifted closer. So close, our arms brushed as he flicked the few pages to the start of the story. “Here.”
I took it from him, careful not to touch his giant fingers. Clearing my throat, I said, “I suppose I’ll read it to you, then you can try.”
He said nothing.
So I read. “After a morning of grazing in the Dark Wood, the great stag began his walk home in the rain.” My voice steadied. “But when he reached the river, he found the water had risen.”
I glanced at Voran.
He sat with his hands clasped between his thighs, eyes cast to the parchment. “Go on,” he rumbled.
I turned the page. “The great stag was tall. Of course, he was tall. He was a great stag after all.”
A soft noise came from the prince. A snort, maybe.
My cheeks heated.
He knocked my knee with his. “More.”
“But the river rushed at the bank and reached for the clearing. The great stag was strong. Of course, he was strong. He was a great stag after all.”
Though I’d braced for it, Voran didn’t make a sound.
“But water curled down the mountain and gushed over rocks.” Turning the page, I continued quietly. “The great stag knew that to return home safely, he must wait for the rain to stop. Except he did not wish to wait, so he walked toward the rising river.”
Briefly, I looked at the drawing of the stag standing on the bank in the rain. It had seemed silly at the time. Now, staring at all of that black ink and the stern expression I’d given the stag, it seemed utterly ridiculous.
Voran knocked my knee with his again.
“Sorry,” I muttered and went on. “A cat crept out from behind a large rock and asked the stag for his name. The great stag said he had no name other than great stag. The cat said that was not a real name and told him he should pick another.”
As I turned the page, Voran asked, “Why is a cat in the Dark Wood?”
“Oh, well…” I tried to think of a good reason. It was hard to think at all with him so close. “I don’t know, actually. Maybe he wandered too far from home and got lost, so he lives there now.”
“A lost cat,” he murmured, as if puzzled.
I bit back a smile and kept reading. “The great stag did not wish to pick a name. He wanted to go home, so he decided he would step over the cat to reach the river. Before he could, the cat said that he should call himself gray because of his coat. The great stag told the cat that when his coat was dry, it was not gray but a dark cream. The cat smiled and said that was even better because he loved cream, and that his name should be milk.”
Another soft snort from Voran.
Ignoring him, I turned the page. “The great stag did not like milk, and he told the cat to think of another name. The cat thought about it for a long, long time. So long that the rain had stopped by the time he said fool. The great stag was offended. He was no fool. When he said as much, the cat explained that only a fool would try to cross a river so high.”
Voran huffed.
“The great stag lifted his leg to kick the cat aside. Cat was fast and moved behind the great stag. As he did, he told him that his name should be Reltna. The great stag asked him why, and the cat explained that it was antler spelled backward.”
Again, I turned the page.
“The great stag thought about it, then thought about it some more. After a lot of thinking, he looked down at the cat who’d curled upon a rock by the river and declared that he liked it.
It woke the cat from his nap. He yawned and looked at the river.
The great stag looked, too. Not only had the water calmed, but it had dropped well below the bank. ”
I turned to the last page.
“Reltna crossed the river safely. Once he reached the other side, he looked back at the cat to ask for his name. The cat smiled and called himself Friend, then leapt into the trees.”
I stared at the page for a moment. When a gull screeched, I handed the folded parchment to Voran.
His thumb brushed mine as he took it. “Why didn’t he want to wait?” he asked. “To cross the river.”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, my nose crinkling. “I suppose I should have spent more time pondering that.”
“Maybe he feared being hunted.”
I looked at him. “Or maybe he had a mate who feared for his safety.”
He gave his broad shoulders a lift. As they fell, his arm grazed mine. “Especially if they are aware of their mate’s impatient and rash nature.”
Holding back a laugh, I said, “He was just stubborn. Your turn.”
Voran opened the story to the first page. He drew in a slow breath, releasing it as he rubbed at his chin.