“Coming down now,” Briar calls out, but she hesitates, holding onto my shoulder and perched awkwardly on the wall. “I see your loyalty to the prince. I wonder what he’s done to deserve a man like you.”
She lets go of my shoulder and clambers over the wall, somehow managing to make the awkward move look elegant. Then she twists to look at me over her shoulder, waiting for my signal.
The image of her in profile against the evening sky will be seared into my memory forever.
I wrap the rope around a balustrade and lean back. Slowly, carefully, she drops over the side. Trusting me to get her safely to the ground.
A man like me.
What is that supposed to mean?
My injured forearm screams in protest.
It’s worse when it’s my turn to go down. I’ve wrapped the cut, and at least it’s on my shield hand, so I can still hook my arm through the straps, but it won’t take much of a blow. Each hand-over-hand descent is agony. I drop the final ten feet and roll.
Alistair has his hands on Briar’s waist, his lips grazing her neck. My stomach sours at the sight. He obviously can’t wait to get her into bed, and little wonder.
Briar’s eyes meet mine. Steady. No hint of desire. A mix of emotions in those crystalline blue depths I can’t quite read, but one thing is clear. She’s tolerating his touch, just barely.
A flash of rage makes me want to grab my friend by the collar and throw him off her. I promised her I would never allow harm to come to her. A stupid thing to say.
I’m the worst kind of idiot. Briar doesn’t wantme; she wants a knight in shining armor to save her. She is no different from the maidens who throw themselves at my feet begging for rescue.
My armor isn’t gleaming silver. I’m the black sheep of the knighthood, barely accepted among the royal guards, whose rules I ignore outright. As long as Alistair has my back, I can get away with disobedience.
I need to push them together as hard as I can. Not let myself be tempted by the idea that I can keep her for myself. She’s not for me.
Kicking open the rolled lizard skin, I wrinkle my nose.
“Smells like shit,” Alistair says, then glances apologetically at Briar. If she notices his cursing, she doesn’t seem to care.
“Get used to it.” I’ll be washing the stink of dead basilisk off my body for weeks. Foul lizards.
“We’re going under that?” Briar asks skeptically.
“Got a better idea, Princess?” I heft the skin, using it to conceal the weakness in my arm. My wound shrieks in agony. The shield is hooked to my back alongside the bow and arrows. I use the butt of my axe head to support the wet skin. Once it’s been cured and tanned it’ll be worth a fortune. But first, we have to get it, and ourselves, out of the forest.
Alistair and I hold the skin draped over our heads. Briar, being shorter, walks between us, carrying the pack without protest. I imagine her staring at my shoulders. My ass. My cock persists in making the trek needlessly uncomfortable. At least the basilisk’s stench obscures her floral scent.
Gods, I’ve never met a woman whose very existence ties me in knots. I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I grit my teeth and march forward.
To my astonishment, the vines part with a noisy rustle at our approach.
9
Briar
Killian’s broad shoulders tense. He stops short so quickly that if it weren’t for the equipment slung on his back I’d have crashed right into him. “What’s happening?”
“The vines.”
“What about them?”
I can’t see much beyond the stinking skin hoisted overhead, so I close my eyes and listen. Leaves rustle on a light breeze that flutters the hem of my dress. Scratching. Scrapes. A low groan like trees bending in a strong storm.
“They’re moving.”
The barely-detectable note of alarm in his voice causes an upwell of panic. I refuse to give in and let it control me. Better to die with my eyes wide open than cowering beneath a creepy dead monster’s hide.
