Once dressed, I find Killian waiting outside my door, his hands crossed at the small of his back, his stance wide. Today he wears ordinary trousers and his dragon scale chest armor, with otherwise plain garb.
The sight of him makes my heart hiccup, a startled double thump. Gray shadows beneath his steely eyes indicate that he slept about as well as I did.
“Where to, Sir Ironheart? What does the day have in store for me?”
“I have been ordered to escort you to the archery range and then to a late breakfast on the lawn with your family.”
“Is that wise?”
“Is what wise?”
“Being outdoors.
His brows pinch together. “No. But Alistair is determined to honor the traditions. There are hundreds of armed guards stationed around the archery range. You’ll find everything you need ready for you if you wish to compete.”
I was a decent shot once upon a time. My brother taught me to use a bow and arrow before my mother declared such activities unladylike.
“Brunch.”
He looks at me askance.
“We used to call it brunch when you had a single meal for late breakfast, early lunch.”
Killian looks blank. I sigh. Apparently, that has gone out of fashion, too. Probably for the best. There is no denying that Belterre has prospered during my century-long slumber. Growing up on the farm, we used to have brunch and dinnerduring the lean months of winter as a means of conserving food. Two meals a day stretched farther.
If people don’t have to do that any longer, then that’s a good thing. Their bellies are full.
If I don’t marry Prince Alistair, will the country continue to prosper? Or will it fall into decline because I couldn’t resist the allure of a hard-hearted knight?
I don’t like to believe that I’m simply being selfish, wanting to gratify my base urges with the man at my side instead of the prince I’ve been told to desire, but I’m forced to consider the possibility.
Killian adjusts his stride to match mine. The turmoil in my heart dogs my thoughts all the way to the archery range.
23
Killian
Alistair has plenty of bad traits, but poor archery skills are not among them. He can hit a fly at fifty paces; he is the only man in all of Belterre who can rival me, for I am the one who taught him.
But it’s not my arms encircling Briar as he instructs her how to draw the string back to her delicate chin.
It’s not me pressed against her back, whispering in her ear.
I’m the one strung as tight as that bowstring, watching him try to seduce her. Won’t work. Briar isn’t his.
She’s mine.
He is touching her. I take a sick satisfaction in knowing she hates it. It makes me want to rip his arm off and beat him with it. I am forced to stand by and do nothing of the sort.
Hot sun beats down on the back of my neck. Although it’s barely midmorning, sweat beads at the small of my back.
Thwack.
The bowstring sings, music to my fae-enhanced ears. A whoosh of fletching and her arrow sinks directly into the center of the target.
My vicious darling. Briar is no helpless damsel. Alistair doesn’t see it. But I do.
He strides away to collect her arrows. She lifts one hand to her temple, smoothing away a tendril of fine blond hair. Her eyes meet mine.
