‘God save you then, lass.’
Emma, bless her, is my lifeline throughout the rest of the meal. She sits next to me, maintaining a steady chatter as the men’s voices boom around us. Until Ian roars my name. The burly knight, with his unruly blonde hair and scarred hands and arms, seems a storied man whose body tells of his battles.
“You’ve yet to tell us how you like our humble home?” Ian’s gravelly voice carries across the table and quiets the din of conversation. Wren keeps his focus to his plate while everyone else watches me. I wish the freshly swept stone floor would open and swallow me as I bristle under the unwanted attention.
There is nothing humble about Dyhurst. Surely the small castle desperately needs repair, but in its glory, it must have been grand indeed.
“I like it fine.” My hand tightens around the fork until the metal bites into my sweaty palm. I wonder if the day will come when I’ll grow comfortable speaking to a group without my stomach aching—or not wanting to cringe at the sound of my voice.
He nods at Emma. “I’m sure our sister is pleased to have reinforcements.”
Sister. The endearment from such a rugged man makes it even more meaningful.
Emma throws a chunk of bread at Ian. “You got that right, you big brute.”
With his massive arms and broad chest, he has surprisingly quick reflexes. He catches the bread and takes a big bite. “You’d be lost without us.”
She gives the gruff man a shy smile. “More like you’d be lost without me.”
“Aye, lady, we would.”
Is he blushing?
Is she?
Oh my, they are.
How adorable.
Now that I watch them, I wonder if either realizes how they can barely keep their eyes off each other without flushing and getting flustered. Emma is suddenly fidgeting in her chair. Ian has a wistful curve to his scarred upper lip. They both seem to pretend they’re not attracted to each other by swiftly letting the moment pass. Already I’m playing matchmaker in my mind…
Lucian, a young and handsome warrior with clipped red hair and a tidy beard, asks about my life. Although there isn’t much to tell given that I don’t have grand stories like my battle-worn companions, they hang on my every word as I take them through my life in the tower. I keep it simple, explaining how Sybil traveled across Rygard to spread those false rumors to thwart anyone who might know of my existence. How, in her chronic absence, I painted my walls and read hundreds of books. What I don’t tell them, what I keep only for myself, is how I gazed out the window for hours at a stretch, imagining a world I believed I’d never experience.
How I stared at the ground and contemplated jumping to my death.
Wondered if Icoulddie or if my hair would protect me. But always, I was too much of a coward to spare myself a lifetime of misery, hidden away—Rygard’s dirty secret.
My guilt over not saving Wren’s father stays locked in my heart. I don’t tell them how I wept for weeks after Wren stormed off that day. How I didn’t eat or drink or sleep as I skated along the edge of madness. It was in those darkest moments that I tried. Oh, God, I tried to end it. And that’s when I learned the magic does, indeed, protect its vessel.
It will not let me get sick.
It will not allow me to die.
As long as the magic infects my hair, it infuses my body with health.
With life.
I shove my plate away. Dax notices I haven’t finished my food and remarks about me being too frail. He claims I need to eat more. Tristan counters this by saying I’m fine as I am. Dax whips back that they’re simply worried I won’t survive a harsh Dyhurst winter. Gavin grumbles that children are dying of starvation due to John taxing the people of Rygard literally to death, and they need to start gathering supplies for distribution once the weather turns.
Wren’s hostile eyes fry me from across the table. “Rapunzel doesn’t give a fuck about the dying.”
His cruel statement hits me like a winter storm, instantly cooling the lingering heat of his glare. I clasp my trembling hands because if I don’t, I fear I’ll do something outrageous—like slap him across his smug face. I believe I’ve been tolerant, more than generous, given what he’s lost. But Wren has no right to torment me to assuage his pain. I’ve had enough.
“Please excuse me.” I shove away from the table.
Emma is already halfway out of her chair, but I press her back down with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Are you unwell?”
Scowling, I drag my gaze from Wren and offer Emma a false, reassuring shake of my head. “I’m tired, that’s all.” Then I cast a look over the assortment of renegades who are watching me as I stand. “I’m fine, truly.”
