The soldiers on the other hand … Captain Vine had her work cut out for her.
Greta rounded the arena until she came to a small hut, tucked away at the far edge of the courtyard. She guessed it was a resting post for soldiers.
She slipped inside, revelling in the delicious blast of heat as she pulled the door shut. The hut was small and dimly lit, populated by a handful of threadbare armchairs, a low wooden table, and a crackling fireplace. There was a soldier reading beside it. He didn’t seem to be much older than her, and had a mop of curly black hair, olive skin and dark stubble. He looked up from his book, a quizzical look in his brown eyes.
‘Sorry to interrupt your break,’ said Greta, offering an awkward wave. She pointed to the chair opposite him. ‘Do you mind if I just sit down for a bit?’
He shrugged, smiling. ‘Go ahead.’
She slumped into an armchair. ‘Thanks. I’m Greta by the way. The new wrangler.’
The soldier slammed his book shut, pitching towards her. ‘Thank the stars,’ he said, his pearly smile growing. ‘I’m Aren. The falconer.’
‘Oh.’ Greta smiled back. Not quite a wrangler, but another animal lover. An ally, she hoped. She was just about to pepper Aren with a hundred questions about Grinstad when the door to the hut swung open and the king stomped inside.
Aren’s eyes went wide, his mouth falling into a perfect O.
The king took one look at him and said, ‘Evaporate.’
Aren moved so fast he tripped over the door frame.
Greta stood up.
‘Not you,’ said Alarik, slamming the door behind him and sealing them inside.
Greta’s eyes darted, instinctively searching for an escape from his thunderous mood, but the only window was small and frosted shut, and the king was standing in front of the door, his broad shoulders and towering height filling the entire frame. Since it made little difference whether Greta stood or sat, she sank back down into the battered armchair.
Alarik folded his arms as he looked down at her, a muscle working in his jaw. ‘So,youare my wrangler.’
Greta tried not to bristle at the possessiveness in his tone. She was no one’s wrangler. But she had already disrespected the king once today and was not about to test her luck. So, she swallowed her annoyance and nodded. ‘My name is Greta Iversen.’
Alarik frowned. ‘I was expecting Hela.’
‘You didn’t ask for Hela.’
His grimace sharpened. ‘How old are you?’
Greta blinked. She could feel the icy prickle of his gaze as he assessed her, no doubt cataloguing her diminutive height, her slight frame. He lingered over the scars on her cheek, and her face flared. She wished she had worn her hair down so she could use it as a curtain now. ‘Eighteen,’ she answered him, and then, feeling like she had something to prove, she jutted her chin out and added, ‘I’ll be nineteen a week from today.’
A corner of his mouth lifted in a sneer. ‘So, you still celebrate your birthday?’
Her cheeks flared again. Damn him. She had meant to prove her maturity, but he was making her feel like a child. ‘Is it that unusual to note the passage of time?’ she parried, with more bite than she intended.
He cocked his head. ‘Are you this bold back on Carrig?’
She frowned. ‘No. Yes. I don’t know.’
‘And are you aware I am the king of Gevra?’
‘Of course, I am,’ she said, in surprise.
‘I just thought there might be some confusion,’ he remarked. ‘Since I am not in the habit of wearing my crown.’
She sensed he was toying with her. There was no confusing Alarik Felsing. He was like a wolf, all feral grace and simmering brutality. He spoke with such authority, it was hard not to cower beneath him, and even besides the sheer command of his presence, she recognized the sweep of his pale blond hair marred by that single streak of black, and those cruel blue eyes. Then of course, there was the expensive sword and the finery of his outfit, which was worth more than everything Greta and her sisters owned.
‘I know you’re the king,’ she said, again.
He moved closer, the floorboards creaking with each lethal step. ‘Then why have you not yet bowed to me?’
