EIGHT
Monday morning lightslanted through the kitchen window, bright and warm, turning the dust motes into tiny sparks. Ben rubbed the heel of his hand over his jaw, listening to the faint rasp of stubble. The kitchen smelled like coffee and his fingers smelled like silver from his latest jewelry project, still lying on black velvet spread across his kitchen table. It had to be perfect. It was the only thing that could take his attention away from sketching out more designs for the Ember Sword. Truth be told, he already knew exactly how he wanted it to look.
This is the chance of a lifetime.
Only one person could distract Ben from his task.
He’d been back at the Faire yesterday, pretending he wasn’t thinking about a tall blonde with eyes like hazel fire. Even though she was working full-time as long as Viv and Rowan were in town, part of him hoped he’d see Charlie in the crowd, watching him like she had Saturday afternoon after the damn Caidansworn incident.
Ben sipped his coffee and chuckled, remembering Magpie and the others. He loved the way his Ren Faire family watched out for each other.
When those five assholes had started toward the costume shop, he hadn’t understood what the hell they were on about. He’d hoped for a moment that he was overreacting and this was just some weird Ren Faire improv gone wrong. Turned out it was fandom rage. Ben had spent an hour that night reading the comment threads onBattleLorefan sites like they were evidence from a crime scene. Viv was apparently killing off Duke Holloway’s character, Caiden, and half the fandom had lost its collective mind.
He poured himself another cup of coffee and leaned on the counter as the mug warmed his hand. He thought about the day ahead. He’d almost backed out of Viv’s invitation to join them but Rowan talked him up some more, telling Viv that Ben was a former Ranger, knew the Front Range like no one’s business, and he’d be helpful navigating the wilderness—as if they were going off on a quest to slay a dragon. Now, the kitchen felt too quiet. It was too early to start for Viv and Rowan’s hotel in Denver, but he didn’t have enough time to get back to his jewelry project.
Images of Charlie started haunting him again.
During their getaway, he’d watched her move through that crowd like she owned the entire Faire. Calm, precise, eyes tracking threats before anyone else even noticed there was a problem.
Warrior Princess, through and through.
After the Caidansworn were banned, they’d all walked back from security to his forge. Luckily, his friend Della, who ran the costume shop and had a sixth sense for trouble, had sent her son over to his stall to handle sales while he was helping to get Viv to safety. Ben tipped the kid from the cash box and sent him back across the way as people gathered for his next sword-making demonstration. He’d expected Viv and Rowan to want to wander the Faire, but they stayed for his show.
Ben had started in on his usual bad jokes as he forged another knife from a rail spike. The crowd laughed, but he only cared about Charlie’s reaction. She was still on her guard, watching the crowd and braced for another attack, but he’d gotten her to smile,andcover a laugh twice.
It made him feel like he’d found his way through a tiny crack in her armor for the second time that day.
The first was that moment before the trouble started—that moment with the dress.
Ben hadn’t meant to stare. But he’d watched her touch the silver-blue silk like it was holy. Like it was something she’d never allow herself to want.
That image had been looping in his head for two days.
Sunday before the gates opened, he’d gone to Della’s shop under the pretense of thanking her for sending her son across the way.
Della had seen right through him, of course.
“I can see you screwing up your courage. You’re here for something else, Benjamin Blacksmith.”
“W-what are you talking about?”
“Come on, out with it. It’s the amazon,” she said, chin lifted, eyes bright with gossip. “The tall one who looks like she could stop lightning from striking with a stern look at the clouds.”
Ben shook his head. “That’d be her,” he’d admitted.
“I saw her admiring the dress at my door.” She held up a finger calloused from countless needle pricks. “Among other things.”
“She’s got good taste,” Ben said.
“Yes, she does. And good taste indresses, too.”
Ben’s eyes went wide. “N-no, that’s…there’s nothing…”
Cackling, Della had already turned on her heel and was weaving her way through the maze of crowded clothing racks. “Come along, come along. You’ve got good taste as well.”
He’d almost laughed. Instead, Ben followed Della, stopping every few feet to pick up a dress or blouse he’d knocked off a rack. He’d squeezed through wider hidden tunnels than this.
“Can it be adjusted?”
