She bristles at his accusation, and her cheeks burn with his insinuation that she would exhibit such lewd behavior with anyone. Least of all, someone so dreadful. “I have never, nor will I ever, give that man reason to think I would marry him.”
Why am I the one on trial?
Ceowald nods. “Fine. I have another arrangement in the works, and I cannot have you meddling.”
Her blood runs cold. “With who?”
Because your last choice of men was so upstanding.
“Never you mind.” As if suddenly realizing she is preparing for a trip, he looks between Avina and her luggage. “Oh, for the love of Maeve, are you going back to that godsforsaken Arena?”
When she does not answer, Ceowald slams his fist on the desk, shuddering the wine goblet. “Have you no shame! Don’t tell me this is all for that Beast? Sigvid Thordsson. What did I tell you about that man? He is a vile barbarian and deserves whatever fate awaits him at the end of a sword or club or whatever else will end his life in that wretched place.”
Her cheeks and neck burn scarlet with shame. She is unsure what is breaking her more, her father chastising her as if she is a child or that his words hold some semblance of validity.
Even now, she could still smell Sigvid’s masculine musk and feel his hard body as he pounded into her while cold steel wrapped around her thick curves body.
This situation is under control—yes!Under control.
She and Prince Sigvid mutually enjoy each other’s bodies while hating the other.
That is normal.
He will never escape the Arena. Consequently, she will never need to confront whatever affection she has or does not hold toward him.
Everything is under control.
“I heard the rumors.” Ceowald shakes his head as he finishes off the wine with a wince. “Did you permit him to defile you and then massacre the poor guards attempting to rescue you? I cannot stomach my daughter allowing any relationship with a man such as he–like some harlot.”
Before she can decide whether she should deny it or admit to willingly entering Sigvid’s cell that night, the footman arrives and removes her trunk. The carriage must be ready for her journey.
She turns away, choosing to ignore her father.
“Child,” Ceowald leaps to his feet, halting her at the entrance to the corridor, “there are pieces in motion that I cannot undo. I can promise you continued Queenship and a man who will show you goodwill, independence, and a child in your belly. All in exchange for his unbridled ability to rule. And your silence.”
Her father strides forward and clasps her shoulders in his hands. Anaction he has not taken since she was a young girl. “It will be easier for you, daughter, if you follow my plan.”
He searches her face with a look that resembles pity. “Thordsson’s type will only destroy you. You are a conquest. Entertainment for his sick, twisted little mind. You understand he beds tavern wenches and drunken commoners. His vicious tastes are not fit for a lady.”
Avina feels the tears before she realizes she is crying.
Why can he not permit her to forge her path? Even more, why do his words strike true? Good girls do not approach a man as she has. Deep in her heart, she knows she is mere amusement for the Salt Prince. No one has ever found Avina to be a woman pleasing to the eye.
She is one giant joke for the Lord Commander.
But why does the truth tear apart her heart as if she has been sliced with a knife?
“You are Queen Avina Bloodstone. You defeated him when no one else could.” Ceowald withdraws a handkerchief to wipe her tears. “He wants revenge, Avina, and the only way he can is to break you.”
October 28th, Year 100, 9th Era
Treland Arena
One moon phase later, her royal carriage arrives at the only place that grants her clarity and the only person who makes her feel alive—admitting that much was a tough potion for her to swallow.
“Welcome, Miss Avina. We have been expecting you.”
She hopes they have been.
