And then grew somber again as Jeremiel added, “We don’t leave a brother behind. Never again. And that includes sisters.”
Fuck. These men.
Tristan cleared his throat. And then cleared it again.
Finally, he found the words. “Hawks—move out.”
Chapter Nineteen
Alanna listenedto the lock on her bedroom door sliding closed and allowed her shoulders to curl forward as she wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered. A hot tear tracked its way slowly down her face, stinging as it reached the broken skin of her lip.
She crossed the floor, her body aching as if she was a hundred years old, passing through the arch that led to her small bathing room to look at herself in the mirror. Her face looked hideous. She couldn’t resist prodding the puffy, swollen flesh, wincing at the fiery burn.
It wasn’t the first bruise he’d given her, not by any means. But it was the first one she was proud of. All the others had filled her with deep wracking shame. But this broken face, this she’d earned defending Val.
She poured a little cold water onto a cloth and wiped her face, soothing the swelling, then made her way to her closet and rifled through it.
She dropped her luxurious green dress on the floor carelessly, kicking it out the way, and left it there. Instead she pulled on a pair of old leather breeches and tied them tightly at the waist. She slipped into a cotton shirt and covered it with a soft leather vest, then took down a heavy black woolen dress, a mourning dress, and stepped into that as well. It had a row of tiny buttons—up the front, thank the Bard, or she couldn’t have managed them on her own—and she tugged and wrestled them closed.
Usually Keely would have helped her. Usually her hands wouldn’t be shaking.
No. That was a lie. Since she’d come to live here, her hands had been shaking most of the time.
She could still remember, as clear as looking in the mirror, the first day she’d arrived at the palace. Married in a hurried ceremony, no ball, no breakfast. Two witnesses, Keely and King Geraint, and it was done.
Ballanor had refused any kind of celebration. His father had forced him into the wedding, given him the choice between saying “I do” and leaving court to return to the country. He’d sucked it up and married her, but he was damn certain that he wasn’t going to look like he was enjoying it.
Of course, then he’d told everyone at court that it was her fault. That she refused to honor their customs. That she had been the one who denied them their dancing and food and fireworks. And King Geraint had shrugged and done nothing.
The bleak little ceremony was barely over when her new husband had grabbed her arm and hustled her down through the freezing courtyard to the barracks, still wearing her wedding dress, where he’d shoved her in front of three of the burliest soldiers in the mess room.
“Now, wife,” Ballanor had said with a smirk, “choose your personal guard.” And then he had mock whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Touch him and he’ll die. If he sees you touch anyone else, they’ll die. Consider him your keeper from today. Choose now.”
Her heart had pulsed so heavily, she thought she might have an aneurysm right there in the barracks. She had realized that her fingers were trembling against her throat and slowly lowered her hand. How to possibly choose?
Two of the soldiers looked just like Ballanor. Smug. Supercilious. Arrogant. Brutal.
The third one just looked brutal.
She was tall, but he still towered over her, with arms almost the size of her thighs. His leathery wings were pulled back respectfully, but she was sure they’d be wide and intimidating if he chose to spread them. His black hair was slightly too long, brushing the top of his collar while his deep blue eyes sprinkled with silver flecks watched her closely. But something about him, something in the quiet way he stood, his hands clasped behind his back, reassured her.
She raised a shaking hand and pointed at him. “That one.”
“Captain Lanval, you’re now personal guard to the princess. See that she does as she’s told.”
Ballanor turned her around and marched her away, Lanval immediately falling into step behind them.
That split-second choice had cost him everything.
Everything that came after started in that one desperate instant. She wished she could go back in time and change it. She wished she could tell him how desperately sorry she was.
But instead, he had apologized toher. Bard.
The tears were falling heavily now, but she didn’t bother to wipe them away. And she didn’t make a sound. She knew better.
She added a heavy shawl to her dress. She was much too hot. But she didn’t care. She preferred to wear as many clothes as possible. Especially for sleeping.
She gave her room a quick, paranoid glance. She was alone. She pulled open the drawer she used for women’s things and shoved her fingers to the back. There. A wrinkled paper packet filled with brown powder. She pulled it out and shook it.
