“Do you want me to question her when she wakes? Another royal is a problem,” Shane called.
Arrik paused in the doorway and glanced at his second over his shoulder. “I’ll do it. There are always illegitimate children running around when it comes to the monarchy. If our princess doesn’t give us what we want, we’ll tear the isles apart looking for the source of the rumor.”
13
Wren
Wren’s head was filled with fire and rain and smoke and fog. Water swirled all around her, throwing her this way and that, and she discovered she could not breathe. She forgot what it felt like to be able to breathe. Then, somewhere far off in the distance, she heard a voice.
An achingly familiar voice.
“Go!” Rowen called to her. “Take Britta and go!”
But Britta is not with me.
Confused, she frowned and tried to shake off the fatigue.
She is…with Rowen’s grandparents. And I am…
Wren woke with a jolt that shook her to her very core. Everything around her was moving in an uneven motion that meant only one thing—she was on a ship. Blurrily, she tried to make sense of her surroundings.
“What hap—” she began to say, only to gag when the ship hurled over a particularly large wave. It was this roiling feeling of seasickness that clearly awoke her from unconsciousness, for though she was comfortable fighting on a ship and sailing out across the sea in the worst of conditions, being trapped in a confined space upon the waves plagued her with the worst kind of nausea.
Bile burned the back of her throat as she finally figured out where she was.
It was barely a room with height enough to stand. Her stomach lurched again, and she tried to crawl forward. Wren blanched when she discovered her wrists were shackled, chaining her to the damp wooden wall.
“Blast it,” she managed to spit out, then immediately regretted it. Despite all her training to the contrary—and in no thanks due to the terrible condition of her body—Wren could not stop herself from vomiting the moment she opened her mouth. Tears stung her eyes as she heaved over the edge of the narrow bunk again and again. Even when her stomach had nothing left to throw up, she could not stop retching, until her mouth tasted of bile and she wished for nothing more than a hearty gulp of water—or wine—to wash it away.
She slumped in her chains. They barely gave her the space to sit, let alone lie down, so she placed her cheek against the wooden wall of the ship, trying to ignore the stench of her own vomit. The wall of the ship was cold, and it helped settle her stomach, despite the rocking all around her.
She swallowed hard and breathed slowly to keep from puking.
Focus on nothing, Nothing at all. You are nothing. All of this is nothing.
Wren closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
The second time she woke was slower and gentler than the first. It was as if her broken body was easing her back into the impossible task of consciousness, for which she was grateful. She became aware of the fact she no longer felt so seasick, and that the tumbling of the ship had settled.
Which meant they were well past the Dragon Isles.
Fear and a thread of excitement assaulted her.
She’d never been away from her home.
Don’t get so excited. You’re a prisoner.
Her skin prickled. Someone was watching her.
She opened her eyes.
“You!” she hissed through gritted teeth, though she was so dehydrated and her throat so hoarse that it came out as barely a whisper. Crouched in front of her was the Verlanti warrior she had tried to kill back in the chapel, who had wrapped his hands around her throat and—
The one she’d made a deal with.
A rush of memories of the last however many hours flooded Wren’s brain in one confusing, overwhelming swoop.
He’s a prince. He was supposed to kill me, yet here I am. A prisoner, not dead.
Wren didn’t know which one she preferred.
Her focus moved to her bare legs and the long black shirt that covered her to her knees. Someone had undressed her. She swallowed hard and steeled herself before meeting the prince’s gaze again.
“Did you undress me?”
“No.”
“Did your men?”
“A healer.”
“You didn’t kill me.” A statement.
The man neither smiled nor frowned nor gave away any other sign of emotion as he stared at her. His ice blue eyes darted from Wren’s to her hair and back again. “Yes,” he finally said, so softly she barely heard him over the quiet roar of the sea. “It is me. You did not expect to still be alive, did you, Princess?”
She held his gaze and rubbed at her left wrist, her shackles clattering. “Your kind aren’t known to keep their word.” He didn’t react to her barb. Not easily ruffled. That was good to know. Wren cocked her head and kept silent. She watched his eyes go to her hair again, as if he found it impossible not to stare at it. Why did this strange Verlantian warrior keep looking at her hair? Hadn’t he seen red hair before?
Maybe he has a fetish.
She glared at him, feeling exposed and angry.
“Are you in shock?” he asked. “It would not surprise me if you were. You’ve been through much.”
Wren did not know how to answer that—nor if she should. For of course she was in shock, but that was not why she hadn’t answered the man’s question. She had far too much to process and work out to do what he wanted. And besides…she peered through the darkness to try and grasp the lines of the man’s face; she was dealing with the Beast of the Barbarians. Wren had heard of his interrogation techniques during her training. He was known for his brutality. She had to tread carefully. He thought she was the heir and that would keep her safe.
At least for now.
As if reading her mind, the man’s gaze fell to her chest, though not with the lecherous look in his eyes she had become accustomed to from some of the less savory traders who occasionally came to Lorne.
It was assessing.
“You agreed to a treaty between our two nations through marriage, but I have a feeling it’s not as simple as that. Are you going to be difficult?”
She stayed silent. Her shoulders ached and she rolled her left one. They’d put her shoulder back into place. That was a good sign at least.
Unless they want you to be healthy when they start the torture.
He sighed before standing up and stretching his huge arms up and behind his head. Wren heard one of his shoulders pop, and the man sighed in satisfaction. “Ah, I’ve been trying to work out that knot in my shoulder since I ordered you to be shot from the sky.”
She stiffened. Aurora.
The prince glanced in her direction, and he gave her the barest hints of a smile. “Yes, that was me. You truly were a sight to behold. I did not know Oswin had trained his daughter to be so fierce. You risked much by flying with the warriors. You could have died.”
Wren was disgusted by the compliment. Every word that came out of the man’s mouth felt manipulative and soaked in poison. The prince seemed to like twisting words to get his way. She could see why he’d received the reputation of being a serpent. He could make anyone his pawn, but not her. She’d win. He just didn’t know it yet. She had to keep calm.
He killed your family.
She battled back her rage, barely keeping herself from trying to tear his face off.
“Have you forgotten how to speak? Should I remind you?” the man asked, his hand lingering over the pommel of a dagger in a move that was clearly meant to be frightening. And Wren was frightened; she was not so foolish as to not admit to that. The Verlantian prince was tall and broad and fierce, with his sharply handsome face and even sharper mind, she was in danger if she didn’t play her cards right.
Get yourself together.