She tipped her chin up and prepared herself. Wren needed to insinuate herself in his court but if she came too willingly, her plan would be too obvious. She could do nothing but ensure everyone knew she decidedly did not like it.
Her belly churned and bile rose up her gullet with every moment the elf king watched her. She couldn’t look at him any longer. Wren cast her gaze around the throne room instead. It was a smaller one than before, but it was still full of High King Soren’s retinue. Some of the people lingering by the throne seemed to be advisers or warriors of sorts, judging by their clothes and armor. Others were clearly vain, hedonistic court-goers who had little use aside from looking pretty and predatory. Even as they turned their noses away from Wren—she knew perfectly well that she smelled like something closer to death than life—they delighted in barely keeping their gossip at the level of whispers.
Wren’s upper lip curled in disgust at the lot of them. “I would rather die than marry the Beast of Verlanti.” It was the truth. Rowen wasn’t even cold in his grave. His ashes had barely left the Dragon Isles upon the wind. She turned back to face Arrik once more, who seemed more amused than anything else at her answer. It only made her hate him more, that he belittled the suffering that he himself had caused.
It was clear Wren’s indignant answer was exactly the one the room at large hoped she would give, for all around her was an eruption of laughter and comments made about her, all of them awful. It was then that Wren became aware not just of how she smelled but of her physical state, and she flushed with shame.
But she did not want to feel shame.
Even covered in rags and muck and blood, with salt crystallizing in her hair, she was a princess. She spoke in the tongue of dragons and flew upon their backs. The only people in the entire room who could stand on level ground with her were the king, his beautiful, dark-haired queen, and his sons. Even then it was in stature only. They were all degenerates, the beast especially.
High King Soren sighed in exaggerated fashion, as if Wren’s answer disappointed him deeply. “Your death could be arranged for you, if that would be preferable to marriage,” he said. “But it would be such a waste of human flesh.” He turned to his followers. “Wouldn’t you agree? Even beneath all that grime and filth, she’s worth something.”
“My dear,” the queen chastised, running her fingers seductively over her husband’s arm. “Let’s not speculate her worth like a horse.”
“Both of us know a horse would fetch more,” the king retorted.
She clenched her jaw but kept silent as the queen pressed her lips together.
The courtiers responded like a pack of dogs on the morning of a hunt, nodding and agreeing with an enthusiasm Wren found positively shameful in its obvious shallowness. The whole thing was despicable and all she wanted was to go home. She hated it more than the dungeon she’d been thrown in, regardless of the fact her companions had been a mad bard, tiny, carnivorous fish, and a deadly dragon.
All three of them are like a walk across a meadow on a sunny day compared to this lot.
Hysterical laughter bubbled from her belly, but she choked it down, wishing she could cover her ears to the sounds of everyone talking and laughing and insulting her.
They cannot hurt you unless you let them. Focus on something positive.
She tuned them out and the wild dragon floated to the forefront of her mind. He was her ticket—the way out. All she had to do was put up with the people of Soren’s court a little longer—especially Arrik—then she had no doubt she’d be tossed back into her cell for the evening. And if the dragon showed up again…
Wren might be able to get out.
“Unfortunately,” the prince said, his tone bored. “Whether you would rather die or not is inconsequential.” He dismissed her and turned his attention to the king. By the tides, she wanted to punch him in the face. “I accept this gift, Father. And I would prefer that the wedding occurred sooner rather than later.”
Her stomach bottomed out.
Soren cackled and looked delighted by his son’s impatience to be wed. Wren bit down on her bottom lip as hard as she could muster to stop herself from saying something stupid. She’d always thought of herself as being levelheaded but here amongst her enemies, Wren was a danger to herself.
“Then it shall be tomorrow,” the king announced, gesturing his hands wide to his adoring audience. “Which means we have much to prepare. Get to work!” He clapped his hands and held one out to his wife. “Would you be so kind as to arrange it, my love?”
“Of course, my lord.” The queen rose from the throne and clasped her hands. “My ladies, we have much to do.” With that one action, a flurry of motion filled the room as people went off to do whatever it was that needed to be done.
Wren imagined she would not like any of these preparations organized for ‘her’ wedding one bit. Probably a host of slaves. The thought made her mood sour further. Slavery was barbaric and immoral. No person had the right to own another.
For just a moment, she locked eyes with the queen before the woman exited the room. The queen’s soft smile in her direction was completely at odds with everyone else. There was something sympathetic about her face. Something understanding. Something…motherly.
Wren wished, in that instant, that she knew the queen’s name. Maybe she’d be a friend and ally.
She was startled out of her thoughts as large hands settled on her waist a moment before she was swept off her feet.
“Time to go, Princess,” Arrik said, lifting Wren up and carrying her out of the throne room before she regained the wits to oppose such an undignified exit. Not caring about how much of her body she exposed in doing so, she twisted within his arms and flailed her legs wildly until, finally, Arrik dropped her on the ground.
Her rear smarted but she ignored it as she climbed to her feet. “Don’t touch me!” she spat in his face. “How dare you presume to touch me?!”
He merely laughed, before picking her up again and throwing her over his shoulder. “It seems I will not be able to trust you in my chambers,” he replied. “Another night in the cell it is, then. I can’t have you killing me in my sleep!”
Wren had not meant anything by her outburst aside from getting as far away from Arrik as possible, though it was clear that in attacking him she had ensured that she was returned to the location she actually needed to go.
She wanted to avoid his chambers at all costs. Wren didn’t want to think of what that would have meant.
You need another weapon.
She punched him in the back one last time and hung there. She tried not to stare at his arse, but it was right in front of her face. He may have been a vile cretin, and she was loathe to admit it, but he was attractive.
Stop it. Focus on what’s important.
Wren was going back to her cell, and that was that. It was what she wanted. If Arrik knew that—if he grew suspicious of the fact she wanted to go back there—then he would no doubt do everything in his power to stop her being in the dungeon. Then her hopes of escape would be dashed, and she would be buggered.
She kicked her legs and punched him a few more times to keep up the pretense of her distaste all the way down to the underground level of the palace. Wren screamed and cursed, doing just about anything she could think of to make it as difficult as possible for him to carry her.
“You are wild, dragon lass,” he said upon their approach to the dungeon. He was barely able to keep hold of Wren as he waited for a guard to open the door. “Are you like this in the bedroom, too?”
Wren swore loudly in response, only to repeat the curse when the prince unceremoniously dropped her upon the cold stone floor of her cell.
“Until tomorrow then, Princess,” he said, crystal eyes flashing in the dark, looking down on her, like the inhuman barbarian that he was.
She leapt to her feet as the door clanged shut. Wren slapped a hand against the bars. “I hate you!” she screamed as he walked away.