Only if she survives the night.
From his past three experiences, he was well aware of the mortal danger his dragon bride now found herself in. He turned his attention back to the courtyard. Surely the attacker would come from there. He’d stationed men throughout the corridor and on the roof, but Arrik doubted it was enough. Whoever kept sending assassins to kill his brides hired only the best. He touched his left side, running his thumb along the scar there. The last time, he’d almost died as well.
Arrik never had a chance to know any of the women who were married to him for not even a full night. They had all been arranged marriages—much like this one—only those women had been of Verlantian blood, women seeking money and prominence. Though the marriages had been arranged, that did not mean that he hadn’t felt their deaths keenly. It weighed heavily on his conscience.
He had been responsible for them. They’d been in his care. And yet, each and every time he went to sleep on his wedding night, he’d awoken to discover his new wife lying dead beside him.
One had been poisoned. Another suffocated.
The last time, he’d moved his bride to a secret location. Despite all the planning that had been put into place, the assassin still had killed two of his men and slipped inside the small cottage. Arrik had been prepared for the fight, but his new wife had not listened to him. She hadn’t stayed hidden, instead joining the fray. The assassin had stabbed him and then slit his wife’s throat and disappeared into the night. He could do nothing but hold her and watch as she labored to breathe her final breaths. Even now, he remembered the horrid sound. What was worse was the silence afterward.
That had been the final straw.
He’d thrown everything into discovering who was killing these women…and why. It was obviously a ploy to get to him. But if the assassins had been quiet enough to murder the women lying beside Arrik without him waking until it was too late for him to save them, then why had they simply not killed him too? It wasn’t as if there hadn’t been many attempts on his life already. It was practically part of his schedule each week.
Eat, train, ward off an assassin, eat again.
Whoever was responsible was trying to send him a message. A bloody, unknowable threat. But what was it? And who was it? The assassins he’d managed to track down had been paid in untraceable coin and had never met their mysterious benefactor.
Quietly, Arrik examined the blade that he’d found in Wren’s possession. A quick look over at the bed confirmed she was, indeed, still watching him, but, at this point, he no longer cared. It was clear that, beneath her hatred and revulsion of him, she was deeply curious about what was going on, so Arrik decided it was up to her to finally give in and vocalize that curiosity.
If she wants to know what is going on, then she can ask me. I will not simply hand out the answers she seeks, whether she’ll ever admit to wanting them or not.
He held the thin stiletto up in front of his eyes and twisted it this way and that. It was a finely made Vedonian knife, from far down south: too expensive and rare a weapon for most in the nation to be able to afford it.
This was Kalles’ work. It screams him.
Of all of his brothers, Kalles was the one Arrik was least sure about. His youngest brother acted just as lazy and as hedonistic as his other brothers, yes, but Arrik was growing more and more suspicious that it was all simply an act. Kalles did like to play games—of that he was certain. His brother had so many faces that he wasn’t sure which one was genuine.
“What did my brother say to you when he gave you this knife?” he asked Wren, irritated that he had to break the silence between them first to get an answer. But this wasn’t merely a tit-for-tat situation: both his and Wren’s very lives depended on why she was given the dagger.
She remained stonily silent. This was going to be a long bloody night.
Well, hopefully not bloody.
Smiling grimly and not at all surprised by her reaction, he returned the knife to his lap and stared out at the night. He did not know when an assassin would appear tonight. He was only certain that one would. But, until then…
Arrik had a long night of waiting and waiting and waiting in silence, as it stretched endlessly between him and the woman who would never trust him. And though it was clear both of them were growing tired, they both remained alert to the tense electricity in the air. There was a clear and present danger around them both, and it appeared that neither one of them would sleep until it disappeared.
“Are you really not planning on touching me?” she finally rasped.
Her words surprised him. “I have no intention of ever touching you, woman.”
“Then why take me as your wife?”
He chuckled. “I live to serve the crown.”
“Even when the crown you serve is corrupt?”
“Even then,” he admitted gruffly.
“You are no warrior,” she whispered. “You are a sheep.”
“Go to sleep,” he replied, not rising to the bait. Arrik knew what he was.
“If my lord commands it,” she grunted, turning her face away from him.
He couldn’t help but smile. Her sarcasm was amusing.
You can’t afford to find her amusing.
Arrik sobered and pushed back serval braids from his face and settled into the chair. Time passed slowly and the breeze picked up, kissing his bare skin. It had always been too warm in Verlanti for his taste. He preferred cooler temperatures. One could always bundle up but there was only so many clothes a person could take off.
His state of undress bothered the princess. The isles were more of a conservative sort of people compared to the elves. Bodies were a thing to be celebrated and admired amongst those in Verlanti while the dragon people kept theirs hidden behind layers of fabric and fur. Which was ironic since they spent so much time in the water with their dragons. How did that work anyway? Thoughts for another time.
The wind shifted about an hour or two before dawn and with it a sense of foreboding.
He stood and moved farther into the darkness, the lantern light had long since been put out. The princess stiffened, her eyes widening and Arrik held a finger to his lips. She snapped her mouth shut and closed her eyes.
The whisper of fabric against foliage caught his attention the moment before a shadow drifted through the white sheer curtains as silent as the night. One of the slats of the wooden floor creaked and the assassin froze for a second before continuing toward the bed. Arrik had chosen this room because of its faulty floor. It made it more difficult for someone to sneak up on him.
Without a second thought, Arrik slunk from the wall and crept toward the intruder. He crossed the room, Kalles’ dagger in his hand as he stepped over the mess of broken dishes from his tussle with the princess. He hadn’t cleaned it up. It was just another obstacle for anyone planning on sneaking in. Arrik gritted his teeth as one of the floorboards squeaked again. It didn’t always work in his favor.
He launched himself at the assassin who spun to face him. The killer avoided his attack and stepped backward, a blade flashing in the moonlight. Arrik darted out of the way and cursed as the intruder turned their attention back to Wren.
He should not have left her unarmed.
The assassin reached for her at the same moment she levered up and slammed her head into their face. The killer cried out and Arrik grabbed them by the back of their hood and placed a dagger at their throat.
“Don’t!” the princess cried out.
He knocked the blade out of the killer’s hand. “They just tried to kill you.”
“But why?”
Why indeed.
Coming to his senses, he took the intruder to the ground and wrapped his arm around their neck, choking the air from their lungs. The assassin scrabbled, clawing at his arms but soon their struggles slowed and then ceased.