“Are you a danger to me?” she whispered, holding his icy blue gaze.
“I’m a danger to everyone.” The prince spoke quietly like he was speaking to himself. He stepped back and held his hand out. “Are you ready to face the wolves?” he asked, changing the subject.
Wren faced him and took his hand. “I was raised with dragons. I can handle a few wolves.”
27
Wren
The dinner was exactly what Wren had imagined it would be: overly opulent and full of snide laughter and too much alcohol. Arrik’s brothers kept making comments about her—even Kalles who had tried to help her—ensuring she did not forget how filthy and disgusting she’d been when she had been brought up from the dungeon.
I’d rather all that muck and blood to your laughter.
To her right, Arrik caught her eye, and imperceptibly shook his head. She could tell he knew exactly what she was thinking. But all he did was smile blandly, his expression giving nothing away about what he thought. This only served to annoy her further.
Don’t make a scene. Keep your head down.
She took a delicate sip of her pumpkin soup. The king’s voice rose, catching her attention. Wren tried to focus on her soup and block out his words. She had deliberately avoided listening to him so far.
“Oh, the Dragon Isles have put up far more of a fight than any of us could have expected,” he said, waving a casual hand as he spoke, “but they are now completely subdued.” A pointed look at Wren. “A dragon in chains is just a beast to be tamed, after all. And now we have many of them! Just look at Arrik’s wild bride. All she needed was a strong Verlanti hand to get her in line, just like her mother.”
Her head snapped up and Wren acted before she could think. Grabbing her goblet of wine, she tossed it into the king’s face, even as Arrik caught her wrist. But it was too late.
The entire room went quiet, all laughter and cruel jibes gone in an instant.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
It was clear Wren had crossed a line nobody had thought she’d dare to.
She held her breath as Soren opened his eyes, wine dripping from his hair and face. He chuckled, but his eyes were hard as flint when he stared her down. “It seems someone is yet to learn some respect for her betters. Guards, I think our feral princess is better suited to the dungeon than to the dinner table, don’t you?”
Wren said nothing.
The prince’s fingers tightened on her wrist, and he lowered her hand and the goblet to the table. His expression was like stone. Arrik had promised to protect her but she crossed a boundary. She hadn’t followed her side of the deal.
Calm down. You will be okay. The dragon is in the dungeon.
She exhaled slowly and pulled her wrist from the prince’s fingers. Wren pushed her chair out and stood from the table. She wouldn’t be dragged away kicking and screaming.
“Good evening,” she murmured.
The last thing she saw as the guards escorted her away was the prince, whose blank expression had not cracked but his eyes glared daggers at her.
Good.
She flashed a grin at him the moment before the door was closed behind her.
Be furious. I do not care. I am not your perfect bride who will do what you want.
Then why did she feel so much guilt?
She chuckled as the guards led her down to the dungeons. It seemed that even marriage to the king’s favorite son did not prevent Soren from throwing her into the dungeon. It only served to show Wren how false everything in Verlanti was—all she had to do was splash the king with some wine and here she was, back in her cell.
Well, not her cell. For whatever reason, Wren was thrown into the cell right next to the mad boy, rather than the one two cells over from him.
“I knew you’d be back,” the boy said the moment the door to the prison was slammed shut.
“By the tides,” she breathed. “You’re still here?”
He ignored her.
“And just as mercurial as before.”
“From rags to riches, and riches to rags,” he sang back.
“Oh, be quiet,” Wren snapped back. She had no time nor patience for his twisted, confusing words. No; she had a pocketful of jewels and the ghost of an idea to escape the hell she’d been placed in.
Feeling bold, she rushed to the very edge of the water and stared intently into its dark and murky depths.
“Watch your toes, watch your toes, oh, watch your toes!” the boy cried in his annoying singsong voice.
“I told you to be quiet.” Wren edged just a little farther back from the water anyway, then crossed her arms and considered her options in blessed silence.
The dragon is clearly not trapped in here. The dungeon is too small to house it, and I doubt this strip of water is a narrow, deep pool. And it definitely rose and receded like the tide. It’s attached to the sea. The dragon can come and go as it pleases.
The fish definitely hadn’t shown up last time when the dragon did. Wren reasoned that its luminous scales served as a warning for the fish to keep well enough away—which was exactly what Wren needed.
Which meant she had to escape alongside the dragon.
No, Wren had to ride the dragon. That’s if he didn’t kill her while she attempted such a thing.
Behind her, the prison door creaked open, and Wren did not have to turn around to know who had deigned to visit. To her left, the mad boy retreated into the shadows of his cell—to obscure his presence or for some other reason, Wren did not know.
“I thought we had a deal,” the prince said softly.
Her shoulders tensed up as his dark tone slithered over her skin. “We did.”
“You broke it.”
“Do not pretend to care about that,” she replied calmly. “You’re put out that I ruined your plans.”
“My plans?”
She slowly faced her husband. “I am not a fool. You gained much more than I in the deal. You may have not locked me away in your rooms, but I am a prisoner just the same.”
But no longer. She’d escape this night. No more waiting. Wren could feel it in her bones: tonight was the night. Soren throwing her into the prison had been exactly what she needed to sneak out of the complacent rut she’d found herself in.
Wren raised her brows as the prince entered the cell and then sat down on the disgusting stone floor a few feet away from her.
“What are you doing?”
He gave her a hard smile. “Sitting, of course.”
“Why?”
Her husband sighed and leaned his head against the grate. “Did you really have to throw wine at my father?” he countered.
“No. Well, yes.” She tossed her hands in the air. “What else would you have had me do?”
He laughed softly. “I suppose I should be thankful you did not have a knife this time.”
Wren hated herself for it, but she smiled. His dry humor would be the death of her. “I’ll regret that I did not possess a dagger during that dinner for the rest of my life.” Her gut churned as she thought over his words. “The king is a pig.”
“As are most men,” the prince commented. “But you’re not leading a crusade of hate toward them.”
“He is a murderer,” she snapped back, feeling exposed.
“Do you seriously intend to be so vicious to him, knowing you’ll end up in here every time?” Arrik asked, waving a hand around at the cell. “His words don’t matter. Just ignore him.”
“His words hold power,” she countered. “How could you expect me to stay silent when he was speaking so ill of my people, of me? Why did you…” She closed her mouth, halting the flow of words.
The prince’s expression shifted as he watched her. “Say it.”
Wren glared at him. “You did nothing. You swore to protect me and yet here I am in the dungeon.”
He cursed. “You acted rashly before I had a chance to. While my situation is precarious at times, yours is far worse. I told you that I could only protect you if you obeyed me.”
“Like an animal,” she sniped.