“You crossed a line tonight, Princess.”
Wren crossed her arms over her chest. “Do not Princess me. I have had enough of all your false politeness. It is clear what your family thinks of me—what you all think of me—and I do not intend to put up with it. If you will not defend me, then I’d rather spend my days rotting in here.”
She expected him to scoff at the suggestion that he would defend her against his own kin, especially after the blank look on his face during dinner while his brothers were insulting her, but, to her surprise, Arrik sighed, then got to his feet.
“You are correct,” he murmured. “Truly, they were shameful tonight, but I cannot protect you from my father if you will not listen to me. I am trying but you are still fighting against me.” He glanced away, his jaw ticking in anger. “You’ll have to spend tonight in here, but I do promise to keep you from the worst of my brothers’ ire and stupidity in the future.”
“We do not have a future.”
His attention snapped to her, and he stepped into her space, towering over Wren. The prince leaned closer and ensnared her with his eyes. “We are bound, you and I,” he whispered. “Our futures are more entangled for every moment that passes.” Her breath hitched as he brushed the tip of his nose against hers. “It’s inevitable, but I know you. You need to be in control just like me. I can wait for you to choose.”
“I won’t choose this. Choose you.” It felt like a lie, but she desperately wanted it to be the truth.
He cocked his head. “Wife, the choice has already been made.”
Her hands shook but she kept her head held high. “I refuse for this to be my future. There has to be more.”
The prince nodded. “There is but only if you stick with me. All you have to do is take my hand.”
She swallowed hard and looked away. “I need to think.”
He nodded slowly and backed toward the door. “A wise choice.” He paused and asked hesitantly, “Is there anything I can get you to make your night more…comfortable?”
There was nothing Wren could say in response to what Arrik had said. Just like when he had explained to her that he was, in fact, the firstborn son, Wren knew in her heart that he was speaking the truth. He had not wanted his family to insult her. The blank expression on his face had been a mask.
And yet the prince was still her enemy. He was the man responsible for destroying her family and her kingdom. Rowen was dead because of him.
A small kindness from him now meant nothing.
But Wren did need something from him.
“Some lamb, if you would,” Wren said, glancing at Arrik from beneath her lashes in an act she hoped came across as reluctant but necessary. “I did not eat much at dinner.”
“You never eat much at dinner.”
“That’s because I do not like the food here!” she fired back, getting annoyed despite herself. Arrik’s eyes found hers, and she saw that he had genuinely softened at her comment.
“That is another error on my part. What would you like to eat? Is it the way it’s cooked?”
“Roasted on an open flame. Rare, if possible.”
A pause. Then Arrik shook his head and laughed softly. “A true dragon. I shall see what I can do.”
Time ticked by slowly and half an hour later, a guard came in and reluctantly handed her a bowl of fire-roasted lamb that set her stomach growling. She stared at the meat. That was one thing she could say about the prince: he did not lie.
The mad boy approached immediately. “You cannot possibly eat all that by your lonesome.”
“Of course not,” Wren replied, rolling her eyes before ripping off some of the meat and pushing it through the bars of the cell to her companion. His eyes gleamed, fixated on the steaming meat.
“You are a true princess. A princess of smoking meat.”
She could not stop herself laughing at the comment, nor at the way the boy scoffed down the lamb without taking a breath. Wren ate far more slowly, chewing on the same piece of meat over and over again before swallowing.
After all, most of the lamb was not for her nor for the boy.
Hopefully, the dragon was hungry.
28
Arrik
He paced in his room, his gaze moving to the empty blankets and bed. It felt wrong that Wren wasn’t here with him. How had that happened? She was a tool to be used to thwart his father. Now, she’d become something else…something Arrik longed to possess.
Even now her scent seemed to permeate the room, driving him mad. He dropped down into his chair and stared blankly at the bed. Tonight hadn’t gone like he’d planned. His father had been in a foul mood and as soon as Wren had walked into the room, his attention had homed in on her.
The image of Wren standing in the dungeon in her gown and jewels flashed through his mind. She didn’t belong there. Arrik growled and stood back up. He stared at his door. What good was it being the king’s favorite son if he didn’t take advantage of it? Wren was his wife. She’d done nothing wrong and Arrik would be damned if he let her sit for a moment longer in the dungeon.
She belonged here, with him.
29
Wren
“A princess in rags, now a prisoner in riches,” the boy commented. He whistled. “That is some dress you have on.”
“Charming. What of it?” she grouched.
“Do you not wish to tell me how your status changed?”
“Do you actually wish to hear it?”
“But of course!” the boy insisted, jumping to his feet to emphasize his enthusiasm. His eyes gleamed in Wren’s direction. “Considering the prince of nothing just showed up for some…conversation…”
Wren clucked her tongue, disgusted. “I did not do what you are thinking. Nothing even close.”
“So, what, then?”
“It’s something even worse.”
At this, the mad boy seemed to grow genuinely interested. “What is worse than diving beneath the sheets with one’s enemy?”
“Marrying them.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?” Wren also got to her feet, somehow affronted by the boy’s lack of a reaction. “Oh? Is that all you can say to such a horrific thing happening to me?”
“You’re surely clever enough to know that being married to the enemy does not have to be a bad thing. The line between enemy and lover is very fine indeed.”
So stunned at the comment, Wren took a step backward. What he’d said was not a riddle or a jibe. It was a genuine, sane statement. She narrowed her eyes at him, suspicious. “You are…not what you seem, are you?”
The boy shrugged, then sat with his back against the grille of the cell that separated him from Wren, indicating for her to do the same. And so, though she did not feel much like sitting, she followed suit so that their backs were to each other with just the iron bars between them. Wren felt the warmth of his skin through the grate, reminding her that she was not the only living thing in the dungeon.
The heat was welcome; between her flimsy dress and the freezing prison, Wren had already begun shivering.
“What do you think of the Verlantian Court?” the boy asked after a while, the singsong nature of his voice still not having returned. “You must have seen it when the guards escorted you out.”
“So, you haven’t?”
A surprisingly low chuckle, but otherwise no response.
Wren tried to make sense of this. It was clear that if she asked anything personal about the boy, she would receive no coherent answer. But, perhaps, through answering his questions about herself, she could discern a bit more about her mysterious, possibly-not-quite-mad companion.
“I hate it,” she began. “It’s beautiful and wretched and light and evil, and I want nothing more than to escape from it. It’s fresh and pure on the outside, but it’s diseased down to its very core. Completely rotten. This land is corrupt.” Wren took a breath, pausing from her tirade, before adding in a much quieter voice, “Verlanti is the throne of vipers.”