Page 38 of The Forgotten Prince

He rose then, stealing her chance, and with a sigh, his hand slid off her shoulder.

For the longest moment, Gwendolyn couldn’t move.

She didn’t turn. She knelt there in the muck too long, staring beyond the thicket where Loc’s men had gone.

17

This was as good a spot as any to camp whilst they waited for the weather to turn. The maples and oaks served as a natural cover, and the entire perimeter was ringed by brushwood and brambles.

During their time there, several travelers ventured by, and Gwendolyn deliberated why, after so many long hours on the road, there were soldiers now roaming the area. All throughout Silures they’d encountered nary a soul, and here, as they grew closer to Lifer Pol, there were sundry troops in the area.

It could be they were brigands—and perhaps that man whose song had cut her to the bone was only an opportunist, hoping to join with the Usurper now that Loc was in control. Unfortunately, there would be many who would do so, Gwendolyn realized. There were some who might consider him the better choice only because the tide had turned in his favor. Loc was charming when he wished to be, and even Gwendolyn had longed so desperately to believe in him…

Until that day in the grotto, when he’d put his hands upon her, and sent her flying from the cavern.

Even now, the look of fury on Málik’s face filled her with shame—not because Gwendolyn feared he had judged her—she knew he did not. Because she had put herself in such an untenable position. If not for Málik’s intervention, that day could have gone so dreadfully wrong, and she would have lost her virginity to the one man she now most despised.

It was only Málik’s defiance that had saved her.

Remembering that day, she considered… what if those hands had been Málik’s? What if he had been the one to put her back against the wall then laid his palm against her hip? What if it were Málik who’d leaned close… pressing the heat of his chest against her own… with the rush of the ocean drowning out the beat of her heart? Would she have let him lay her down?

Would she have lifted her face for his kiss?

Would she have drawn him closer?

Even as she’d wished to this afternoon?

And thereafter, would she have given him her heart?

Gods. Even then, she had loved him—with his unapologetically crooked smile and his storm-filled eyes.

One thing was certain, she would never have wed that monster.

Shrugging away impracticable thoughts, Gwendolyn busied herself preparing a pallet. Each of them had only one blanket, but she had her father’s cloak, and that had been enough to keep her warm, although she longed for the heat of Málik’s body to warm her through the night—indescribably delicious, especially on a freezing night. But though she somehow settled herself without giving away her yearning thoughts, she had trouble extricating the memory of his lips from her skin and his whisper. It harassed her, like a stubborn midge fly, buzzing at her ear. Long into the wee hours, she could still hear his silky voice. It made her smile, but along with those sweet words, he had shattered her heart into a thousand bits. Lying alone beneath the stars and moon, she was having a difficult time reminding herself why she must fight.

Already, the battle seemed lost.

For one, she had abandoned her city to a man who could too easily take it, and if she lost Trevena, she had an army of only five to retake it—including Lir, who’d yet to prove he had the wherewithal to fight.

And Esme, whose mercurial mood left Gwendolyn wondering.

Even as she thought this, she watched as Esme stole away into the woods, and Gwendolyn turned upon her pallet, huffing a sigh of irritation over their current state of affairs.

Why did she think she could do this?

Who was she to believe any man would follow her?

It was enough to make her weep, but tears would gain her nothing and lose her much—the confidence placed in her, for one. But here in the darkest hour of the night, she must confess, if only to herself, her mettle was mostly a ruse. And though she liked to believe herself hard-wearing and her heart made of stone, neither of those things were true—not if one tender word from Málik could penetrate her well-shored armor.

Very well, not one kind word, two.

“You are a rare flower,” he’d said, and then, “Art beautiful.”

Two compliments given with the bestowal of a kiss.

The memory of it made her lips tingle and her skin burn.

Groaning inwardly, Gwendolyn turned again, putting her entire body into the effort, impatient over the way she felt—the ludicrous thoughts now rampaging through her brain. From the day she could walk and talk—nay, from the instant she could understand the conveyance of a look—she’d known her mother found her wanting. And no matter that her father had cared for her, and always treated her with sincere affection, he was never the sort to speak of love.

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