Page 68 of A Bargain with the Fae King

Sigurd stands shirtless, a faint sheen of sweat glistening on creamy skin. A thick, wooden staff is angled toward the opponent he’s staring down. The other male, slightly taller, with darkly tanned skin and long hair, sucks in a labored breath. Trails of sweat run down his muscular chest and arms.

“Oh, Lia, they’re—” she starts.

But I don’t hear the rest of her words.

Not when Sigurd’s eyes flick to me and a wicked grin spreads across his features. With a huff of laughter, he charges his opponent faster than a gust of air. Their staves meet in a crash and groan of wood.

Riven could barely stand the night before, so drained by reparation of the wards, and still, he slumbers. Yet this king looks like he’s rested for days, unphased by the exertion of such a task. True, he didn’t shift himself back here, but that activity alone shouldn’t make such a big difference.

Another shiver wracks my body. Sigurd has more strength, magical and otherwise, than I thought. Much more.

Sylvie’s hand on my arm jerks me back to the moment.

“Let’s go,” she says. “It’s probably best not to ogle these showoffs.”

At some point, Galen had appeared at her side and now nods along with her words. His jaw is stiff, as if something bothers him, but I can’t say what.

We retreat to the well-worn jogging paths from the day before. But after only two laps, Galen skids to a stop in front of me, nearly sending me careening into his back as my shoes slide against the dirt, scrambling for purchase.

“Hey, wha—” I step to his side, even as he stretches an arm in front of me, urging me back.

Sigurd waits where the path turns through the edge of a clearing, still shirtless and smirking. He brushes a lock of dark, sweat-dampened hair behind one pointed ear as he stares us down.

Sylvie comes to a stop on my other side, bracketing me between them.

“Did you enjoy the duel?” he asks. The question could have been directed at any of us, yet his blue eyes focus only on me, twisting a cord of nerves within my stomach.

“I…” Suddenly it’s hard to speak, to find the right words. “I only saw a moment of it.”

“A pity.” He shrugs. “Come. Walk with me.” Sigurd holds out a hand in my direction.

Both Galen and Sylvie stand utterly still in my periphery, giving nothing away.

“Why?”Danger, danger, dangerflashes inside my head. Whatever he wants, it can’t be good. I fight the urge to step back, to turn and run.

“As a favor for someone who helped repair the wards here and whose guard helps to search for your little sister.” He looks down at his hand as if picking at his nails, but I’d wager they’re clean as ever. “Surely a conversation isn’t too much to ask for?”

I swallow. When he phrases it like that, no, he’s not asking for too much.

But with him standing there so casually, sunlight glinting off the sheen of sweat on his bare chest, stepping even a foot closer to him feels impossible.

My gaze flicks between my guards again, begging them to intervene.

They don’t. Maybe they can’t, not when facing a fae king.

“Sit with me then?” He nods his head toward an elaborate wooden bench only a few feet away. Its back railing blooms with orange flowers. “Your guards can stay near if it gives you comfort.”

I swallow. “It would.”

This time, Galen gives a brief nod. I fumble with the bracelet around my wrist, the beautiful emeralds from Solona. Sigurd can’t shift me away—if he even can with the wards up—

and he and Riven made a pact of nonviolence until May is found. I should be safe.

And yet…

Sigurd, ever the gentleman, motions for me to sit first before he occupies the other end of the bench. One booted foot crosses over his knee as he reclines in all his half-naked glory. And he is glorious. There’s no denying that, no matter how his presence sets me on edge.

“I heard that you made a bargain with him,” he says. “Why?”

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