Page 7 of The Beautiful Blade

I wanted to reach for the dagger but knew that if I showed how precious it was that it would then be lost to me. But I wasn't in my right mind today, not after Charlotte's kiss. I was also feeling stronger with her healing magic in the palm of my hand. So I reached for the dagger.

“Careful, Olric. He might poke you with it.”

The laughter that followed made my fists clench. Olric took a step forward. His large shadow swallowed the faint light of the forge.

I didn’t think. I just moved. The hilt of the dagger was solid in my palm, the blade an extension of me. I swung it upward, and the edge caught Olric’s forearm. He yelped, stumbling back as the blade left a thin, red line across his skin.

“You little—” Olric roared.

I didn't hear any more. Both of them were on me. I hit the floor hard, the dagger knocked from my grip as fists pummeled my ribs, my arms, my face. My body screamed in protest, my bones aching under the assault.

“Stop!”

In all my years with my uncle and his demon spawn, I'd never dared utter that word. No one had: not my uncle, not the other workers standing around orturning a blind eye. So when that word sounded in the middle of the whacks and thumps, it rang through the forge like a thunderclap. The beating stopped abruptly.

I cracked one swollen eye open just in time to see Charlotte standing in the doorway. Her blue eyes blazed with fury, her shoulders squared like a warrior’s. Her unfinished birthday blade gleamed dangerously in her hand.

“Get off him.” Charlotte's voice was low and deadly.

Olric’s face paled. “We weren’t—we didn’t?—”

“Now.” The tip of the dagger gleamed as she held it out.

Dain and Olric scrambled back, stumbling over themselves in their haste. Olric glared at her, but he didn’t dare say anything. Not to a fairy princess.

“Run to your father,” Charlotte said coldly. “Tell him you’re all dismissed.”

The threat landed, and they slunk out of the forge, casting one last venomous glare my way before disappearing out the door.

Charlotte knelt beside me, her face softening as she looked me over. “Jorge? Are you all right?”

I tried to sit up. Pain flared through my ribs. "You can't do that. You can't dismiss my uncle. He'll take me away from you."

"No one will take you away from me. You are mine." The dagger lay beside her. The firelight caught thesharp edge as though it backed up her words. “I mean, you belong to the manor. I'll tell my mother. It will all be fine."

Her hands were gentle as she helped me sit up. Her fingers brushed against my bruised skin. At her touch, the bruising went quiet, the pain silent. As if the agony didn’t dare linger in the wake of her touch, as if her presence alone demanded my body to stop its protest and simply feel… good.

"Don't waste your power on me."

"I won't leave you in pain."

The ache that had lodged itself deep inside me began to dissolve, replaced by a warmth that spread outward like sunlight on dissolving morning dew. Charlotte's wasn’t the kind of healing that mended torn flesh or stitched gaping wounds. The pain didn’t fade because I was healed; it faded because she willed it to. She was a drug, and I had to remember that my body was still injured despite feeling numb. Every part of me felt alive, hyper-aware of her proximity, of her hands, her scent, her voice.

And that was the danger, wasn’t it? Pain was the body’s way of announcing that something was wrong. Charlotte was a descendant of poppies, flowers renowned for their soothing properties, able to lull even the sharpest pain into a gentle stupor. My injuries weren't life-threatening, just a nuisance. Anuisance she'd ensured wouldn't bother me while they healed.

"Now are you coming or not? We've already missed the opening ceremony."

I took her hand. The bandage had come away, leaving the wound exposed. Charlotte pressed her palm to mine. The jagged scar protested. I ignored it. The moment her flesh met mine, all the hurt went happily silent. Our fingers remained linked all the way to the stables.

CHAPTER FOUR

CHARLOTTE

"Do something with the nails and makeup. The prince likes red." With that, my mother descended from the carriage in a flurry of silk and lilies. Her floral scent lingered in the air, her anthers seeming to pollinate the space with a silent reprimand.

Belle turned to me. Her green eyes were apologetic as she reached for my hands.

I pulled them away. “I can’t do this.”

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