Page 33 of His Summer Prince

Wren

Wren sat in Upper Fairstead’s market square, shearing the final sheep. Tall baskets of wool clustered around him, ready to be sold to the spinners of the village. As he finished, Miss Wright stopped by. She picked up a handful of wool and smelled it, the small, black mole on her nose jumping as her nostrils twitched.

“Ah, I can tell your sheep live healthy lives.” Miss Wright nodded her approval. “I know a girl who keeps her flock in a barn for most of the year, and her wool stinks. I tell you, itstinks. Won’t buy from her again. And oh, before I forget.” She reached into the pocket of her dress and fished out a creased letter. “A traveling merchant came by a couple of days ago and asked me to give this to you next time you visited.”

“Thank you.” Wren took the paper from her and unfolded it.

It was from his mother, saying she’d found a match for him, a woman in her thirties who’d returned from the war with an injury. She couldn’t fight anymore and was looking to marry and start a family. Wren rolled his eyes. In her parting lines, his mother threatened she would come and drag him home if he didn’t return voluntarily. Wonderful.

Wren was not in the mood to deal with his mother. What was he supposed to tell her? He could hardly explain that he was already married—well, he’d love to tell her that, but it’d expose Elior, which was the last thing he wanted.

Wren exhaled and stuffed the letter into his bag. Miss Wright bought a few baskets of wool, and he helped her carry them toher workshop. By early evening, he was sold out and itching to return to Elior. Toby helped him herd the freshly shorn flock through the village’s narrow lanes and down the hill, into the valley.

Wren did his best to count and recount the sheep as he went, not wanting to lose another one. By the time he reached the valley floor, the flock complete, there was a spring in his step. His mother’s plans be damned, he was practically loping toward his shepherd’s hut and Elior. Ah, Elior. Warmth spread in his chest. He’d felt his presence all day, their souls resting against each other, but he craved being by his side.

He found him sitting on a woolen blanket outside the hut, working on their midsummer wreaths. One, made of a base of birch twigs interwoven with rue and rosemary, hung finished above the hut’s door as a blessing for their little home. In addition, Elior had made a crown of wild roses and was putting the final touches to a second one full of marguerites and cornflowers. It would look incredible on Elior’s strawberry blond head.

But as he approached, Elior’s nervous fidgeting worried him. The bond was oddly agitated, a current running through it. Wren had felt a twinge here and there during the afternoon, but he’d interpreted it as mild discomfort. The distance must’ve dampened their connection.

Toby rushed over and jumped into Elior’s lap, licking his face. Elior barely managed to save the flower crowns, then hugged Toby, laughing at his overeagerness.

Once Toby had calmed down, it was Wren’s turn. He crawled into Elior’s embrace, arms wrapping around him.

“I missed you,” Wren said in his ear, then pulled away and cupped his face. “You’re all right?” Elior averted his eyes, and Wren hugged him once more. “Thank you for making the wreath and the flower crowns. They’re beautiful.”

Elior held him tight, his hands turning into fists, bunching Wren’s shirt. “I love you.”

What had brought that on? Wren sent soothing waves into the bond, each one affirming their sacred connection. “I love you too.” He pressed a kiss to Elior’s cheek. “What’s going on?”

Elior sighed. “Juniper came by earlier. The Winter King is about to arrive, and Mother roped her in to drag me back.”

“Oh.”

“I told her not today, but that I’d come tomorrow.” Elior blew out air.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Wren said, “my mother wants to marry me off too. Found a veteran who’s keen to settle down.”

“She wrote to you?”

“Afraid so.”

Elior was silent for a long time. The tall grass swayed in the breeze, butterflies dancing between wild flowers. As the minutes passed, determination solidified in the bond. An iron quality accompanied the familiar feeling of Elior’s love. Its raw strength sent chills over Wren’s skin. “You’re up to something.”

“Yes,” Elior said. “I’m up to something.” He pinched his lips into a thin line. “I know a way for us to be together. Forever. Your mother doesn’t have much to hold over your head. She can’t force you—a human priestess would refuse to marry you against your will. You wouldn’t even have to show her your wedding mark. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“What’s your plan?”

Elior shook his head. Apprehension filled the bond. He wouldn’t or couldn’t tell Wren—perhaps to protect him.

Wren put a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me. Just know that when I need to do my part, I will. No matter what it is.”

A sly smile crossed Elior’s lips. “Good to know.”

“Of course.” Wren kissed the corner of his mouth. “Now, let’s get ready for tonight.”

They fed Toby, then moved the sheep into the pen. Elior crowned Wren with a wreath of wild roses, and Wren returned the favor. He’d been right—Elior looked gorgeous with the white and blue flowers and lush green leaves atop his head.

It was a warm evening, and the sun wouldn’t set for hours, but once the stars came out, even the year’s shortest night would get chilly. Wren climbed into the shepherd’s hut to grab his jacket and Elior’s cashmere shawl, the fabric soft and warm between his fingers. He locked up and told Toby to look after the flock, receiving an affirmative “woof.” Elior petted him, and then they were off, taking the blanket with them for good measure.

---