Page 14 of The Warlord's Wildflower
“Well done, Fenric,” Dakar nods. “You’ve given the crowd a fine show.”
The other male barely looks at me. “Passable.”
I raise a brow. “Thank you, Commander. I aim to be exactly that, passable.”
Dakar makes an amused grunt.
Garron doesn’t.
Instead, he turns to Dakar and says, like I’m not standingright here, “As for the other matter, there’s no need to continue the search. I’ve seen the one I want.”
My ears flick. I don’t like the tone of that.
Garron continues, voice heavy with smugness. “The dark-skinned girl in purple. The sweet one that trembles like a rabbit. She’ll do it.”
My heart drops.
He means Annie.
“I’ll announce it at the feast tonight,” Garron says, already walking away. “Our clans will join, and I will take her as my mate.”
“You seem certain,” Dakar calls to his retreating back, arms crossed. “But you forget, she would have to accept.”
Garron glances back, brows lifting as if the idea is amusing. “A female like that doesn’t know what’s best for her. She’ll accept, once it’s made clear.”
My jaw tightens. My tail twitches once, betraying the fury brewing in my chest.
Dakar’s gaze hardens. “We don’t force our women, Garron. Not here. Not ever. If she says no, it means no.”
He gives a thin, dismissive smile and turns away fully this time, calling over his shoulder, “She won’t.”
I stare at his back, and for the first time all day, I don’t feel victorious. Because I know Annie, she’ll agree just because she doesn’t like confrontation. She may be shy and soft-spoken and sweet enough to make the Gods weep. She’s not some treaty gift or bargaining chip in a brute’s power game.
She’s Annie.MyAnnie.
If he even thinks about touching her without her consent?
I’ll bury him in the ring.
Favor or no favor.
Chapter Nine
Annie
Maeve guides me into the great hall, her grip firm on my arm, like she’s afraid I might float away if she lets go, and she's probably right. My head feels as if it's full of feathers.
The hall is a riot of noise. Laughter bounces off stone walls, firelight glinting on goblets and armor. The scent of roasted meat and spiced wine wraps around me. I shrink into myself, fingers twisting in the folds of my skirt.
Maeve’s hand stays pressed to the small of my back. Beatrice flanks my other side like a bodyguard, though I notice she keeps sneaking glances toward the tall warrior across the room. Silas catches her eye and smirks. Beatrice trips on nothing, and I’d giggle if I weren’t busy forgetting how to breathe.
My stomach is a tangle of knots. I haven’t eaten all day, but the thought of food makes me queasy. Maeve herds me to the high table, right beside her, like a lost lamb curled up at the foot of a throne. Across from us, the visiting Commander’s eyes are already on me.
I stare hard at my plate.
Dakar murmurs something to Maeve, too low for me to hear. Maeve inhales sharply. Her eyes dart to me, wide with something like alarm.
“Maeve?”
