Page 26 of The Warlord's Wildflower
I should’ve tried harder to stop him. Fenric almost died yesterday. One bee sting. One. And suddenly, the mighty warrior who laughs off battle wounds was gasping in my arms, his skin clammy, his pulse slowing. He should be resting!
Idiot. Beautiful, reckless, infuriating idiot.
My little cottage appears, and I practically dive inside, pressing my back to the door and exhaling. I made it.
My dress slides from my shoulders, and I fold it carefully. It still smells like him, like leather and sunshine. It makes my pulse skip. That same scent that clung to my skin last night when he…
My breath hitches. I shouldn’t think about it. I definitely shouldn’t think about the way his hands had gripped my thighs, or the rough heat of his tongue, or the sounds I’d made when he’d kissed me there,everywhere, like I was something sacred to be worshipped. My face burns just remembering it, my body thrumming with a restless, unfamiliar ache.
What would it be like to taste him like that?
The thought slips in unbidden, sending a shiver down my spine. Would he moan like I had? Would his strong body tremble under my hands? Would he groan my name in a broken, desperate voice?
No. I press my palms to my cheeks, as if I could physically shove the images away. Cool water does nothing to calm my flaming skin.
The soft yellow dress I change into is simple. My braid is lopsided, my ribbon doesn’t match, and I don’t care.
Elda’s herb pouch finds its place at my belt, and I touch it gently. This little pouch saved his life yesterday. Maybe the Gods had heard my frantic prayers after all.
I take a shaky breath and open the door.
We have to be seen today. Together. It’s the tournament's final day, and Dakar made it very clear that if we seem anything less than desperately in love…
But why me?
Of all the bold, beautiful women in the stronghold, why had Fenric claimed me? The silly girl who names the garden snails, who jumps at loud noises, and cries when the baby goats are born?
My hand flutters to my chest, where my heart is doing a somersault. No more hiding. Time to face everyone and watch my stubborn, reckless, and far-too-handsome champion fight again.
Just, please, don’t let there be any bees.
The pounding of hooves echoes in the distance as I sprint toward the training field, loose curls bouncing wildly against my back and the hem of my yellow dress fluttering around my knees. I should have braided my hair tighter. I should have changed faster. I should have done a hundred sensible things this morning that didn't involve having a mild panic attack in the middle of my cottage.
I couldn’t so much as glance at the bed without my entire body flushing like an overripe berry.
I dart between the brightly colored tournament tents, avoiding eye contact with anyone and everyone as I hurry past, my cheeks surely redder than the banners flapping overhead. My belt pouch bounces against my hip with each step, and I have to resist the childish urge to peek inside just to ensure the herbs are still safely tucked away.
By the time I reach the large white tent draped in Blackhorns' tribal colors, my sandals are dusty and my breath comes in short, embarrassing gasps. I tug the flap open and practically collapse inside, overheated and disheveled.
Maeve spots me first. Her eyebrows lift nearly to her hairline, and she smirks without uttering a single word. Which is somehow infinitely worse than if she'd shouted her thoughts to the entire tournament grounds.
“Made it,” I wheeze, attempting not to look like a startled doe. My voice comes out several octaves higher than usual. “Hello.”
Beatrice grins up from where she's lounging on a cushioned bench. “Your braid's coming undone on the left side,” she announces cheerfully.
Maeve makes a sound suspiciously like a choked laugh. “It certainly is.”
I drop into the empty seat between them and bury my burning face in my hands. “Please, don't,” I whisper, though the plea is hopeless. Beatrice has never met a boundary she wouldn't joyfully trample, especially when it comes to matters of romance and scandal.
She leans close, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “So. Was it as magnificent as he looks, or better?”
“Beatrice!” My entire body goes rigid with shock.
Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Details, Annie. The people demand details.”
Maeve's hand finds mine beneath the folds of my dress, giving a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Are you alright?”
I nod quickly, peeking at her through the fingers of my other hand, still shielding my burning cheeks from view. “Yes. I just... I truly tried to stop him from competing today. I did. But, he's...”
