Page 5 of The Warlord's Wildflower
When I first arrived, after the Minotaurs had come and taken us from Havenmore, I was so terrified I could hardly breathe. I remember the long, tearful journey here. I couldn’t speak a word, not even to Beatrice, who had held my hand the entire way.
Beatrice...she had cried for a week after Maeve was taken and didn’t return. The poor girl couldn’t stop. It was like all the strength had drained out of her, and all that was left was sadness. The fear of being here, of being so far from home, was too much for her.
Not that I had fared much better. I'd cried so often those first few nights that my throat had gone raw, yet I was too afraid to ask anyone for water. The Minotaurs didn’t hurt us. The women of Blackhorn tribe greeted us upon arrival and, when they explained what the humans had done, how we had been used without knowing, it broke my heart. But it also kind of made sense.
The Hucow girls of Havenmore were never treated quite the same as the human village girls. We were taught to smile and be polite. We were trained to be grateful for the smallest kindness, the bare minimum.
So, when they told us the truth, it didn’t feel like a terrible surprise. It felt like something I had always suspected, but had been too afraid to say aloud.
I still don’t know how I feel. Some days, I am so tired it feels like I am made of fog, or my chest feels tight and full of bees. But, as time passes, those days are fewer and farther between.
Maeve has always been the brave one, even if she doesn’t see it. She adjusted more quickly than either of us. Beatrice is still hurting in a way I do not know how to fix. I just try to give her space. I think that's all I can do right now.
She still misses Havenmoor. There’s sadness in her eyes whenever she talks about it. She doesn’t cry anymore. Instead, she's angry. At the world, at Maeve and me, and sometimes at nothing in particular. She does laugh once in a while, even though I can tell it’s not entirely genuine. At least it’s progress.
I pull the curtains aside in my room, letting the last of the daylight seep in. My space is small and simple. There’s a cot, a wooden dresser, and a little table by the window where I set my basket of herbs. It’s not much, but it’s enough, and I’ve made it my own.
I decide to wash up before bed. Peeling off my gown, I shiver as the air licks my bare skin. On my dressing table sits a small porcelain basin and a delicate pitcher filled with rosewater. I pour it slowly, careful not to spill, watching the soft pink petals dance as they swirl in the bowl. I start with my face, and the cool water kisses my cheeks, chasing away the warmth of the day. Then, with a fresh cloth, I gently clean down my arms and neck, trying not to miss a single spot. At last, I tend to my feet, always bare and carrying the dust of my day's wanderings.
I drag my fingers through my curls, wincing as they snag. Aunt Hettie used to say my hair was like the brambles in the garden, wild and stubborn. “No one will tame it, Annie-girl,” she’d sigh, tugging gently with the comb. I wonder if Fenric thinks it’s messy. If he prefers smooth, golden waves like his own.
Stop it. He doesn’t think of you at all.
I open the little jar of honey balm and smooth it gently over my cheeks. It makes my skin feel soft. Then, I take the lavender oil and press a drop to my wrists, before dabbing it on the hollow of my throat. My reflection stares back at me from the small oval mirror I have hung on the wall. I study my figure, how my waist dips in before flaring into generous hips. The heavy swell of my breasts, my dark nipples that are pebbling in the evening chill. My backside is full and ripe, the kind of curves bards write bawdy songs about.
I cross my arms over my chest as if that could hide what the Gods saw fit to give me, and turn away. What does it matter? Fenric has probably bedded a dozen ladies more beautiful than me. They probably don't have flesh that jiggles when they walk or thighs that whisper together with every step. He can’t possibly want some blushing farmgirl who startles at her own shadow.
I slip into my sleeping tunic and curl onto the bed. Knees drawn to my chest, I stare out at the quiet village, but my heart won’t still.
Because tomorrow is the tournament.
And Fenric asked me for my favor.
It doesn’t mean anything. I press my lips together, trying to smother the foolish hope rising inside me. Maybe he only pitied me. Or worse, what if it was all a jest? A cruel game where the others laugh later and I’m left standing alone, ribbons clutched in my trembling hands like some silly, lovestruck girl.
But…what if it wasn’t?
The thought steals my breath. What if, when he enters the ring tomorrow, my token is tied to his arm for all to see? And the whole village knows he chose me?
He won’t.
I bury my face in the pillow, squeezing my eyes shut. It’s foolish to ache like this, my stomach twisting, my thighspressing together as if that could quiet the strange, restless heat low in my belly.
He'sFenric.And I'm just...me.
The thought should sting, but as I shift beneath the thin blankets, there's a traitorous warmth between my thighs. My fingers clutch at the sheets, twisting the fabric as I remember the way his golden eyes sparkled when he asked for my favor. His deep voice, his smile…
A whimper escapes before I can stop it. I push my legs together tightly, but the pressure only makes the ache worse. The linen of my nightdress rasps against my peaked nipples, making me squirm. I suddenly feel too hot and aware of every inch of my body.
I shouldn't…
But my hand is already sliding down my stomach. The first brush of fingertips against my bare skin sends a jolt through me. I'm drenched, slick heat coating my inner thighs.
“F-Fenric,” I whisper into the dark, testing how his name feels on my tongue.
My middle finger dips lower, circling my clit. A sharp gasp punches from my lungs. Stars. I've never—Oh—never touched myself here, not like this. The pleasure pulses through me, leaving me breathless.
“Even the birds stop to listen to you sing.”
