Page 15 of A Brat's Tale
I wouldn’t have been doing this for Corrik. Not because I wouldn’t have wanted to, but I would never have been permitted. This kind of thing is beneath royals.
Ugh.I have to stop thinking about Corrik though. I’ve kept him locked away in a box all this time. What a time for him to spring out, seemingly larger than when he was stuffed into the box, and I can’t seem to fit him back inside.
I bump into Tom and Mary. “Good day to you, Warlord. What mischief you up to?”
I smirk. Yeah, I’m a brat and I own it. To be fair, the first real adventure I’d got myself into when I was here, involved textbook bratting. I didn’t think so at the time, but I can see it now.
I blame Bayaden. He brings it out in me.
Mary and Tom are both fully clothed. Mary, because she works in the kitchens and her mistress feels that makes sense, plus she likes to doll Mary up. Tom because the king tends to be a bit possessive. Well, Tom calls it protective, I call it possessive. The king is not as polyamorous as other Elves, which usually does not extend to slaves, but it does in this case. Personally, I think the king’s sweet on him and can’t admit it due to all the rules, which apparently, not even the king can break in Aldrien.
But it’s easier for the king to find reason enough to bend the rules to clothe Tom than for Baya to clothe me. It’s a symbol here—ridiculous as that is—and Baya has to consider what his warriors would think if he gave me too many Elven privileges. Besides, me naked doesn’t bother Bayaden in the least. The most he allows me is some protection on the training fields.
Gods damn exhibitionist he is.
“Sorry to disappoint, but no mischief today. Just mushrooms.”
“Bayaden’s favorites?” Mary asks, knowing me.
Hotness flushes over my face. “Perhaps. Have you seen any?”
“Over there.” She points and winks.
“What about you two?”
“I was sent to help Mary, but I’ve got to return to the king,” Tom says.
“My usual. Kitchen errands for Meren.” She looks around and leans toward me. “You should know Tristan, there’s a big dinner coming up. Rumor has it, Bayaden’s attending.”
I raise my brows. “Bayaden never attends those.” At least not willingly.
Her face says she knows and that’swhyshe told me.
Baya also hasn’t said a word about it, which is probably why she’sbeing so timid about it. I’m probably not meant to know until Baya finally decides to tell me. “Thank you, Mary. I’ll see you two up there, then.”
I get that sensation in my gut again, like looking over a ledge.
My bare feet grip the hard dirt as I pad over to the place where Mary said I could get mushrooms, show my tag to the vendor so he’ll charge the palace accounts, and carry on to the spice stands. Then I catch sight of long blond hair. Most Aldriens have dark hair, some have grey, there’s even white, but blond is rare. I can’t see the face, they’re wearing a hooded cloak, I have to follow to find out.
As much as I didn’t want to be saved, with how ardently Corrik seemed to love me, I thought he would come. Part of me considered this a short holiday from the real world, at first, because I was certain I wasn’t going to be here long. But when he never came, especially after I was able to get Diekin out of here, I told myself he’d moved on too.
It made it easier to put him in a box I could store on the shelf in my mind, never open it, let it collect dust.
But maybe he has been looking all this time? Maybe he’s here.
I stash my mushrooms and spices somewhere I can collect them later and follow the lone rider. The Elf is big enough to be Corrik. The ears are the right height, the shoulders are broad enough, but I don’t see a sword.
Corrik wore a sword to head down to the kitchens when he thought there might be cause to, no way he’d head into enemy territory without one.
Unless there was some reason he couldn’t.
My heart lifts, which I did not expect. An aching begins from somewhere deep within me and my blood races. I chase after the rider now, fuck his cover, I need to know if it’s him and I’m not letting him get beyond that gate without seeing. There are limits to where I can go, my collar does not get me past the marketplace gates. “Sir! Sir! I think you dropped something.”
The rider stops, turns to face me, frowning.
It’s not Corrik. A beautiful Elven man with blue eyes, but not Corrik. “I’m sorry, were you talking to me?”
“Ah, no. I thought you were someone else. Sorry to trouble you.”
