Page 49 of The Prince and His Stolen Groom
I heard the shifting of the couch as Brendon stood up behind me. In a half-panic I limped to put a chair between us before I turned to face him.
“I’m not mad about the letters,” he said carefully. “It’s nice to knowsomeoneread them. Feels less like I wasted my time. Now, would you stop fooling around and sit down? You’re going to reopen your wounds.”
“I’m fine like this.” Though if it weren’t for the chair I would have fallen over already.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Rick.” He took a step toward me and I hobbled a step back. He froze and his eyes narrowed at me, like he was reading the fine print of a contract, determined to understand it down to the last letter. His assessment somehow made me even more nervous than his hands.
He stepped forward.
I took another hurried step back, clutching the chair back to keepfrom collapsing in front of him. Falling into his arms while at half-mast was a surefire way to get the sails fully hoisted.
He stepped forward again, his stride long, leisurely, calculated. With my shuffling rate, he’d already cut the distance in half. He reached out to me, and I scrambled backwards until my knees hit the arm of the couch. I had nowhere to go, but I’d been moving too fast. As I fell backwards, my brain suddenly decided:holy shit, holy fuck, we’re falling off a cliff into a bottomless chasm and if we don’t grab something we’re going to die.
I grabbed Brendon’s hand. Instead of saving me from the not-actually-dangerous fall, I pulled him down onto the couch on top of me. We both landed with a heavy thud, the wind knocked out of me as he accidentally slammed into my solar plexus.
Even though he pushed himself up quickly, I still stared dazed at the ceiling, gasping for breath.
“Rick?”
He hovered above me with one arm supporting him above his head and the other still desperately clutched in my hand. My injured leg hung off the couch, out of harm’s way, while the other one dangled over the couch arm, which left Brendon cradled between my thighs. Honestly, I was lucky he hadn’t hit anything else important.
He looked down at me, brow furrowed in concern, and I stared into his bright blue eyes. Only a few inches separated us. My breathing eased, but my chest still felt hot and tight. Even Brendon’s cheeks were flushed under his infinite freckles. My gaze traveled down to his lips, pink and plush and slightly parted.
We moved at the same time, me straining up toward him and him leaning down until our mouths met, more fiercely than intended. I slipped my tongue into his mouth, wanting to taste him before I lost the chance. He’d probably recover himself soon, remember all the shitty things I’d done over the past few days, all the mistakes I’d made. It might be the only time—
The door exploded open and Brendon’s teeth clamped down on my tongue.
Mouth filling with blood, a knight and a wizard shouting our names, I had one stupid thought:still isn’t the worst kiss of my life.
Kit and the Good Wizard Vs. The Forest of Thorns
“Well,” the Good Wizard said as he stared at the conundrum of spikes before them. “Do you have a sword that matches your armor?”
“Not with me,” Kit replied with a grimace. Since she’d taken off the helmet, her expressions could actually be seen, which was an oddly gratifying experience.
“Hm, let me see if I have one,” the wizard said, throwing his left arm out so that his sleeve flared and fluttered in the wind. He fumbled around in it with his right hand, pulling out various objects, examining them for useful qualities, then stuffing them back into his sleeve. “Magic lamp, fairy dust, seven-league boots—I’d been wondering where those were!—veil of the goddess of beauty, no, no, none of this will work.” Switching arms, he began rifling in the right sleeve instead. “Endless wine cask, gauntlet of strength—”
“That would probably work,” Kit said.
The wizard scowled at her. “I am looking for asword, not a fancy glove.”
“But—”
“Aha!” He pulled out a sword longer than he was tall, holding it up triumphantly so the moonlight glimmered on the blade. “The Sword of the Last King of the Old Kingdom! Chosen One, who ascended to the throne after defeating—”
“Do I need to understand the history to use it correctly?”
The wizard blinked, coming out of the storyteller’s daze. “Well, no, but it’s rude to interrupt.”
She took the sword from him and hacked at the nearest vine, freeing the tree it had wrapped itself around. The blade was sharp, the cut swift and smooth—all she could ask of a sword. Glancing back at the Good Wizard, she asked, “What will you use?”
“My good knight,” the wizard began with a haughty sniff, “your own strength should be all that is required to defeat this evil.”
Kit pursed her lips. “I’d rather have some additional assistance, if you don’t mind.”
He looked like he did mind, but he didn’t say as much. Instead, he curled his hand around the air and a wooden staff appeared in his grip, topped with a glowing sapphire gem. “Very well. It will speed things along. But I must warn you that my role in this story is as a simple adviser and helpful side-character. If there are evil beings in these woods, I am only allowed to assist you with level three and below.”
Not knowing the ways of the wizards, she chose not to question him. But she did ask: “What are level one and two evils? So I know what I may be up against on my own.”
