Page 26 of Many Ruined Vows on a Forbidden Frolic

Contrary to Halor, the centaur blacksmith whom I’ve known my whole life and pined after for almost as long, is as sharp as the enchanted weapons hanging in his old workshop. He paces, his long braid wrapped tightly atop his crown. He comes to a halt, allowing the thin barding to be fastened over his flank. Determination oozes from his muscles; the blossoms on his tattoo seem to bloom with it. I’m struck by how beautiful the contrasting design fits him, a calm beauty among rugged lines.

“—clouds are not fixed, but come and go,” Father continues. The crowd roars at the insinuation against Halor and his people. “Are you prepared, Svitaeryl?”

More cheering. The challengers take their places.

My gaze darts between the males fighting over me. Both will leave this field with more than mere bruises, the possibility of death lingering over the arena like low fog. The last one to fall will become my first mate.

Juniphaver lets out a piercing whistle, and the game begins.

Chapter Twenty

Loreleivnna

“Please, end this, Father, I beseech you!” I beg again. The clang of clashing polearms rings out, and I squeeze my eyes shut, dropping my forehead against Ilrunysanna’s shoulder. “Please!”

“I cannot, Little Bloom,” Father replies. “You know I cannot.”

Stomping hooves, a gargled battle cry, and more metal on metal.

“She is not so little,” Feivryn snaps.

“You’re the King! You have the power to end this!” I stomp my foot, trampling the puddle of soul-lilies that grows with every tear.

“Pikr is like a brother to you,” Ilrunysanna says, her voice steady and calm. “How can you bear this?”

“He is my brother.” There isn’t a seed of empathy in Father’s voice. “That is why I have faith he will obey my command and end this rotten sham of a proposal.”

A collective gasp rolls through the crowd as Pikr takes a lash through a small gap in his armor. He crumples to the ground. Ilrunysanna’s hand flies over her mouth. My chest seizes with worry that is quickly followed by a rough tug on an invisible rope around my heartvines, forcing my attention in Halor’s direction.

My betrothed prances back to his starting line. As though feeling my gaze upon him, he looks up, and that ever-present smirk smooths into the kind of smile that would make petal lasses melt at his feet.

I don’t melt for him. Instead, my gut churns.

In the middle of the arena, Pikr lies eerily still. His back hooves twitch. The polearm rolls from his hand.

The crowd shouts along to the countdown.

10!

9!

8!

This is the longest he’s been down so far.

7!

6!

“Get up!” I screech.

4!

“Pikr!” As his name bursts from my lips, my attention is yanked toward Halor again, whose smirk is gone. His pale teal lips contort in a hateful sneer as his gaze bores into mine. The churning in my gut worsens. The rope around my heartvines twitches and frays.

Something isn’t right.

As soon as the thought stirs in my mind, it’s smothered by puffy clouds of confusion.