Page 28 of Many Ruined Vows on a Forbidden Frolic

“He lives!” I shout over my shoulder. Then, burying my head in his neck, I try to convince myself. “You live.”

“Princess Loreleivnna.”

Pikr winces, and I pull away. “Sorry, sorry!”

“Mine,” he whispers, his eyelids fluttering closed. His right hand twitches, grasping my wrist in a weak hold. “Mine.”

Cinnamon mum petals slick as moonsilk slip through my fingers. I pick another from my basket and weave it into the crown alongside white stonecrop, vibrant orange marigolds, and gray hollowoak acorns, pausing every few moments to glance at Pikr.

After the joust, Father had Pikr carted to his cottage and commanded our best healers to tend to the injured hero. They propped his upper half on a reclining cushion board set to a fifty-degree angle and gave him intravenous tonics with fluids straight from the Soul Springs and coated his wounds with luna hazel salve. He’s been sleeping ever since. I’m ever indebted to the Wise Ones, for it’s thanks to their many blessings that Pikr was able to receive such care. Without lunaplumes, we wouldn’t have anything of value to trade in exchange for undiluted Soul Spring water, and Pikr’s wounds were far too severe for our little river.

My thoughts spiral. I take a deep breath, inhaling the earthen scent of Pikr’s stable-suite to calm me. Other than to gather supplies, I remained at his side all of yesterday and today, as is my wifely duty. It’s my own naivety to blame for this whole situation. If only I’d listened, if only I’d never run off, his body would not be so broken and frail.

Halor is being held captive in his guest suite. The council wishes to interrogate him without his enchantments, so they wait for Pikr to wake. I won’t feel safe inside the palace until that’s through.

Satisfied with the flower crown, I carefully sift through my basket for a unique adornment. The only thought that comforts me is that Father now has no choice but to accept whatever happens between Pikr and me. He endorsed the challenge, after all. I must remain hopeful that Pikr will come to see me as more than a prize.

A groan distracts me, and I set my work aside, jumping to my feet to crank the recliner to seventy-eight degrees, then prepare a horn of water.

“Stay still,” I warn, circling the lounge and cushions to the bench. I place my hand on his shoulder and lift the horn to his lips. “Drink.”

Pikr’s eyes flutter, giving me glimpses of his bloodshot white iris. He bats the horn away.

“Drink, Pikr. Please,” I beg.

“Loreleivnna.”

He takes gentle care of every consonant, and blood rushes to all the hidden parts of me.

“I’m here,” I tell him. “Drink first.”

I try to stay firm, but his large hand closes over my wrist.

“Loreleivnna.” My heart stutters. Each time he says my name without my title, it’s like the first time I’ve ever heard the collection of sounds. “My mate.”

Mate. A shiver courses through me. Hearing it from his hoarse voice makes it feel real. My eyes fall to where his hand shrinks my wrist. Images of erotic illustrations in my favorite naughty stories flash through my mind.

I swallow and meet his glazed gaze, his black iris deep and endless, inviting me to fly down and make a nest within his soul.

For as long as I’ve been aware of what mates do together, I’ve desired to share those experiences with Pikr. That knowledge has fed my imagination many nights, perusing books, picturing Pikr doing those things with me.

But he never saw me that way until I tricked him in the tavern, and now he’s stuck in a marriage he never wanted. All because I fell for a wicked enchantment.

“Yes,” I breathe. “You won the joust. I’m yours.”

“Mmm,” he groans, his eyes drifting closed.

The raw power lurking under his rumbled groan makes me shift on my feet. I lick my lips, glancing involuntarily to the blanket draped over his equine hips.

“Drink this.” I nudge his lips again. “Please.”

Pikr’s eyes peel open the slightest amount. He wraps his lips over the rim and takes three long gulps, which I watch flow down his throat.

“Loreleivnna.”

Ancients bless me, if he keeps saying my name with that throaty rasp, I’ll be plastered to the bench with my own slick.

“Yes, Pikr?”