Page 36 of Many Ruined Vows on a Forbidden Frolic

Father drags his thorny gaze toward me, and the mountain of hurt I see there makes me wilt. I always knew this was a dangerous game, but I never suspected Father would shuck me of his love. I fear I miscalculated.

“Pikquarrys and I are root-fated.” I lock my feelings away and present my case. He cannot refute the will of the Wise Ones. Sensible. Logical.

“Littlest Bloom.” The endearment sounds venomous, rolling off his scorned tongue. “Attraction does not make something fated. An aged creature taking advantage of a lusty petal is not the pattern of the roots.”

“It may be sudden for you, but the roots foretold our pairing long ago.” I point at Pikr’s tattoo. Father refuses to look his direction. “The seed has been planted.”

Fury gleams in Father’s eyes, and Pikr lets out a huff, his hooves stomping restlessly.

Plucked roses, that’s not what I meant. I roll my eyes, then tighten the grip on my control.

“Mother saw it.” That garners Father’s attention. “The day of the joust, she told me my fated one would prevail. I thought she spoke of Halor.” I wince, sending an apologetic glance in Pikr’s direction. “Clearly that was the enchantment’s hold. My heart belongs to Pikr.”

Father scoffs. His green skin is nearly violet with the blood boiling so close to the surface. The urge to protect Pikr possesses me, and I take another step inside the room, closer to my betrothed.

“How could I possibly believe the spiritvines would keep this from me?” Father fumes.

I’ve wondered the same many times. Although we tried, we were not always careful. I can only assume the spiritvines favor our match.

He jabs a finger toward Pikr, who looks at him with wounded fern-winged puppy-dog eyes. “And you! How dare you pluck my daughter, defy my trust! You’re no hero. I should send you back to the forge, so your darkness cannot blight Svitaeryl’s soil.”

“For my betrayal, I am deeply sorry,” Pikr says. He places a fist over his heart, and the sadness that lowers his brows scorches my heart. “But for loving Loreleivnna, I will never apologize.”

Love.

My pragmatic facade decays, every practical argument fluttering away like autumn leaf dust in the wind. I gawk at the centaur who has held my heart longer than the elements have ruled the earth. His gaze flicks to mine, and under the pain swirling in his ethereal black and white irises burn coals of love, dark and warm and endless.

Father looks between us, and I summon my mask once more. He makes a sound I’ve never heard from an elf, and for a moment, I fear he will summon vines of razor whisperblooms to pelt Pikquarrys with, leaving welts and scars where the thorns break skin, as I’ve seen him do to criminals.

The dirt beneath Father’s feet raises up, a mound of vines breaking through the packed earth floor until he reaches Pikr’s height. He draws his fist and slams it into the centaur’s jaw.

The impact makes a horrid sound, but Pikr doesn’t flinch or draw back.

By the time I process what happened, Father is out the door.

“Pikquarrys!” I yelp.

“Don’t wilt,” he replies calmly. He rubs his jaw with one hand, the other reaching out for me. “That went better than expected.”

“You’ve gone utterly peeled. The King of Svitaeryl just punched you in the face!”

“But he did not order you whisked away or send me back to my forge,” Pikr counters. “Which means you still get to taste the crested noxwing I spent all day preparing.”

My shaky gaze drops to the table, where a divine spread is laid out. My other senses quickly follow, and I take a deep inhale of all the quintessential seasonal scents. Parsley, clove, rosemary. Roasted root veggies and seared meat.

“You prepared all of this for me?” I breathe in again, exhaling with an embarrassing moan.

Pikr chuckles. “Yes, but if you must release your tension upon my tongue first, then it can wait.”

I shoot him a playful glare, glad the vibe between us can shift so quickly. Father’s disapproval will fester on my soul for many days to come, whether we dwell in the darkness of it now or set it aside for later.

“Nothing stands between this delicious bird and me.” I take a seat in the wooden chair. “Not even your tongue”

He blows an exaggerated sigh and picks up the serving utensils. “Very well. One feast at a time.”

I giggle, nearly salivating as he fills a bowl. “Don’t wilt. There’s plenty of time to do what mates do. Including…that.”

“Including what, Princess?”