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He was one of those types who spoke a lot, but said nothing.
But I thought I saw pity in her eyes before she refocused them on the path ahead. She was right to pity him. Especially when Arran’s eyes turned dark and calculating.
Lyrena’s smile faltered, but she managed to pin it back in place despite the tension. “How does the King prefer his meat cooked?”
We all noted her choice of words—the king. A well-placed reminder. The rest of us might refer to him as Arran, but Percival ought to know exactly who he dealt with. The High King of Annwyn. The Brutal Prince. The bringer of death.
Percival’s smirk didn’t waver. “Practically bleeding. Must have something to do with that wolf form.”
That was right. Uneasiness began to form in the pit of my stomach.
Lyrena’s bright smile was a match for Percival’s. He didn’t know her well enough to recognize the slight shift. But she’d been my guard since before Arthur’s death. I knew the way her eyes wrinkled at the corners when she steadied herself for a battle.
“Which is his dominant hand?” Lyrena said.
“Trick question. He wields the axe with his right, but he’s lethal with both.”
“What item does he prize above all others?”
Percival’s eyes slid to me. Creeping distaste infiltrated my veins. “The Queen.”
All eyes slid to Arran. All except mine.
I understood a threat when I heard one.
So did Arran.
I felt the growl—but Percival clearly did not. He rolled his eyes and his matching smirk to Arran. “Care to turn the tables?”
Mistake.
The beast inside of my mate roared. Not for me, not for lust. With barely contained rage. I understood what Arran meant, about always having the beast on a leash inside of him. I knew that if he hadn’t, he would have shifted and ripped Percival’s throat out.
The only reason he hadn’t was me.
I saw it in the brief flash of his black eyes in my direction before they landed back on Percival.
It wasn’t duty to Annwyn that stilled his darkest impulses. It was his love for me.
Percival was our best, fastest way of reaching Avalon. Avalon was my salvation.
For me, Arran would leash the beast.
I also knew that if I so much as thought it, he’d rip that restraint free and worry about the ramifications later.
Arran’s attention was now fully on Percival. He didn’t reach for his battle axe. He didn’t shift. He merely crossed his arms over his impossibly broad chest and smiled. No—not smiled. It was much too menacing for that. His canines were on visible display. A reminder that he was a terrestrial. A beast. Wild. And he didn’t need his beast form to rip out Percival’s throat.
“I’ve met clever males before,” Arran said. Quiet. Deathly quiet. “Their blood all tastes the same.”
* * *
For all that Maisri was a wonderful cook and wielded beautiful magic as if it was nothing… she was still a twelve-year-old child. And she couldn’t let things go.
“I did Osheen, Cyara, and Lyrena…” She ticked them off on her fingers as she went. “That only leaves Arran and Veyka!” she cried as she collected the last bowl from dinner.
She swung her exuberant, appealing eyes straight to me. A month we’d been on this journey, and she knew exactly where my soft spots were.
Basically, anything having to do with her.
