A Chill in the Flame (Villains #1)

Two

Two

This was either a nightmare or dream, Ophir was certain. She felt disconnected from her body as she allowed the beautiful stranger to guide her forward. Dwyn wrapped a supporting arm around her as Ophir led them to a crevice in the cliff until they came to a halt in front of a sand-colored door.

“This leads to the castle?” Dwyn asked. She looked from side to side as if checking for prying eyes. “Any riff-raff could come in from the sea. That doesn’t seem very safe.”

“And what riff-raff we are,” Ophir responded with a sigh. “There are a few secret passageways left over from the royal family who reigned before my grandfather took the throne. I’m not sure that many know about this door.”

A hush pressed over them once they crossed the threshold into the passages. Ophir knew the maze-like halls well from a rebellious youth spent avoiding courtly responsibilities. They were forced to pause whenever they heard the early-morning sounds of waking servants and shuffling attendants to avoid detection. She had no idea how she’d explain herself, should they be spotted. She looked down at the gooseflesh covering her shivering form and scowled. She remained fully nude, dripping wet, and covered in sand. That would be hard enough to explain without the presence of the unfamiliar, soaked, dark-haired fae woman clad in slippery starlight.

Fortunately, years of delinquency lent themselves to successful sneaking. Relief washed over her the moment she slid her chamber’s iron lock into place. She frowned between Dwyn and the door, then put a chair in front of it for good measure.

Dwyn left soggy, sandy footprints on the stones and rugs of Ophir’s suite while exploring the princess’s room. She was still leaving wet fingerprints on an oil painting when Ophir abandoned the stranger to draw a bath. The scents of kelp and fish scales and rotten crabs were replaced with the gentle honeyed smell of her soaps. Eager to have the itchy salt washed from her body, she stepped into the still-too-hot tub and sank into the bubbles. She sucked in a lungful of air before disappearing beneath the surface.

“Are you going to drown yourself in there too?”

Ophir popped her head up from beneath the safety of her warm, wet cocoon. She’d survived the night, yes, but she did not feel safe. Her heart was a violent, angry place just as her soul was an empty, silent void. In her conflict, she grasped for the barest semblance of normality.

“Come here, stranger.” She began as a princess commanding a subject, but her tone softened as she looked after the woman. “I just mean… Will you sit with me? You pulled me from the middle of the ocean. You came out of nowhere. I think I deserve to know my rescuer.”

Dwyn arched a brow. “Fortunately for you, I’m rather bored.”

The dark-haired fae leaned against the edge of the bathtub and dangled a hand in the soapy water just to test its temperature. The scent of freshly crushed mint wafted over the honey bubbles as the fae’s unique perfume filled the room. Perhaps Ophir would have noticed it earlier if she hadn’t been on the brink of death. The comfort of her bedchambers just before dawn offered the perfect opportunity to see what else she’d missed about her savior.

She opened her mouth to ask a question, but her breath was stolen. Dwyn gathered handfuls of glossy fabric and slowly pulled the starlit dress over her shape. Legs, hips, stomach, breasts, shoulders, neck, chin. Goddess, she was beautiful.

“What are you…” Ophir stammered. The dress dangled from Dwyn’s arm as she waited for Ophir to finish the sentence. When the princess did not stop her, she let the fabric puddle at her feet. “I…I don’t know if this is common behavior where you’re from, but—”

“Are you asking if my entire kingdom is as comfortable with their bodies as I am based off one interaction? Tell me, Princess, does everyone in Farehold swim into the ocean to die under the moonlight?”

Ophir stared blankly.

Dwyn winked. “Precisely. There are just as many sticks up the asses of my people as there are wills to survive with yours. I am wholly myself, irrespective of kingdom or culture. I suspect the same is true of you.”

Perhaps it would have been polite to look away, but Ophir wasn’t one to turn away from a challenge. Her eyes lingered on an elaborate tattoo that crawled from Dwyn’s left knee up her hip like a vine, ending just beneath her ribs.

“Are you staring at this?” Dwyn gestured to her ink. “Such a waste. My tits are up here.”

Ophir choked on her retort.

Dwyn swung her legs over the edge of the tub opposite the princess and lowered herself into the waters. Her legs intertwined with Ophir’s beneath the suds, which sent a jolt through the princess. Ophir blinked through her confusion as she fought to make sense of the scenario. Perhaps she had, in fact, died under the waves. Maybe these were the final nonsensical thoughts and visions as the mind winked out and relinquished the soul to be with the All Mother. That was easier to believe than accept that a stranger had truly just stripped and invited herself into the bath.

In another life the princess would have savored the wonderful opportunity to share her tub with a beautiful woman. Ophir had known lust, even if love had never fully shown her its face. On another night, she would have leaned into the legs that interlaced with hers. She would have run her hands along their soft curves, feeling her way along the hips and waist and breasts beneath the bubbles. On another night, another life, their lips would part, their eyes would flutter closed, their gentle tongues would meet with exploratory slowness as they became acquainted. If tonight were any other night, Dwyn’s presence would have been a gasp of pleasure. Their sounds would have been nothing but a harmony to the melody of the sloshing waters.

But this was not another night.

“I’m sorry, but who are you?” Ophir forced authority into her tone. She was rigid against the farthest edge of the tub. “Wait, no. I’m not sorry.” Ophir gripped the ledge as stress spiked through her. She fought to make sense of things as she demanded, “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m Dwyn,” she said while playing with the foam, carving shapes into it and making it stand atop itself. “I’ve already introduced myself. Listening is a valuable skill.” She blew a handful of bubbles into the air, watching as they popped. Dwyn sucked one into her mouth and gagged against the bitterness of its unpleasant, chemical flavor.

Ophir’s flash of anger faltered. This person was impossible.

Changing the subject entirely, Dwyn asked, “Do you have anything to drink?”

Ophir looked on incredulously.

The fae stood unceremoniously from the conciliatory bubbles. She splashed all about as she exited the tub, drenching the rugs and floor. Ophir watched her disappear around the door until she returned with a pitcher of drinking water that had been resting on the writing desk. Dwyn drank deeply of it before offering it to Ophir. She wanted to say she’d lost control of the night, but she hadn’t had a drop of control to begin with.

Dwyn rejoined her beneath the suds with a shrug. “I told you, I spend my time on the water.”

“You’re being intentionally vague.”

Dwyn splashed some bathwater onto the princess in an ongoing show of irreverence.

Ophir stared. “Do you even care that you’re in a castle or in the presence of a monarch?”

“Not in the least,” Dwyn replied. From the carefree way she blew the bubbles, Ophir believed it. “But since you insist on bringing up your crown: the royal family is said to have an assortment of gifts. Let me guess…you make flowers grow, or something sweet and soft like that?”

Ophir rolled her eyes. She raised a hand from the water and created a cup with her fingers. A ball of fire sprang to life, hovering in the empty space above her hand, despite how it still dripped water from the bathtub.

Dwyn looked impressed. “Conjuring flame is far cooler than flowers, I’ll give you that. I’ve seen fae speak to an already-burning flame, but I’ve never met someone who can create a fire while dripping.”

“Your turn.”

Dwyn complied. “I have a few gifts, but they’re best served in the sea. Both my abilities, and my needs.”

The last word stuck in the back of Ophir’s head like a thorn. Needs were often a harbinger of one of the darker gifts. Light gifts fueled a user. Dark gifts drained their fae until they found a way to replenish. What could she have been doing in the sea to replenish, unless…?

“Are you a siren?”

Dwyn shrugged and began to scrub at her scalp among the bubbles. “Sure.” She smiled at the term. “You could call me that. What people say of me doesn’t matter. I’ve never found any title particularly useful.”

Ophir pressed, “But you can breathe underwater, right? That’s what sirens do? Is that why you were out in the ocean? Sailors don’t realize they can’t breathe until it’s too late…”

Dwyn offered an exaggerated roll of her eyes at the fateful tale told to the seafaring. “Sailors are just as likely to be violent criminals as they are to be good, kind men. The world doesn’t need all of them.”

“So you’ve killed,” Ophir replied. She kept her tone level as she watched the fae for a reaction.

“I’ve survived,” Dwyn countered. “Does it matter how that happens? Though I suppose not everyone has my desire to stay alive.”

Ophir deflated. It was true. Her will to live was thin at best.

Two days ago, she’d loved her life. Forty-eight hours prior, she would have agreed with Dwyn that life was for living. Of course, she’d defined living a little differently. Life was for drinking and sex and experiences. Life was for breaking the rules, for sneaking out of the castle, for going to late-night parties in the homes of strangers. Life was for dragging your sister to debaucherous masquerades even when she pleaded with Ophir to turn around and bring them back home.

Gentle, virtuous Caris was always the responsible one.

Life was for Caris, the selfless humanitarian destined to bring peace to the kingdoms, the sister who deserved to live. Ophir’s heart cracked, hot tears lining her lids as she sat with the knowledge that her sister should have been the one who made it out alive. Instead, Ophir was left with a shattered heart and hands that would never feel clean enough to wash away the spilled blood.

No, life was not for surviving.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Ophir leaned two wet arms on the edge of the tub, resting her chin where they folded. “No,” she said. “Not in the slightest.”

Dwyn began to wring the water from her hair, twisting it as she stood. She left destructive puddles in her wake as she rifled for a towel. “Can I tell you what I think?”

“I assume you will anyway.” Ophir closed her eyes. Visions of gore and men and bodies filled the black space behind her lids. Ophir forced her eyes open and watched Dwyn twist the towel around her hair. “You can take a second towel. There’s no need to stay naked.”

“With a body like this?” She leaned against the edge of the bath, allowing the lip of the tub to cut into the curve of her thigh as she looked at the princess. She unwrapped her hair as if to emphasize that she required no towel at all. “But here’s what I think: tragedy happens to everyone, and we have three paths offered to us in the midst of horror.”

“You know what I think? You’re nude and I don’t know you.”

“You’re focusing on the wrong thing here, Princess.” She put her hands on the edge of the tub and leaned forward, breasts pressed together by her inner arms as she leaned in conspiratorially with her secret. Inky tendrils of hair dangled about her shoulders, stray pieces sticking to her neck, her chin, her chest.

Ophir spoke on instinct rather than curiosity. “And what are those paths?”

“The first one is the most obvious, and the most boring. The first is to heal, to forgive, to move on.” She shrugged.

Ophir would have laughed if only to keep from crying. This was what Caris—the princess of goodness and quiet resilience and light—would have wanted. Her older sister would have prayed to the goddess for comfort. She would have turned her grief into triumph through the beauty of a life well lived. She would show her fortification through her unwavering spirit.

But Ophir was not Caris. She would not be healing. There would be no forgiveness.

“The second is what you very nearly accomplished tonight, Firi.” The princess winced at the use of the nickname. She may have told the stranger to use it, but it was just another wound in her already raw heart. “There are many escapes. People escape through drink, drug, sex, travel, addiction, gambling, harm, and…well…the escape that travels in only one direction. Though choosing the ocean—”

She didn’t want to talk about the second option any further. “And the third?”

Dwyn smiled, softening her voice. She touched the princess lightly on the nose. “The third, dear heart, is vengeance.”