A Chill in the Flame (Villains #1)

Ten

Ten

Then

Harland was just shy of one hundred and fifty years of age when he’d been assigned the honorific title of Princess Ophir’s personal bodyguard. While many expressed their congratulations over the prestigious rank he’d achieved at such a young age, far more had wished him luck.

He’d never met the princess, save for the occasions where the royal guard had been summoned in its entirety to appear before the royal family. She’d seemed informal compared to the firstborn heir, but surely, her reputation couldn’t be nearly as bad as the gossip that rippled through the ranks.

“Harland, I take it?” A fae man in his seventh century of life offered a casual salute as a greeting. “I’m August.”

“Caris’s personal bodyguard,” Harland noted. August smiled apologetically in response. Perhaps the regrets stemmed from the permanence of August’s position; meanwhile, the turnover rate in watching Ophir had provided unprecedented advancement for Harland. He knew that no one expected him to last, but he didn’t let their doubt deter him. Her previous guards had been quite old, after all. Perhaps his youth would allow him more flexibility in adapting to her mercurial nature than their traditional ways.

“I hope to serve alongside you for many years to come,” Harland replied.

“I do too,” August said on an exhale. “For everyone’s sake.”

His first few days were uneventful. Promising, even. Ophir seemed content to remain confined to her rooms, leaving Harland to occupy himself in the hall with thoughts of lasting success in the castle. He spent two days, then five, then seven, wondering if Ophir was in fact a very well behaved heiress who’d been sorely misrepresented in public opinion.

Her looks certainly didn’t win her any favors when it came to demure conformity, and perhaps, he thought, an unfair culture had punished her for it.

Caris may have been conventionally lovely, but Ophir had the terrible, fierce beauty of a white-capped stormy sea, and she knew it. Her movements demanded respect and awe, even if the wise knew enough to fear her. Every expression she made was worthy of its own museum, he thought. Her bravery, her wit, her bold, clever disregard for convention were a natural disaster in a perfect, fae body.

He tried not to think such thoughts about her, but, if he wasn’t mistaken, she returned several too-long glances in the hall, a smirk as the door closed, a wink, once, unless he imagined it. The love between a princess and her guard was a fairytale in the making, he thought. He reminded himself for a week, then a month, then four months, that these thoughts would not serve him, but he had little to do aside from think. So he allowed himself the reprieve of his imagination.

Her gold-brown hair was a marvelous shade of caramel, with the sort of ochre, gilded eyes that demanded that anyone who looked upon them tumble, utterly lost, into their carefully interwoven depths. Her mouth was quick to reveal her impishness, both in speech and in the crooked way her lips would twitch with delight. She relied on her wit and charm, and they did not fail her.

Four months into his new position, he fell victim to her guiles.

“Harland?” She said his name with such innocence.

He was quick to respond. The man opened her door to see what she needed, abandoning his post in the hall.

“Would you help me with this?” She fidgeted with the buttons at the back of her bodice near her armoire.

Heat crept from his neck onto his cheeks. “I’ll fetch one of your maidservants, Your Highness.”

“That’s unnecessary. Please don’t bother them. Just shut the door behind you and give me a hand?” She made her voice so innocent, like cream and milk and sunlight. She twisted to look at him over a bare shoulder.

“I don’t know if I…”

“Just here,” she insisted, jiggling the top of her clasp. “Please.”

He obliged. His thumb grazed along the skin along the side of her throat as he summoned the sort of gentleness required for tiny clasps and fine bodices. He blushed at the unintentional intimacy, muttering his apologies at the touch, praying she couldn’t see how his manhood pressed against his pants.

“Oh, wait,” Ophir said quietly.

Harland froze, terrified he’d done something wrong.

“Lock the door, would you?”

She feigned fumbling with the bits that were meant to interlace as she beckoned him further into the room. Having locked the door, he returned to the space beside her with all of the gallant helpfulness of a knight and the discomfort of a saint.

“I really shouldn’t.” Harland’s voice was low as she grabbed his hand, guiding it to the buttons.

He’d barely begun to connect one side to the other when her hand met his again, this time to still him. She looked into his eyes until he felt his resolve melt. She twisted until she was facing him.

She lifted to her toes, parted her lips, and leaned toward him. It was an invitation, but he’d have to accept her bid.

Harland feigned resistance, though he did so in a way that begged her to see through his words, to read his body language, the want in his eyes.

It was a dance he needed to do. He made murmured excuses about his station that he longed for her to refute. He held the back of her neck while he breathed into her shoulder about how he couldn’t be with her, though his expression begged her to continue. He prayed her sensitive ears hadn’t heard the thundering change in his heartbeat when she pulled at the threads of his tunic. She dragged her fingers over his chest, then her mouth over his neck. He knew he was lost the moment her fingers ran along the seam of his britches. Her mouth moved to his neck, dragging the flames of hot kisses along his bare throat. He attempted one last utterance about duty, honor, and respect, all the while digging his fingers more deeply into her flesh and needing her to know that she could—and probably should—stop at any moment.

Harland wanted her. He knew it. She knew it. He hoped she knew he never would have so much as looked at her with disrespect, let alone live out his darkest, most passionate fantasies if she hadn’t initiated. But here he was.

Harland would be the first to admit that he’d been primed to fall.

He said she tasted like water in the desert and like prayers on the desperate lips of the wicked. It was the sort of thing you only said to someone when you’d given yourself over, body and soul. And so, she took. Ophir savored his mouth, his hands, his manhood until she was satisfied through every kiss, touch, and stroke she desired. Their night commanded the movement of hips, hair, and hands that eliminated all doubt, erasing any memory of anyone who had come before. She claimed what he’d known for a long time: he belonged to her. At first, she led their dance, taking charge when she rode atop him. He flipped her onto her belly, lifting her hips while she stretched her chest against the bed. He pounded into her, desperate to fill her with every quaking movement, from the clap of his hips against her to the way his rough hands gripped her delicate body.

He swore their time together was a religious experience. He whispered sweet nothings, told her of his past, talked about the only other woman he’d been with and how she’d broken his heart into enough pieces that he’d retreated into the life of the guards with no hope of gaining a wife or building a family. He held nothing back.

He awoke cum-drunk and blissfully rested after their tumble.

He reached for her but knew before his hand hit the empty space behind him that she was gone. The wild, lovely Ophir had bested him in the throes of passion, then slipped out of the castle, unnoticed. She visited a poppy den that night, falling asleep among the opium clouds of its patrons. Her smile was the hazy, half-present quirk of tilted lips when he found her to bring her back to the castle.

He wanted to be angry, but he only admired her all the more.

It would be dishonest to be angry with her for using him. He’d wanted to be used. He’d read everything into their shared tumble that he’d wanted to read, and left with a lesson. She was beautiful, clever, and free.

She expressed interest in continuing their dalliances, followed by grumbled protests over boundaries he set after their night together.

He existed to ensure her safety, he said, and he couldn’t guard her properly if he was beholden to her whims.

She insisted that her gift for flame enabled her to protect herself just fine.

Following their exchange of power, his gentle rebukes were met with frustration. He stopped her, blocked her exits, and prevented her movements in ways that she met with nearly wry flirtation. While Harland had very little control over where Ophir went, he always did his best to follow, even if just in the shadows. He’d been rash and na?ve, but he maintained every intention to live up to his sovereign title as the princess’s protector, no matter how difficult and perilous she made the job.

Her halfhearted attempts to dodge her responsibilities took her to the far tower with a bottle of wine, as they had so many times before.

His job was not for the faint of heart.

But he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

***

Ophir mustered a smile. “You look beautiful. Are you nervous?”

The ladies in waiting had left the sisters alone in Caris’s chambers so that she could have a few moments of peace before the northern king arrived. Today the eldest princess was in a lovely shade of light green, looking very much like young leaflets in the early days of spring. Her long golden hair was left down in relatively informal curls given the seriousness of the occasion. Caris’s beauty had been a thing of murmurs of admiration across the continent. Her soft voice and gentle spirit were just as charming as the rose of her cheeks and the bright blue of her eyes. Ophir was in awe of her.

Caris shook her head, smiling with a deep, genuine joy. Her loveliness was as much a part of her good soul as it was her delicate features. “No, I’m always excited to meet with him. He’s going to change the world, Firi.”

Ophir smiled. Caris was wrong, of course. Ceneth was not going to change the world. If the continent had any hope for evolution, it would be because of what the two of them might achieve together. Their vision for a sanctuary for fae and solace for humans was one that might end centuries of fear, mistrust, and bloodshed. The two shared their passion with the unity of a single heartbeat. While advantageous diplomatic marriages were traditions as old as time, Princess Caris and King Ceneth had truly been blessed by the All Mother to not only share their vision for how the world might be, but also to have the ability to achieve it together.

What they shared was so much more than their vision for the continent. They’d been blessed with twin hearts that desired a life together.

The winged king of Raascot had a much easier time traveling with his gift of flight and was more than happy to make the journey as often as he could. It was customary to wait until after the fae bride’s seventy-fifth birthday before a royal wedding. While Caris had insisted for the better part of a decade that she was eager and ready to become Raascot’s queen, her parents had insisted she adhere to tradition, and Caris had obliged, albeit impatiently.

The sounds of hooves and carriages joined the great thunder of wings that sounded the Raascot party’s arrival. Caris sparkled with giddiness as she rushed to greet them.

Ceneth and his procession were greeted at the castle with fanfare and open arms. While it was splendid, it was nothing compared to the warmth of Caris’s face as their eyes locked and she ran to him. Ceneth had swept her up in front of family and friends, holding her aloft as he squeezed her with tenderness and excitement. His exclamations of how she smelled of the fresh rain in spring, the shower of kisses on her cheeks and forehead, the pet names were all a bit too much for the public. It may not have been the most appropriate show of affection for two unwed monarchs, but as they were promised to one another, the demonstration was received with appreciation rather than admonishment. How lucky were they to have found not only shared dreams but to have fallen in love? If the joy had belonged to anyone other than her sister, Ophir would have been sickened.

While the kingdom’s monarchs made their way to the dining room, Ophir used the distraction to slip free from supervising eyes and duck into the kitchen for a bottle of wine. She had been expected to join them in the room, but everyone knew she wouldn’t come. She’d smelled the roast ham and apple glaze, the braided rolls, the tarts and sweets and greens mixed with fig to balance the vegetables’ flavor with natural sugars, and she’d felt nothing but irritation. A special dinner for their special guest. A lovely meal for the lovely Ceneth. She’d spotted the only thing she wanted in the kitchen and left the food for the perfect family. After roughly twenty minutes, Harland found her on the castle wall overlooking the sea with a fine bottle of merlot.

She hadn’t bothered to bring a glass.

Harland slid into the space near the wall across from her and extended his hand for a drink. Their relationship was too familiar for a guard and his lady according to any and all outside opinions, but the world had no way of knowing this informality was the strained, barely salvaged friendship of a man who’d survived her seduction and rejection with a bruised ego and a chuckle.

Harland took a swig of the dark wine.

Ophir pouted, looking between the bottle and her guard. “I didn’t bring enough for two.”

“You’re in luck,” he said. He fished in his breast pocket for a small flask. “Keep your wine. I’ll stick to whiskey.”

If he was trying to make her smile, he’d succeeded. She’d felt on more than one occasion that, apart from her sister, he was the only friend she had. On the matter of courtiers and lords and ladies, Ophir knew her likability had nothing to do with who she was and everything to do with her title. Everyone wanted to be close to the crown. Harland, however, had nothing to gain from her—not anymore, at least. She was glad he’d stuck it out and remained on the job after surviving her preferred form of humbling men. She was even more relieved that he’d remained steadfast, patient, quick to smile, and ready to leave the past behind them.

“Shouldn’t you be sober on the job?”

He made an exaggerated smacking sound as he drank his whiskey. “Shouldn’t you be in the dining room right now with your parents, sister, and future brother-in-law? The food smelled great.” He returned the alcohol, and she proceeded to take three deep swallows before wiping the purple droplets from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.

“The hero and heroine will do just fine without me. Their mission to save the world doesn’t need a distraction.” She continued to gaze at the horizon, refusing to fully engage in his attempts to chastise her. “Are you asking because if I’m there eating, you’d get to eat, too?”

“You caught me.”

She smiled humorlessly. “Go, Harland. Fix yourself a plate. Snag me a roll. For now, I find it’s quicker to get drunk on an empty stomach, and they certainly don’t need my help with that task.”

Harland’s brows met in the middle. “It’s important—what they’re doing. That doesn’t make your life any less valuable.”

Her attempt to smile fell flat.

“You know,” Harland mused as if to himself, “your eyes are usually so golden it looks like you wear your crown around your pupils. Not today though.”

“Because the glitter fades when I’m hungry?” she asked, taking another drink.

“They give you away,” he said. “They’re ochre when you’re sad. The light doesn’t reach them.”

She shifted uncomfortably and Harland took the hint, dropping the topic. She wished she’d brought a cloak or blanket with her onto the wall, as the late hour was beginning to blow a chilling wind off the sea. A large, wooden ship was docking in the ports after returning from what had presumably been a trip to one of their distant trade partners. She focused on the little dots of men who worked like a colony of ants to unload their cargo from the vessel onto the pier.

Besides, Harland was wrong. Her life was not important. Every dotted sailor she watched served a purpose in his chain of command, helping keep the ship together. One would tie the masts, the other would steer, one would keep lookout, and all would participate. They had more purpose than she did. Caris had taken enough purpose for the both of them. Ophir didn’t resent her sister in the slightest. She admired Caris not only for her wit and wisdom but for the unwavering confidence she had in an optimistic future.

The firstborn heir to the Farehold throne cast a very long shadow behind the brightness of her success. Ophir had no interest in competing with her elder sister’s shine.

“My family is alive because of them, you know.” Harland extended a hand for another drink of the wine.

She raised a brow curiously, encouraging him to go on as she passed him the merlot.

“Do you know what I do?”

“Yes. You harass my sense of privacy by following me all over the castle.”

He chuckled with a friendly, throaty sound. If he was going to stare too deeply into her eyes, she might as well return the favor. It was easy to do with Harland. She inhaled his honest, freshly cut grass fae scent, savoring the inborn perfume. His eyes were a pretty, complex shade of hazel as they twinkled in the afternoon sun. The greens, browns, and golds etched through his irises were a map of the world. He took another drink and then gave it a swirl, realizing they were making it through the alcohol more quickly than the princess may have intended.

“Watch.” He flexed his fist and punched into the wall of the outlook, directly into the stone. It crumbled and shuddered against the impact, leaving his hand intact.

“Show-off,” she muttered, but the demonstration succeeded in eliciting a smile. “That’s quite the neat trick. Is that how you got the job? You’re terribly strong?”

“It is,” he admitted, brandishing his knuckles to show that his skin had not broken from the impact. “But my mother and brother weren’t so lucky with their abilities. My mother can commune with the dead, and my brother can speak mind to mind.”

Harland didn’t need to go on. She understood what he meant. People did what they did best: hated what they did not understand. The powers had long since been informally separated into abilities of light and dark. While those born with light gifts were often celebrated as blessings from the goddess, it wasn’t uncommon for families, men, children, women, and strangers to turn up dead after their darker gifts had been revealed.

In the right setting, his mother may have been honored for her ability to commune with the afterlife. Those who could enter your very mind and thoughts, however, were never known for anything other than nightmares made flesh.

Changing the continent’s dangerous misconceptions was the dream that Caris and Ceneth shared. While Caris had expressed a longing to be married from the moment she met Raascot’s noble ruler, she adhered to the long-standing tradition of waiting until the age of seventy-five, building decades of goodwill with her people so they would trust her vision when they unified their kingdoms and ruled as one.

Through their combined efforts and relations across the continent, Caris and Ceneth had crafted a pipeline from Farehold to Raascot so that fae with darker powers might escape persecution and seek refuge. Raascot was an asylum for anyone who’d been branded “dark fae.”

Humans or those called the “light fae” who were disquieted by the influx of dark fae in the north were invited to relocate to the southern kingdom. Farehold took on the population growth steadily, overseeing their movements and resettlements as people migrated across the borders.

Removing fae from immediate threat of death and danger was only step one of their plan. While vital in protecting against the urgent realities of violence, dividing the groups had the potential to breed further distrust and make matters worse unless the second stage of their vision was carefully implemented.

Separating the problems from their prejudices had already begun to show its fruitfulness in the years since the underground pipeline had been instated. After the immigrants had settled from one kingdom into the next and roots had been planted, Caris’s marriage would unite two kingdoms into one. As long as they could remove the vulnerable populations from immediate fear of harm or persecution, they’d continue down their path before education and unity could be disseminated through the joined continent. Once unification had been achieved, they’d work to cultivate healthy relationships between fae and humans of all gifts and abilities.

The plan would not be achieved overnight, but it was a beautiful vision for how a future without violence and misunderstanding of power might look.

“Your brother is okay?” Ophir asked. They never spoke of Harland’s family. In fact, aside from his age, his name, his title, and the amount of frustration she engendered in him, he generally avoided talking about himself at all.

Harland confirmed with a tilt of his head. “They’re in Raascot, living just outside of Gwydir. He’s going through formal training to learn how his abilities can be used for good, as much a part of their military as I am this one. If he had stayed in Farehold…”

They both knew exactly what would have happened if he had remained in Farehold.

Ophir took the final drink of wine and set it down beside her. Three-quarters of a bottle had been almost enough to give her a small, pleasant buzz, but it hadn’t quite done the trick. She leaned against the wall as she continued to gaze out at the horizon.

“Once Caris leaves for Gwydir, do you know what you’ll do?”

She shrugged. “I suppose I’ll do what I’ve always done: whatever the hell I want.”

Ceneth remained at the castle for a full week, and it was both too much, and never enough time. Caris had been as doting and lovelorn as any bride-to-be, but he’d matched her energy with equal ferocity. Ophir had never seen anyone look at a woman the way the winged northern king gazed at her sister. There was no doubt in Ophir’s mind that he’d drain the seas for her, lasso the moon, and level kingdoms if she asked. He was a man whose soul had been fully given to his betrothed. They deserved each other, in every sense of the word.

Ophir absently wondered if their offspring would be born with or without wings. She tried to picture Caris’s blond hair and blue eyes on bronze skin and set against the black feathers of a Raascot fae.

Ophir politely interacted with Ceneth at the dinner tables and whenever their paths crossed in the hall. She held no animosity toward the dark king, but she also didn’t feel particularly inclined to get to know him. He’d always been abundantly civil with Ophir, but never more than that. The king gave her a proper, courteous kiss on the cheek as he parted. He held Caris for a long, beautiful stretch before he and his men returned to the north.

Ophir touched Caris’s back as she stood at the gate, waving at the figures who disappeared into the distance. “You won’t always have to say goodbye.”

“I know.” Caris wiped at a single, silvery tear.

“Fuck tradition,” Ophir said. “Move up the wedding. Unless, of course, you think you’ll have a change of heart before your seventy-fifth birthday?”

“Don’t even joke about that. He’s so wonderful. He’s everything, Firi.”

Ophir hated the pain on her sister’s face. “But you’re in love.”

Caris shook her head, curls swishing around her shoulders as she did so. “You shouldn’t rush something that’s meant to last forever. Besides, there’s more work to be done for us both. The people trust us as leaders of the separate kingdoms. We’d undermine our progress if we rushed the unification of the continent. It’ll be worth the wait.”

And that was only one of the millions of reasons that Caris was the better person in every sense of the word. She was decent, selfless, and trusting to a fault. Ophir didn’t know it then, but she understood now.

Caris’s goodness would be her downfall.