The Beast of Salt (Saga of the Gods #1)

16. Avina

16

AVINA

Present

October 24th, Year 100, 9th Era

Scarwood City, Timber Province

S unlight tickles Avina’s face against the cool autumn air. A wide smile brightens her face as she drinks in the new structure in the heart of Scarwood City.

I need this.

After everything with Sigvid, she longs for something to aid in her deep denial of her feelings.

What am I to the violent Salt Prince? Vengeance for the war he initiated?

Certainly not to relish my thick body.

To think he could have easily killed me on the grimy floor of his dank cell had the guards not intervened. I was so stupid and drunk on wine!

She winces at the haunting memory.

At one time, a mysterious Salt warrior expressed her incomparable beauty. Her gut squirms at the icy truth that she is nothing more than a conquest for Sigvid.

Rendel ensured she knew her place among his mistresses. ‘Men do not marry you, Avina,’ her late husband told her, ‘they use you to get their throne and then fuck their mistresses.’

Like Rendel, Sigvid likely has a collection of gorgeous women who are curvy ‘in the right way.’

No matter. The Arena has officially requested I keep my distance. I doubt Sigvid will be alive the next time I see him.

She intends to return to her miserable life after toasting champagne to this upcoming achievement.

Just not now.

And probably not tomorrow.

“Thank you again, Your Highness. This sanctuary will help heal many of our displaced dogs and cats.” One of the young staff gushes with a wiggly puppy in her arms. Unlike the healthy royal pups, this one has a nub of a leg where its back right should have been.

Avina scratches the tiny creature behind its ears, earning sloppy kisses on her hands. “I witnessed too many kittens fed to ravenous hunting dogs. Puppies sold to the dog fighting rings of the Arena…” She presses a kiss on the creature’s cold nose. “No longer.” She says in a baby-talk voice.

“Well, the Scarwood Animal Protection Society thanks you, ma’am.”

A large wooden sign bearing the words ‘Animal Sanctuary’ creaks over the building front where the young woman and the cheerful creature return.

After two winters as Queen, she has finally accomplished something tangible beyond her education initiatives. When the Council refused to pass her last animal protection act, she went behind their backs and funded the construction and staffing of an animal sanctuary anyway.

“I heard I might find you here.”

Her happiness falters as Duke Samson Manchineel sways through the sanctuary's oak double doors. His pristine charcoal doublet and matching pants would have made Rendel green with envy. In moments like these, she can see the similarities between the cousins.

Which only elevates her despise for the entire Manchineel line.At least if she can never produce an heir for Timber and the Ridge, her future daughters may be saved from these men.

“You found me.” She turns away to gather a stack of linens in her arms.

“You have been dodging me for over a month, Your Highness. Was my marriage proposal unacceptable to you and King Ceowald?”

She spins on him, accidentally scattering the fabric to the floor. “What does my father have to do with this?”

Samson chuckles, making no move to assist her in picking them off the floor. “I wrote to him two days after Rendel’s death, and he replied, ‘No.’ Allegedly, he has an arrangement with someone else.”

Who?

She remains crouched on the floor with towels in her arms. Why has she not been told? And her father had another man in line when Rendel’s body was still warm.

She feels the familiar tightening in her throat as the sensation of vomiting her morning meal roughly seizes her.

“Did he mention who?” she asks as she sets the towels on the shelf where they belong.

Samson shrugs. “Does it matter?”

All she can dwell on is who her father is whoring her womb out to now. Her hands shake from the lack of control she possesses in her sad, miserable life.

Do her feelings ever matter to anyone? Besides her cousin Bertie and the Salt King and Queen, her life consists of everyone else dictating her future. Her father and the other nobles primarily respond with cricket to her initiatives.

“Have they announced your… project yet?” He spits out the word ‘project’ as if she is a child, and these life-changing initiatives are merely trinkets. Samson gestures around where volunteers and staff settle various cats and dogs into pens and cages.

“Does it matter?” She mocks him.

He ignores her disdain. “As my future Queen, I should support your pet proposals.”

She would have thought his well-placed pun humorous if he isn't always so severe. She is certain Samson has never uttered a joke in his life.

“How do you intend to support me?” She asks as the crowd outside the sanctuary thickens.

“Your Royal Highness,” the new animal sanctuary official pokes her head inside with a smile, “we are ready for you to say a few words.”

Samson lays a hand on her lower back, guiding her outside amidst the throng of citizens. She grits her teeth to keep from swatting him away.

“I am honored to be here beside our beloved Queen,” the animal sanctuary official gushes, “whose gracious donation will mean saving the lives of hundreds of animals across the city of Scarwood. She wants to say a few words.” She claps, stepping aside to allow the eyes to fall on Avina.

She withdraws the parchment bearing the speech she has labored on. Her reading practice before her floor-length mirror fills her with rare confidence.

She smiles at the crowd, pulling her shoulders back and straightening her spine. Her lips part to begin when she is interrupted.

“Is she not wonderful?” Samson calls out to a round of applause from the crowd.

Avina narrows her eyes, turning to him with haughty disdain.

He slips his arm around her waist, tugging her to his side. “A good time to share the great news. I, Duke Samson Manchineel, will marry Queen Avina Bloodstone and accept the mantle as your next King.”

Avina’s heart drops to the floor. She never said ‘yes’ to him! Even her father disapproved of the union. Then again, he wants to stick her with another useless royal without sharing his plans.

Anxiety clutches her chest, squeezing until she can not breathe.

Samson tightens his grip on her waist. The sheer weight of this announcement breaks her to her core. As she looks out among the crowd, rejoicing about her impending marriage instead of her triumph for the animals, she feels her life slip away.

Avina is a tool rather than a person to be heard and respected. The anxiety falls away, leaving her numb while Samson continues to address her crowd.

She can not even muster a fake smile.

Only thoughts of letting go of this life drift in and out of her mind like a wave on the sea.

Does anyone care that she exists? Who would miss her voice if she were to disappear into the wind?

Two days later, she packs for the Arena. An official letter from the Arena Masters lies on her desk.

Already, her stomach flutters at the prospect of leaving Scarwood. Just as she locks her trunk and summons a footman, she comes face to face with her father. He is still removing his riding gloves and a cloak bearing the Ridge insignia of a jagged crown surrounded by gems billows around his muddy boots.

“Father!” she exclaims, quickly shutting and locking her armoire.

“I was not expecting you.”

“What is this I hear about you marrying Duke Samson Manchineel?” He slaps both gloves in his hand, surveying her with distaste.

She groans aloud and waves him off. “I never agreed to that arrangement with that foul excuse for a man. He cornered me and lied to everyone.”

She clicks the brooch at her throat before whirling on him, her dark traveling cloak spinning at her heels. “Did you travel down to Scarwood from the Sapphire Palace just to question me?”

He uncorks the Timber Province Silver Standard bottle on her desk and pours himself a goblet before collapsing in her high-backed chair.

“I am disappointed that you find yourself in this position. Did you give Samson a reason to think you would be amiable to a marriage?” He gulps with a shudder. “This wine is like licking a sugar block.”

She bristles at his accusation, and her cheeks burn with his insinuation that she would exhibit such lewd behavior with anyone. Least of all, someone so dreadful. “I have never, nor will I ever, give that man reason to think I would marry him.”

Why am I the one on trial?

Ceowald nods. “Fine. I have another arrangement in the works, and I cannot have you meddling.”

Her blood runs cold. “With who?”

Because your last choice of men was so upstanding .

“Never you mind.” As if suddenly realizing she is preparing for a trip, he looks between Avina and her luggage. “Oh, for the love of Maeve, are you going back to that godsforsaken Arena?”

When she does not answer, Ceowald slams his fist on the desk, shuddering the wine goblet. “Have you no shame! Don’t tell me this is all for that Beast? Sigvid Thordsson. What did I tell you about that man? He is a vile barbarian and deserves whatever fate awaits him at the end of a sword or club or whatever else will end his life in that wretched place.”

Her cheeks and neck burn scarlet with shame. She is unsure what is breaking her more, her father chastising her as if she is a child or that his words hold some semblance of validity.

Even now, she could still smell Sigvid’s masculine musk and feel his hard body as he pounded into her while cold steel wrapped around her thick curves body.

This situation is under control—yes! Under control .

She and Prince Sigvid mutually enjoy each other’s bodies while hating the other.

That is normal.

He will never escape the Arena. Consequently, she will never need to confront whatever affection she has or does not hold toward him.

Everything is under control .

“I heard the rumors.” Ceowald shakes his head as he finishes off the wine with a wince. “Did you permit him to defile you and then massacre the poor guards attempting to rescue you? I cannot stomach my daughter allowing any relationship with a man such as he–like some harlot.”

Before she can decide whether she should deny it or admit to willingly entering Sigvid’s cell that night, the footman arrives and removes her trunk. The carriage must be ready for her journey.

She turns away, choosing to ignore her father.

“Child,” Ceowald leaps to his feet, halting her at the entrance to the corridor, “there are pieces in motion that I cannot undo. I can promise you continued Queenship and a man who will show you goodwill, independence, and a child in your belly. All in exchange for his unbridled ability to rule. And your silence.”

Her father strides forward and clasps her shoulders in his hands. An action he has not taken since she was a young girl. “It will be easier for you, daughter, if you follow my plan.”

He searches her face with a look that resembles pity. “Thordsson’s type will only destroy you. You are a conquest. Entertainment for his sick, twisted little mind. You understand he beds tavern wenches and drunken commoners. His vicious tastes are not fit for a lady.”

Avina feels the tears before she realizes she is crying.

Why can he not permit her to forge her path? Even more, why do his words strike true? Good girls do not approach a man as she has. Deep in her heart, she knows she is mere amusement for the Salt Prince. No one has ever found Avina to be a woman pleasing to the eye.

She is one giant joke for the Lord Commander.

But why does the truth tear apart her heart as if she has been sliced with a knife?

“You are Queen Avina Bloodstone. You defeated him when no one else could.” Ceowald withdraws a handkerchief to wipe her tears. “He wants revenge, Avina, and the only way he can is to break you.”

October 28th, Year 100, 9th Era

Treland Arena

O ne moon phase later, her royal carriage arrives at the only place that grants her clarity and the only person who makes her feel alive—admitting that much was a tough potion for her to swallow.

“Welcome, Miss Avina. We have been expecting you.”

She hopes they have been.

The afternoon is cloudy as she steps into the shadow of the Arena. The footman bows respectfully, not to her title but to her purse strings.

Money is the power at the Arena.

She tosses a few coins to the man dressed in the crossed axes and skull of the Arena. Other patrons mingle in the shade of the towering amphitheater, but she ignores their presence. Instead, she turns into the inn and heads toward her room.

With each step, she feels emboldened to withdraw the official letter sent to her from Treland Arena. A much lighter tone than the other correspondence sent not long after her escapade into the combatants’ level.

Avina had been sternly urged not to return unless summoned. Her gold was welcome to fund Beast, but her ‘constant presence’ was discouraged. The Arena Masters even suggested her mere existence ‘complicated the mind of a man who will statistically die within five winters.’

As requested, she has been absent for over a month. The rational part of Avina prayed to the Goddess of Wisdom, Maeve, that her memories of that dark night bound in chains were nothing more than a wine-filled fantasy. Of course, the nasty black and blue marks from the chains permeated her body for over a week, deconstructing most of her denial.

She flinches as she recalls bribing a guard to access Sigvid’s cell as if she were a common harlot. Allowing him to chain her and… and… warmth pools between her legs, and excitement shoots through her body at the memory. His rough hands on her skin, while his tongue dominates her mouth, is a memory that has become harder to shake.

She can still taste him.

And that torments her.

What sane human wants to be tied in chains and devoured by a dangerous war criminal? Even his berserker side awoke to return her to his arms .

She might believe Sigvid wants to protect her if she didn't know better. As she lay in bed night after night, she can still hear his deafening roars as he bashed the skulls of those guards. She would have died that night if the Arena sentries had not intervened, and she was too drunk to notice.

“She is mine to own.” His growl claws at her insides until she feels aroused enough to relieve herself and angry enough to scream.

“Miss Avina.” A servant hails her with a goblet of her favorite white wine, saving her thoughts from dipping into a chasm of confusing emotions.

She sips the wine and finishes the climb to her room, where her trunk already sits. Surprisingly, this room is her favorite in all of Treland. She purchased it with her coin.

Not her father’s.

Not Rendel’s.

Not Samson’s.

All Avina.

After changing out of her traveling clothes and into a thin sea-blue gown and matching cloak, she slips into the Arena. She ventures to the third ring, where a familiar grungy man sits behind a black box.

“Ah, Miss Avina.” His smile reveals five teeth. “Interested in how your combatant has fared since your unplanned visit to his cell?” He licks his lips, causing her to shiver with disgust.

“I received the notice he is to fight for the Champion title.”

The Arena worker nods excitedly. “Between you and me, my lady, Beast is the best fighter we’ve ever seen.”

She glances over her shoulder to ensure they are alone.

“What time does he fight tomorrow?”

“First match of the morning.”

She shrinks under her cloak. “Was he punished after…”

“After you bribed a guard and let him have his way with you? And then he embarked on a murder spree to keep you from being safely returned to your room?” His chuckle raises every hair along her neck. “Fighting in the Arena is considered suffering enough.”

She nods as relief accompanies her shame.

“If I might be so bold, Miss Avina.” His smile suddenly takes on a sinister expression. “I overheard the Arena Masters deliberation with the Battlemaster. It seemed the Beast held fiery feelings toward you. The consensus was that true pain would be to die in the ring, never to see you again.”

She recoils at his cruel words. This grungy man and all the rest of the Arena staff are wrong! He hated her for everything. She condemned Sigvid to an Abyss he will never escape in the Arena.

And it is all her fault.

Conflicting emotions tug at her heart. Does she hate Sigvid for forcing her to confront her darkness? Or is she obsessed with this part of herself that was confident and bold?

Spinning away from the black box attendant, she is confronted by her cousin.

“I thought you might return to the Arena with the Beast’s champion match looming overhead.” Bertie Alexandrite quips.

“Perhaps I wanted to see him fare one final time,” she snaps, annoyed at the critical eye everyone had trained on her. “Are you here with Viktor?” She changes the subject

He chews on his lip before admitting, “He cannot pull himself away from game tables.”

That would explain why the rich Duke Bertram married the handsome, albeit broke, Baron Viktor Garnet—all to settle a gambling debt. It seems that people will arrange marriages for any reason.

“Seeing as my gold is low, you will buy my meal and wine tonight while Viktor gambles the rest of my inheritance at the horse races.” He wraps his arm around her shoulders.

She groans but acquiesces, and the two return to the tavern at the inn. They take a table on the back deck overlooking the tumultuous South Sea.

Finally, with a wine glass in hand, she turns to find her closest friend watching her with deep pity.

Bertie glances over his shoulder before leaning closer. “I need to hear the truth from you. There are rumors,” he grapples with the question as if it pains him. “Did you bribe a guard and then sneak into his cell?” He shakes his head with a nervous laugh as if in disbelief. “And then allow him to use you? Of course, all before he murdered a bunch of sentries and maimed the Battlemaster.”

She takes a shaky sip of her wine in a vain attempt to wet her dry mouth. Thinking of how his fingertips brought forth a current like lightning across her bare skin makes her flushed with heat.

She should feel guilt and shame for the death of those sentries, but she didn’t! Sigvid fought for her in a way no one ever had. And she is still drunk off that feeling.

Her silence is damning as she brings the glass to her lips again, refusing to answer.

He swears so loud an older woman at the other end of the deck jumps out of her chair .

“This is all my fault. You were drunk, and I should have said something.”

“No, Bertie!” She plunges into the dark waters of acceptance, loathing how they make her cheeks blush. “It was my choice to see him. The wine helped me along.”

“Shadow, I’ve known your obsession with him and should have interfered. What were you thinking? What outcome did you expect?”

The only sound is the crashing waves of the sea along the rocks as neither discusses the nature of what took place that night. Despite the rumors that she—Goddess, she couldn’t even utter the atrocious whispers that he took advantage. Not when every part of Avina longed for him to touch her. Not that she could have fought him even if she wanted to.

‘…you will sin with me, Avina.” His dark possession still haunts her dreams.

“You’re here for his championship match.” He does not ask it as a question, and she does not answer. “Then tell me this,” he finishes his wine and then waves down the waitress for another, “Are you engaged to that wretched cousin of Rendel? Samson Manchineel?”

Tears well in her eyes to match the raging blue of the waters below the deck.

Bertie squeezes her hand in his. “Your father is furious and intends to undo the engagement. I know you well enough that you do not intend to marry him.” His eyes are full of the same pity her father’s gaze held.

She is not comforted by her father’s intentions and is unsure why she returned to the Arena to witness Sigvid fight for his life. She guesses part of her sought refuge in her mutual hatred with the Salt Prince, and part of her longed to turn back time three winters ago.

What would have happened if she told him that she was the princess?

“You are mine now, Avina.”

She accepts the new glass of wine and meets Bertie’s gaze.

“I have a confession, cousin.” He sighs and looks around again—this time with a more worried expression. “Viktor is hardly ever home. His gambling pulls him around Treland so often I fear I will burst from boredom.” He takes a clear breath to steady himself. “I have sought partnership with another. Viktor’s brother.”

Avina’s eyes grow wide, yet her lips remain closed.

“He has led me down a path of pleasure like I have never known.” His words drift off with his gaze.

“Can you not…” She starts to question, but Bertie shakes his head.

Divorce is not an option, not with the nature of his and Viktor’s arranged marriage and the debt repayment.

Silence greets them both again as the trapped reality of their situations rings loud in their minds.

“To our futures,” she lifts her goblet between them. “May we find whatever demented peace our dark hearts crave.”

“May the blessed Goddess of Wisdom have mercy on our souls.” He answers by clinking his goblet to hers.