Warrior Princess Assassin (Braided Fate, #1)

by Brigid Kemmerer

could almost imagine myself as something other than a bruised captive chained on the ground. I could be a friend seeking comfort. A lover offering his body. A warrior kneeling at the feet of his king . . . and his queen. But this man is not my king, and Jory isn’t my queen. I’m nothing to their alliance. I’m nothing to the war.

“Do you want to know what it’s like in the brothels? The way they’ll starve you if you don’t perform? The way they like it if you fight, because they can be as rough as they want? Do you want to know what it was like to have men and women from the palace—men and women I once knew—hand over a palmful of coins to have me on my knees? Or on my back, or bent over a rail—”

“Because I loved you, Jory!” he says, and his voice is so rough and broken that I almost flinch. “I loved you back!” I say desperately. “I always—” “No.” He draws back, running a hand across his face. “You loved someone who didn’t exist.”

They’re so wildly chaotic. It’s no wonder they’re in love with each other. It’s a miracle they haven’t gotten each other killed. But the dynamic between them has shifted, just a little. Somewhere along the line, they each forged a connection with me, and I didn’t expect it. It’s a thin and fragile bond, as frail as gossamer thread, but it’s there. It’s not trust, not yet, but there’s a glimmer of it.

“She’s innocent. You should know . . . she’s never . . . she hasn’t—” “I know.” It’s obvious. She was so startled when I drew her aboard my horse. This is inappropriate. And I could see it when Asher finally unleashed his truths: her wide eyes, the sudden flush on her cheeks when he mentioned being on his knees or bent over a rail. Asher narrows his eyes, studying me. “She’s afraid you’ll hurt her. That you’ll force her.”

“You’re mine for now,” I say.

But perhaps the most surprising is the vicious assassin who started the day by taking down one of my best soldiers and forcing me out of the palace—and is now falling asleep beside me, clutching my forearm the way a frightened child would hold on to a doll.

He’s been gentle with me, and honestly, he’s been gentle with Asher, especially in moments when my friend likely didn’t deserve it. I thanked the king for his kindness—and I meant it.

Maybe I’ve never slept outside, but there’s suddenly something very primal about this that I crave, being under the stars, stripping armor and tending horses.

His eyes are gleaming and fixed on my mouth. Warmth crawls up my jaw, and I have to lick the last of the liquor off my lower lip. Something in his gaze instantly tightens. Oh. Oh.

For an instant, the soldiers are silent, and their eyes go from me to the king to Asher and back.

When I turn to pass the bottle to Asher, he takes it with one hand, then reaches up with the other to brush a damp line of whiskey off my cheek. “Don’t be too brave,” he murmurs.

Do they hate Asher? Do they hate that he touched me? Is this part of their loyalty to their king, as if I somehow suddenly belong to him?

Instead, I’m discovering that the most powerful thing about him—in fact, the most compelling thing about him—has nothing to do with violence at all.

But I keep feeling her delicate touch as she carefully washed the blood off my face. A few tendrils had escaped her braid, and her cheeks were so pink from the wind, but her hands were warm and tender. She didn’t flinch from the violence—or the result. With every stroke of her fingers, I found myself wishing she wouldn’t stop. I remember the way she sat in my lap astride the horse. She was so angry, yet so determined. The memory of it sends a flare of desire through my belly, and my trousers go a bit snug.

He tries to be vicious and cold, but it’s so clear that he craves trust and security. He craves certainty—and I think there’s a part of him that regrets he could never fully find it with the princess. I’ve seen him flinch from her touch, but every time I put a hand on him, he goes so still.

It’s foolish to lust after either one of them. They’re in love with each other.

I tsk, then hold up her hand to blow on her fingers like she’s a child who touched a glass lantern.

“I am sorry your brother was not a protector,” I say quietly.

She’s so different from Asher, and I find it fascinating, especially considering their connection. He’s full of violence and rage, and it’s completely unbound. Every time he settles under my touch, it’s like taming a wolf.

The princess is the opposite. This feels like freeing a caged falcon and hoping it returns to your hand.

I have to remind myself of her innocence. This is not a seduction. This is not a courtier angling for political sway, and it’s not a soldier looking to stay warm for a few hours. We’re under the stars, surrounded by my men. She’s a princess, destined for an alliance. She deserves a slow and careful courtship, not impassioned rutting in a ravine.

But I’ve begun to learn that all of Asher’s posturing is really just a mask to hide a man who’s terrified of losing the few things he’s been able to hold dear.

Before I can think better of it, I touch a hand to his chin, letting my thumb drift right below his lip. “Your princess is safe,” I say softly.

“You’re cold,” I say. “Move closer if you like.”

My thoughts are full of the princess—and the memory of the king on top of her.

This morning, I woke before the sun, my body lying flush against his, my cheek pressed against his bicep. He was so warm that I didn’t want to move.

And when people touch me, I usually want to stab them through the arm. But the king barely has to say my name or touch his fingers to my skin, and I’m no longer a trained killer, I’m a fucking lapdog. I’m never like that with anyone but Jory.

the touch of their hands at the same time stirred up my insides and filled my veins with honey.

Sometimes her innocence is almost hilarious. She’s so fierce with the king, and I saw the dagger sticking out of that soldier’s thigh. But if anyone knows how sheltered she is, it’s me.

She looks simple and innocent and pretty, and I much prefer this to the tense, formal Princess Marjoriana who lives in the palace in Astranza.

If she keeps looking at me like that, I’m going to drag her into this water and pull her down on top of me and she’ll learn a whole lot all at once.

“Do you fancy Ky?” I freeze. The question is sobering, especially since I don’t know how to answer. “I don’t know how to fancy anyone anymore,” I say. Despite that, I can’t stop thinking about the king on top of her. I can’t stop thinking about the weight of his hand on my face, or the way he offered me a bowl of food after I tried to kill his soldier. I can’t stop thinking about that moment in the tavern when they were both touching me at once, how I felt it right down to my core. Even now, it’s a low pulse of heat in my belly.

Instead of slinking into the shadows, I want to hitch up her skirts and bend her over against the bed.

“You are killing me. And your fiancé might really kill me.

Do you want to fight? I think. Or do you want to fuck? Considering everything I know about him, I think it’s both.

“Good boy.” He smacks me on the cheek, too rough to be friendly, then draws back, letting me go.

“Am I going to have to draw some pictures of what happens in a brothel, Jory?” That makes me flush, which is ridiculous, because, aside from the obvious, I actually have no idea what happens in a brothel. “Maybe,” I snap.

He’s such a protector.

I will protect you.

“I’ll entertain your king while you determine what you want.”

At first, Ky would touch me lightly as we spoke, his finger drifting along my hairline, or maybe along my cheek. But now, lying like this, he strokes my hair, my shoulder, my collarbone. Always gentle, always simple, but it’s becoming intoxicating.

When Asher shifts closer and his face falls against my shoulder, Ky incorporates him, too. Running his fingers lightly through his hair, tracing one of the lines on his cheek.

the king’s finger drifts over his mouth, and then mine,

“Do you want me to make you?”

“I don’t know how to pleasure a man,” I whisper, suddenly uncertain. They both go still. The king looks right into my eyes and says, “You’re bringing me quite a bit of pleasure, Princess.” But it’s Asher, at my back, who nips at my shoulder, then says, “Do you want to learn?”

“Jory wants to know how to pleasure a man.” But the king doesn’t let him go. He just strokes his thumb along Asher’s neck until my friend sighs. His head drops. He softens.

“You’re going to do it at the same time?”

I remember the way the king gripped my hand around him. Like a weapon, not a flower.

Ky’s eyes have gone dark, his gaze hot and possessive as he looks down at us both.