Prince of the Arena (Beasts of the Briar, #1.5)

by Elizabeth Helen

“You know,” I say, snatching his jaw with my hand, “that glare would be a lot more intimidating if it wasn’t so cute.”

Fare. Or should I say Farron. Prince of the bloody Autumn Realm, and heir to its Blessing. I can’t believe he kissed me. Can’t believe without even a single drop of alcohol, I lost as much reason as if I’d drunk five pitchers of ale and threw myself at him. Threw myself so deep I was drowning—drowning in the crisp scent of his skin, the rich brown of his hair, the constellation of freckles over his nose.

don’t want to belong to myself. I want to belong to him. But like taking on ghosts and cursed water, I’m nowhere near brave enough to do that.

I can’t remember a single conversation I had with anyone tonight, but I can remember every word he’s ever said.

“Let’s go get our treasure,” Farron says. I don’t respond, only capable of nodding. Because damn if I haven’t already found mine.

“I’m staying here until the match is over.” I look him up and down. There’s a determined power to the set of his face. It’s the same look as when he jumped off the cliff. “Are you crazy?” I roar. “If I lose, no one will find you down here.” “Then don’t fucking lose.”

I won for him. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for him. And damn to the gods if that isn’t more frightening than fighting to the death in the arena.

I’m in love with you, Daytonales, Prince of Summer. All the stars and the sun and the moon could vanish from the sky, and you would be all the light I’ll ever need.