Page 187 of The Curse of the Goddess

He jumped on his horse and left the castle in a hurry. Ophelia Plaza would give him the distraction that he needed. He found said distraction inside the taverns. Even if he sat alone, women would approach him. His boyish good looks, his strange silver hair, always made him stand out to the rest of the Skylians. A trait he had inherited from his mother.

He drank alone, ignoring the hands of women and men, touching his back, wondering what he was doing, making small talk. He ignored them all. His mind always trailed back to Rionach, to her smile, to her hair, to her short, tight body. He suppressed an aroused groan and moved uncomfortably on his stool. He had met her years ago, during a Festival. He was dancing in the center square of the plaza, young, happy, unbothered. The only thing that he worried about was his rank test and how he would pass them to be where he was now.

She was standing by the musicians, watching them play, her hair down to her shoulders, her dress reached her thighs. As the music got louder, as more and more people were pulled into the square to dance, he was tangled by a group of youngsters, and before he knew it, he had her in his arms, dancing, laughing.

She seemed so unbothered, so … free. Free of judgment, of worries, of responsibilities, of anger, of sadness, pain. She was everything he wanted, and then more.

Before he knew it, she was stretching her arms to the sky, her eyes closed as he twirled her by the waist. He found himself laughing as well, breathless by her beauty, by their dancing, and by the closeness of her soft body to his. Rionach was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his entire existence, and he never wanted to let her go.

They were intimate that same night. He had taken her to his home outside the castle. The house used to be his mother’s, and he still owned it. He was so nervous, scared that he might not be able to satisfy the goddess standing in the middle of the small living room, but her hands, her kisses, her caresses melted his anxiety away.

He wanted her forever, and he had decided as he held her down on his bed and thrusted into her, that he would have her. He grew addicted to her hands, to the way her face contorted when he was inside of her, of the small keening sound she made every time she was about to come, of how she squeezed his cock.

He was hers as she was his, and nothing and no one was to change that. He decided that she was his heart mate, they were to wed, that he would marry her and move out of the castle, that he would retire from his life as a soldier and live only to satisfy her, to keep that smile on her rosy lips, to hear her voice break as they made love. They would raise a family; she would bear him children and they would die holding hands when they grew old.

Arwin had everything planned in his head, all he needed was Rionach to say, “I do”.

Rionach was his, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. But he was sitting at a tavern alone, with a glass half empty and strangers trying to drag him to their sheets, and all he could think about was Rionach.

This wasn’t the place to be. He needed to leave.

Arwin paid for his drink and decided to head back to the castle. Maybe it would be better to sleep and rest his tired, overworked mind, but as he walked down the halls of Oberon castle, as he noticed the pitiful looks the soldiers gave him, Arwin couldn’t help but grow wary. Something was not right.

His boots echoed through the stone walls; his steps heavy with his own tiredness. As he went past the King’s study, he couldn’t ignore a soft keening noise he knew too well, he couldn’t unhear the masculine grunts.

Arwin’s heart dropped to his stomach. He took a sidestep towards the door, his heartbeat loud and deafening in his head. The moans of pleasure, the sound of flesh hitting flesh were loud enough to pierce through the haze of his worst fear.

Arwin’s trembling hand fell on the door’s latch, and slowly, silently, he opened the door to Brontes’s office.

His hazel eyes fell upon Rionach’s face. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted in a silent cry of pure pleasure, while Brontes, his brother, his blood, thrusted in and out of Rionach in an unforgiving and relentless rhythm.

His grip on his sword tightened, his upper lip twitched, yet he never spoke a word. Until Rionach’s eyes opened. She saw him standing by the door from the corner of her eye, and she let out a loud gasp.

Brontes looked down at her in confusion then followed her gaze. Brontes pulled out, covered his erection, and grabbed his pants from the ground.

Rionach pulled her dress to hide herself, while turning away, ashamed.

“Arwin!” Brontes called out, moving to cover Rionach’s disheveled form with his own.

“My king.” Arwin’s anger was dangerously contained. He stared at Brontes before slowly dipping his gaze to Rionach, his Rionach. “Miss.”

“Arwin,” Rionach’s voice trembled. She pushed Brontes aside to face him. “Arwin, I—”

Before she could speak, Arwin pulled out his sword.

“Arwin,” Brontes said, his voice calm yet deep. “Don’t.”

Arwin shook his head, his face stoic. He lifted the tip of his sword to Brontes’s face. “I challenge you to a duel.”

Brontes’s eyes widened. “Are you insane?”

“If I win, you will leave her alone, I will become king.” Arwin’s eyes shifted to look at Rionach and then went back to Brontes. “If you win, you can marry her for all I care.”

“I will not kill you.”

“Might as well.”

“Arwin, please. We can talk about this. Rionach and I, we are ma—”

---