Page 118 of Dare

But while I understood her reasoning, I stalked down the steps at a languid pace, my voice wry. “You have explaining to do, Little Beast.”

The levity from seconds ago died. The trio spun my way, only one of them looking pleased. Flare’s teeth flashed into a brilliant smile, her eyes sparkling like melted suns.

As for the revolutionaries beside her, I encountered a different reaction.

Briar’s eyes widened. Her hand flew to one of those projectiles she favored as weapons—thorn quills, one of which materialized from a hidden location amid her clothing.

Poet’s orbs flashed with rancor. With a lethal hiss, he maneuvered in front of the women, ignoring Flare’s protest. In a series of rapid-fire movements, the staff I hadn’t noticed until now cut across his fingers, the murder weapon flipping in a sequence meant to eradicate its opponent.

Then the staff froze, its tip aimed at my cranium, though I did not flinch. Notwithstanding his protective instincts regarding Flare—the only tolerable characteristic about him—did I still hate this parasite?

“What have we here?” the jester drawled. “’Tis an unwelcome bystander.”

Yes. I fucking did.

“Jeryn of Winter,” he mused with fatal calm. “The prince who’s so fucking smart, it’s made him fucking stupid.”

“Poet,” I greeted with mock civility. “It’s unfortunate to see you again.”

“Likewise.” He raised an eyebrow. “I take it, cruelty is still your specialty.”

A verse. Two minutes. The bastard had been here only two minutes, and already his tongue had taken to spewing frivolous shit.

As for cruelty, I gave him a flat look. “Fortunately for you, I have no current interest in causing pain.”

Poet appraised my sun-bleached pants. “Then you should have worn something else.” Nudging the fabric, he murmured in a tone equal parts seductive and deadly, “Of course, I could change this color to red. It would be a pleasure.”

With the staff poised in his grip, his muscles flexed like rocks. Moreover, the jester’s wrathful expression made it plain. If the rod didn’t crack open my head, the dagger stashed in his boot would impale my stomach.

I had fought at this man’s side during Autumn’s castle blackout. I knew his skills, from a mastery of artifice and sin to a capacity for violence.

This threat, I had anticipated. I gave the pair a deadpan look that illustrated a crucial fact: I hadn’t reached for my scalpel knife.

At length, my unwillingness to brace the weapon tethered to my hip registered on them. That, and my state of undress, which mirrored Flare’s.

Momentary confusion wrestled across their features. Only then did they notice pivotal details. My torn shirt haphazardly concealing Flare’s nudity. The rumpled brown waves sweeping her shoulders, as though she’d walked through a tornado. Her naked legs, my low slung pants and exposed torso, the bite marks on our skin, the red stains where I’d sucked on Flare’s throat.

To the outside observer, we’d either been fucking or fighting. Though, whether it had been consensual or involuntary was the next unanswered question for this couple. And since they’d witnessed how I had treated Flare in Autumn, the jester and princess drew a false but fair conclusion.

Fuck.

With a furious growl, the jester charged.

I had known he could move fast, yet I hadn’t given the man sufficient credit. He launched with the speed and strength of a panther. But before I could block his staff with my fist, Flare got there first. And before I could shove her out of harm’s way, lest the staff should clip her by accident, her fingers seized the weapon mid-strike.

The jester’s rod halted inches from my skull. The force of Flare’s grip jolted Poet in place. Despite her size, she was strong. And despite the velocity of his attack, the man had registered her intervention in time, his serpentine reflexes stalling at the same moment.

Flare rushed between us. Holding up her palms, she blocked Poet and Briar from me, urging back the jester’s weapon, albeit marginally.

“Don’t!” she rushed out, although they couldn’t understand her verbally. “It’s alright. He’s my …”

My inhalations seized up. What would she say?

Yet she didn’t need to articulate a thing. Although the jester and princess failed to comprehend her words, Flare’s gesture and its implication penetrated. We watched them connect the pieces, from our disheveled state to the absence of clothing.

Poet came from the promiscuous court of Spring and had a profligate history. Neither of these applied to Briar, however she was married to this man, and they were rarely seen with their hands off each other. Of all couples, these exemplars knew sex when they saw it. Albeit belatedly, they also knew when the desire was reciprocated.

They also knew Flare. The sated blush painting her face spoke volumes.

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