Page 119 of Dare

As for me, whatever evidence stretched across my visage as they caught me gazing at Flare altered their stances. Their heads flipped between us, surveying with fresh eyes. Old wounds. New wounds. A scar had formed on my bicep, courtesy of an unclassified spider as massive as a fucking horse. Flare had a similar blemish on her lower back, in addition to scars made by talons and tusks.

The astute jester and princess also knew survival when they saw it.

Poet’s features sharpened. “Wicked hell.”

Disbelief pinched Briar’s countenance. “It cannot be.” She veered toward Flare, checking the woman from head to toe for injuries or signs of duress. “You and him. On purpose?”

Flare peeked at me. I hardly gave a shit what the jester and princess thought, but the unfathomable look on the beast’s face escalated my blood pressure. Minutes ago, she’d been coming around my cock. To say the least, we hadn’t been afforded time to figure out where we went from here.

Yet those eyes gleamed. Willing. Voluntary. She twisted toward Briar and nodded with a small smile.

A typhoon of air emptied from my lungs. I wanted to snatch her. I wanted her back in that ocean. I wanted to kiss the living fuck out of her. Yet I had no right to feel that craving.

Worse, Poet noticed my reaction. Having worn a mask for most of his life, this man missed nothing. No detail was safe from him.

I scowled, for all the good it did. The jester picked apart my features, searching for a trick but finding none. That led to an alternative interpretation, with Poet narrowing his gaze, an inspired glint reaching his eyes.

Shit. I had liked this man better when he’d been seething.

After a moment, Briar relented. Poet followed suit and disarmed his staff.

Still, they did so with reluctance. Although they trusted Flare’s word and would not second guess her choices, the couple remained vigilant toward me.

I expected nothing less. For all they knew, I had been exiled for months. But for all they knew, I also hadn’t changed.

“Well.” Briar cupped her hands in front of her, then elbowed Poet. “What’s this? My husband being uncharacteristically quiet?”

“’Tis rare, but it happens,” Poet remarked while scrutinizing me. “I must have misplaced my tongue somewhere between the wicked and the hell.”

“Good,” I grunted. “Leave it there.”

His feigned grin tightened like a noose. “Give me time, sweeting.”

The fuck, I would. My glare only motivated his infernal mouth to slant, not quite amiable, but no longer mercenary. Taking hostile pleasure in my annoyance, he tsked. “Think carefully, Prince of Pestilence. Show me your weak spot, and I’ll discover a shiny new toy.”

Footfalls resounded from the ruins’ east wing. I whipped toward the disturbance, my fingers landing on the knife hilt and then ceasing. My brows stapled together as an athletic figure strode from the foliage, a sleeveless bronze vest exposing a fleet of raptor tattoos that climbed one muscular arm. No armor. No cloak. Yet he possessed the vigilant gait of a warrior.

The glowing vegetation sketched the man’s angular visage in subtle light. It was enough. His presence returned me once more to Autumn’s castle blackout.

Twilit blue irises. Ashy blond hair that radiated in the dark. Twin broadswords as long as wingspans, which he braced in his grip.

Surly but chivalrous. Ethical. Principled. And intuitive to the point of absurd.

Aire.

Moving like the wind itself—forceful, intrinsic—Autumn’s First Knight halted beside the lake, inclining his head to the jester and princess. “This outpost is clear.” His attention strayed to the ancient building, reverence claiming his features. “Long have these walls been silent.”

“And yet they are occupied,” I stated.

The man swerved. Disapproval clashed with discipline as he registered my presence. “Your Highness.” He lowered his head, then did a double take when he noticed Flare.

More to the point, the knight comprehended how little she wore. I would have snapped his neck then and there, but for the swift manner in which he glanced away, the gesture courteous rather than amorous.

“Er … hello … I’m …” Aire cleared his throat, then muttered to himself. “Seasons, does no one in this clan stay dressed for long?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Poet remarked.

Briar flushed, testifying to the number of times this warrior had encountered the jester and princess in compromising positions.

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