Page 70 of The Princess's Chosen

It was stupid not to pay attention. The fire was an obvious distraction.

And Emory was quick.

I gasped as a hand clasped over my mouth, an arm so tight around my ribs it made them ache. I kicked and twisted as I was dragged back, away from the glow of the fire in the stables, into the shadow of the woods. There were figures running for us, but their eyes were on the flames, not me.

I pulled Cresswell's dagger from the hilt just in time to be thrown to the ground. The blade dug into the earth as I landed, lodging into the dense root of a tree and sticking there. I yanked once, twice, and then gave up, scrambling away and onto my back just as Emory dove down. He had a knife, a small one, and a rich collection of bruises around his face, one hand bandaged in a way that made it clear he was missing a few fingers. I ripped the skirt of my dress, the pretty red one Aric had appreciated, as I struggled to stand, every inch of me stiff with cold, sore with being thrown.

"Don't shout for them," Emory hissed, as I opened my mouth.

I eyed the dagger in the tree root briefly, and then Emory's own clumsy grip around his knife. It was in his left hand this time, when he'd fought me with his right. That was good for me, his usual hand being injured. It would make his fighting weaker and give me a place to target to distract him. I skirted back at his approach, my hands behind me to try and avoid cornering myself against a tree trunk.

"You really are just one fucking problem after another, aren't you?" Emory breathed. His nose was crooked now, hair matted and greasy from his time in a cell. "You won't fuck the men you're meant to. You set about playing queen before you've even been granted the crown. Then you takemy crown!" He stiffened, breath ragged, and I wondered if his ribs were injured too.

I had no weapon, but Emory was a mess.

You have magic, idiot, I thought, and when Emory lunged for me, I ducked and slid across the ground, grabbing up a handful of leaves. He paused, straightening, and laughed at the mess of dead leaves and twigs in my grip. Behind him, at the stables, something groaned and croaked ominously, and a horse went careening out of the fire, tail alight.

"Princess, this is a pity, because I was really looking forward to fucking you. Really making it hurt too, just because no one else would ever dare, would they? But I'm not sure we have the time," Emory said, prowling closer.

It took a moment, the Hunger so far out of reach, my own body so numb, but I kept myself safely out of Emory's grasp, trying to edge my way back to the others as I channeled magic into my fist.

My focus was split. The fire.Owen. Emory in front of me, and I knew right away whatever I was fashioning wasn't an elegant dagger. But it was cold and hard in my grip, and my fingers fisted gratefully around it. If nothing else, it was something to channel my panic and energy into.

"Cat got your tongue, princess?" Emory asked, gritting his teeth and frowning at me.

He wanted me scared. He probably wanted me pleading with him. When I didn't answer, he lunged, and I ignored the stab of his knife swinging for me as I thrust my fist at his stomach. We both hit our marks, but his was at my right shoulder and mine was in his belly, up under his ribs. I wasn't holding a knife but a half wreath of blades, their ragged edges shaped like leaves.

I gasped and released a strangled scream as his knife struck bone, but Emory gagged, eyes bugging wide as he staggered back in shock, a flood of blood running down his stomach into the torn fabric of his shirt.

The blood of my own wound was somehow welcomingly warm by comparison to the oozing chill of the rain soaking into me, and I ignored the throb, the drum of pain that ran down my arm.

"I'm going to kill you," Emory breathed, calming slightly, the understanding in his snarled expression that in doing so, I'd no doubt return the favor.

He lunged again, and I braced myself for the searing pain, the clash and thunder of contact when he struck.

I was torn away, a strong arm pulling back around my shoulders, spinning me out of the way, a hot hand cupped over the wound in my shoulder.

Daniel Farraque stood at my side, holding me to his chest, sword pointed at Emory.

"No," he said, the word rising out of him in a long growl.

Emory wavered, eyes as wide as their swollen bruises would allow, the sword digging directly into the mark I'd left myself just days ago. And then he dropped to the ground with a groan.

"Danny Boy. You fucking bastard," Emory breathed, and then he chuckled and growled at his own joke, arm banding around his wounded stomach, shoulders heaving as he winced with every breath.

"Bryony!"

My name was roared from near the stables on a sweetly familiar tongue, and I softened against Daniel who kept his blade pointed at Emory on the ground.

"She's here! Safe. I have Emory," Daniel answered with a shout of his own.

Aric came galloping on horseback, my Chosen running after him. Except—

"Owen," I moaned. "Cresswell."

"They're out of the fire," Daniel murmured. "The smoke will have done some damage, but they're fine."

Then I really did crumple. Aric was quick to leap off his horse, sliding through the muck on the ground to catch me.

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