Page 24 of A Chill in the Flame
He took as many silent steps as he dared until he was within earshot. He told himself it was because it would be a useful opportunity to hear Dwyn interact. The witch didn’t know he was here, and goddess only knew what she may or may not share when she thought she and Ophir were alone. Hate Dwyn though he might, he saw how Ophir’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly at the witch’s presence. Maybe he was angry that anyone liked Dwyn. Maybe he was jealous that it was Dwyn who spoke to the princess, Dwyn who comforted her, Dwyn who shared her bed.
He’d met the princess first in the flesh, after all, even if Dwyn had unwittingly led him to the royal siblings in the first place. He’d rescued Ophir at that party. He could be the onecomforting her right now. The cliff could be silhouetted with the princess’s small frame next to his strong, broad shoulders.
But alas, this was another in a long line of ways Dwyn had bested him.
He observed the pair as Dwyn slid easily behind her, planting one hand behind Ophir’s back on the cliff so her arm supported the princess’s back. She extended her slender fingers for the bottle and they took turns swigging from the wine. Ophir rested her brown-gold locks on Dwyn’s shoulders, allowing her loose waves to cascade down the girl’s back, their strands a mix of caramel and chocolate. He listened, but they didn’t talk about spells or magic or power. They didn’t talk about kingdoms or politics or loss. They didn’t talk about anything.
They were just two people, sitting on a cliff at sunset, sharing a bottle of wine.
Twelve
Ophir set her jaw. She clenched her fists. She braced herselfto be yelled at, yet again.
“What are you?” Dwyn struck her across the face, the harsh, red welts already rising against her pale skin. Her sea-freshened face was pink against the wind that chafed it, but it was nothing compared to the harsh, clear evidence of Dwyn’s act of intentional violence.
“Ow!” Ophir’s hand flew to her face where the imprint of a hand was already hot against her skin, eyes wide with shock. She’d expected a scolding, not a slap.
The day was as terrible as her energy. The winds, the impending storm, the chill, the ferocity in every one of her lashes matched her as if one was a harmony and the other its melody. Ophir’s eyes were as wide as saucers, the melted honey of her irises staring at Dwyn in a state of bewildered horror. It wasn’t the first time Dwyn had attempted a rather violent form of therapy, but this was the first time the fae had hit her.
“Hey!” Harland shouted from where he stood off to the back.
“I know what I’m doing,” Dwyn yelled dismissively at the guard, returning her aggressive posture to the princess. Therewas no gentle energy in her tonight. She focused her dark brown eyes on the princess where she shrank.
Ophir blinked rapidly in shock, flinching preemptively. She’d been hit twice in her life, and both culprits had been dealt with swiftly and without mercy. This was the third time someone had laid a hand on her, and she had no idea what to make of it. She stumbled backward, a thin hand raising to touch the heat of the welt. She knew what Dwyn wanted to hear and swallowed through the thought.
“I’m a snake?”
“Say it again.” Dwyn raised her hand, and Ophir winced in anticipation of the pain. Distant lightning over the sea made her look like one of the old gods from the time before the All Mother had brought order and love to the world. There was a dark ferocity in the typically aloof siren’s face she’d never seen before.
“Goddess, fuck, stop!” Ophir flinched and lifted a hand to protect herself. Harland’s stare intensified from where he’d been idling in the expanse above the cliffs. He was clearly uncomfortable but didn’t know what to do or how to help. He hadn’t let Ophir out of his sight in nearly seven months, save for the moments she slept or the times she excused herself to the bathing room. He’d become a permanent shadow, and following the tragedy that had befallen the castle, the princess no longer tried to evade him. No one was sure when he found the time to sleep, particularly as he no longer trusted any of the other castle guards to watch her.
Ophir’s unusual relationship with Dwyn had resulted in the liveliest anyone had seen the young princess in months. No one questioned the Sulgrave fae’s presence—she may as well have been from a village in Farehold, a border town in Tarkhany, or the Raascot capital of Gwydir for all it mattered—as long as it seemed to be doing what no one else in the kingdom had accomplished. Whoever she was, and whatever she was doing, it seemed to be working.
“Don’t tempt me, Firi. I’ve been looking for excuses tosmack you ever since I moved into the castle. You and your goddess-damned flame-soaked night terrors haven’t let me get a decent sleep in weeks. Go on. Give me a reason.”
“I’m a snake.”
Harland relaxed at the exchange. Out of the corner of her eye, Ophir caught him chuckling to himself and begin to pick at tiny pieces of lint on his cloak. He seemed to be doing his best to give the women their privacy. It was impossible to miss the bizarre brand of psychology Dwyn seemed to wield. While healers and spiritualists had tried prayer, tonics, and drugs, and while her parents had gone to great lengths to offer their youngest child space and understanding, it was the Sulgrave fae’s violence that appeared to be making true, noteworthy progress.
The cliffs were not quiet today. The clouds were dark with impending storm. The sea matched its ominous intensity, white caps breaking the otherwise steel shades of its waves. The wind whipped around them, making Ophir wish she had tied her hair into a braid. Her hair was a mix of muddy brown and dark blond, tangling in a cloud against her face as the wind moved it. She choked on a strand of her hair and spit it out, attempting to look fierce, and failing.
“Again! Say it until I believe you.”
Ophir scrunched her face angrily. “You want to know what I believe? I believe that you’re certifiably insane.”
“Try again, princess.”
“I’m a black snake! I’m a big, terrifying black snake!” She cried her assertions into the wind at Dwyn, fists balled in anger. Ophir doubted she looked threatening, but she pulled her lips back in a snarl to show the sharpened ends of her canines. It wasn’t the desired expression of fury Dwyn was trying to elicit, but rather, a face of contempt and irritation at her so-called friend who wouldn’t stop hitting her across the fucking face.
The siren lifted her hand to strike again and Ophir winced, raising her forearm up defensively to block the blow.
Dwyn’s voice was growing higher and louder to combatthe sound of the approaching storm. “Fight back, Ophir! Stop being so pathetic. You’re acting powerless. Where is your rage?! Don’t let me hit you. Don’t let yourself be a victim. What are you?”
“If you don’t want me to get hit, then stop hitting me!”
“Do you think the world will stop, princess? It will punish you as long as you allow it! Don’tletit!”
Dwyn pushed her to the ground and the princess went flying, skidding through the dust, grime, and sand at the cliff’s edge. Her hands scraped and chafed as they burned against the impact, a jolt of pain shooting up her arms. Her palms stung with the shallow scrapes, droplets of blood already beginning to form on her hands. She shot a panicked look to Harland just in time to see him straighten where he stood. His full attention was on the girls as her feral friend descended upon her.
