Page 118 of Fate's Sweetest Curse
My bloodline was powerful. Dangerous, but consequential.
It was the flip of a coin, a fifty-fifty chance. Either my identity would save me in this moment or end me.
I took the chance. “I’m Hattie Wynhaim,” I said breathlessly.
“The fuck?” the man behind us said, footsteps stopping short.
“Not possible,” the other murmured.
Corla ripped the turnip bag from my head, but nobody came within view. All I saw were the walls of stone narrowing toward Rose Street, the dirty cobblestones, and the diamond-like stars above. Past the curve of my cheek, I caught a glimpse of ruby red and steel—and beyond that, my captor’s shoulder, her wavy brunette hair.
My shallow wounds throbbed with the pounding of my pulse; sticky heat soaked the neckline of my dress.
Corla’s grip tightened around me, but her breaths came short and shocked in my ear. Someone entered my periphery, but I didn’t dare move with the blade against my neck. All I could hope was that they took in my curly blonde hair, blue eyes, and dark freckles and decided to believe me. Because while it was unlikely for someone from Fenrir to recognize me outright, most Maronans knew the unmistakable features of my bloodline.
And theyallknew my name.
“Your Grace…” one of Corla’s co-conspirators said, while another muttered, “She’s full of shit.”
“IamHattie Wynhaim,” I said, more firmly this time.
And in spite of the icy fear of death in my veins, the words felt incredible to say out loud. Exhilarating as the surge of Wynhaim Falls; refreshing as the spray that hazed around Wynhaim Castle. Expansive asthe sprawl of Wynhaim City, the capital of our kingdom. Empowering as the knowledge that even King Braven was a guest in the home of my ancestors, hiswife’sfamily. My aunt, Queen Yvira Wynhaim of Marona.
“I’m Hattie Fucking Wynhaim!” I screamed into the night.
My assailants began arguing, panicked by my claim. The blade against my throat dropped to the ground with a clatter. Then I was shoved—hard—against the stone wall, stars bursting across my vision. I fell, but the world went black before I landed.
41
Don’t Threaten the Messenger
Noble
In anticipation of Hattie’s visit, Noble had bought more peaches.
He set the jar on the nightstand on Hattie’s side of his bed—the left side, which was closer to the hearth. His hair was still wet from bathing, dripping onto the shoulders of his loose shirt—a shirt he knew Hattie liked on him, a little tight across his chest. He’d refrained from shaving his face for her, too, knowing her appreciation for the roughness of his stubble on her inner thighs.
Some nights, when Hattie was asleep in Noble’s arms, he imagined they were in Waldron. Instead of city noise floating in from the window—drunken singing, clanging bells, yipping dogs, near-constant shouting—he imagined more pastoral sounds. Bleating sheep. Wind sighing through maple leaves and pine boughs. The early morning songs of robins and the trickle of the Wend.
Hattie might’veescapedto Waldron, but he could see why she’d stayed. The festivals, the tight-knit community, the care with which everyone looked after each other—Waldron’s indulgence in simple pleasures was the exact opposite of her upbringing in Marona. As much as Noble had tried to refrain from being a part of the town while studying withRichold, he’d been powerless to its charm and jealous of the folks who were blessed enough to call ithome.
Noble had always wanted to settle down in a place like that. One that was joyful, welcoming, and peaceful. One that had Hattie in it.
Noble raked his hair out of his face and surveyed his room. He had hot water boiling in a kettle on the hook above the fire. A spread of meats, cheeses, and bread waited on the desk, along with two cups for tea. He’d already fluffed the pillows on the bed, lit a half dozen candles. He’d taken his time bathing and tidying and readying the space for her arrival—but shestillhadn’t come.
He sat on the edge of the bed and stared out the window, watching the pale wisps of clouds float across the deep indigo sky like fingers dragging across velvet, imagining all the ways he’d love her when she got here—trying his best not to worry. She’d stayed late at the lab—later than she promised—but when Hattie had an idea, she followed it relentlessly. Who was Noble to interrupt her brilliance? In their youth, he’d learned to respect her intellectual momentum. And seeing as she was studyingfor him, he ought to be grateful, not impatient.
Knuckles rapped softly on his door, and Noble sprung to his feet, relieved. He remembered their conversation about the blindfold, and an anticipatory smirk played across his lips as he opened the door, eager to draw her into his arms.
“Happy to see me?” Mariana asked, bumping Noble’s shoulder with her own as she barged into his room.
Noble closed the door and folded his arms across his chest, resisting the urge to punch Mariana in the nose for the ways she’d roughed-up Hattie. His tone was a blade brandished for violence. “What are you doing here?”
She plucked a piece of cheese from the plate he’d prepared and popped it into her mouth. “I know you were anticipating a bubbly blonde, butdon’t look so disappointed to see me,” Mariana said. “I’m a delicate flower, sensitive to scorn.”
Noble scoffed—then stiffened. “Who do you think I was expecting?”
“Oh, please.” Mariana went to the kettle next, lifting it off the fire and pouring the hot water into one of the two waiting cups of chamomile leaves. “You two have been fucking for weeks.”
