Page 38 of Forged in Cursed Flames (Crown and Crest 2)

I decide to begin with the most pressing.

“Lawrence and I aren’t—”

“We are, and you know it,” Lawrence says matter-of-factly.

I scowl at the prince beside me. “You’ve never bothered to mention it to me.”

“I didn’t think I had to. You’ve been rather direct about your intentions.”

“But…what if I don’t want to marry you?”

“You’re not weaseling out of it now. You’re the only girl in the kingdom who wouldn’t drive me mad in the first year. Besides, Henrik has officially been gifted to my lovely sister. It doesn’t matter how ardent your feelings are for the dull-as-dirt soldier; the two of you were doomed before you ever started.”

I turn to him, narrowing my eyes. “I didn’t say it was because of Henrik.”

“It’s me, isn’t it?” Ayan waggles his dark brows at me. “I knew you wanted me.”

Rolling my eyes, I look back at Lawrence. “And Henrik will be free if I can prove your sister is a sorceress.”

“Good luck with that,” the prince answers, turning in his seat to face me. “My father has always been blind to Camellia’s faults.”

“Surely he can’t ignore a trail of dead bodies!”

Lawrence leans in, his chestnut brown eyes laughing at me. “One body is hardly a trail.”

With a huff, I look away.

“Where are you going?” Lawrence asks when I push away from the table. “You haven’t finished your breakfast.”

“I’ve lost my appetite.”

Ayan laughs, and just as I’m leaving the room, he says to Lawrence, “The thought of marrying you made the poor girl ill. Are you certain it was her idea?”

12

Henrik

Though Clover madegood on her promise and is pretending last night never happened, I wish she wouldn’t. If I’d known she actually meant it, I would have done more than embrace her.

What if she’s a sorceress?

No, she’s not—she can’t be. Surely my instincts cannot be that off.

I’m in a foul mood as we wander the piers, looking for a captain willing to take us to Ferradelle.

So far, we’ve had no luck. If it had been just Bartholomew, Pranmore, and me, we might have had more success. But with six of us—and one member of our group being a lady—it’s suspicious that we would want to travel aboard a supply ship to the gated province.

Lawrence may have to dig deeply into his pockets to fund the short voyage—after all, he might as well make himself useful since he insisted on tagging along.

“What about him?” Bartholomew asks, pointing to a portly captain slouching against a crate next to his ancient ship.

His belt performs an epic feat of strength as his belly spills over the front of his trousers. An oil stain mars the front of his tunic, which is wrinkled and boasts multiple careless mending jobs. He has a riotous scruff of brown hair and a week’s worth of whiskers, and there’s a chance he hasn’t bathed since spring.

“Him?” I ask skeptically, looking at my squire as if he’s lost his mind.

“That’s right.”

We all turn back to the captain, stupefied by Bartholomew’s suggestion.

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