Page 2 of White Horse Black Nights

“You’re twenty-two, Sabine,” he says forcefully. “You’ve been granted more freedom than most girls your age. I could have secured a marriage contract ten years ago, and the courts would have allowed it.”

I know better than to visibly balk in my father’s presence at the word “freedom,” so instead, I press my lips together to seal my anger. I don’t know any girls who would call spending the last twelve years imprisoned in a convent, beaten and starved by Sisters with hearts as sour as withered lemons, any type of freedom.

“Twenty-one days.” My father rubs his hands together in a farce of joviality. “The ride is only twenty-one days. Soldiers march for months at a time.”

“Yes, butclothed,” I point out wryly. As soon as I say it, his lips work like he has choice words to throw back at me, but Suri rests her tender hand on his arm before he can.

“Charlin,” she entreats sweetly, “let’s keep the peace on Sabine’s last day here.” She bats her long lashes at him. Their marriage is still so new, and he is still so besotted with his pretty young second wife, that he forgets the bulk of his ire.

“Lord Rian set the rules of the ride,” he mutters to absolve himself of some guilt. “Not me.”

And yet you didn’t object, either.

When my father sold me as a bride to Lord Rian Valvere in exchange for settling our family debts, I was the last person consulted. After all, why would anyone have bothered to include me in the talks? Since I was born, all I’ve been is a bargaining chip to be dangled before powerful men. But out of all the wealthy lords my ass of a father could have chosen, did it have to behim?

Lord Rian might be sinfully rich, but he’s also simplysinful. On my first day out of the convent, Suri whispered to me that he earned the moniker “The Lord of Liars” when he took over his family’s empire of lawful vices in Duren. The Valveres own every vice establishment in West Astagnon, from gambling dens to brothels to racing grounds—and if the rumors are true, they dabble in their share ofunlawful vices, too. I suppose this ride is all just another game for Lord Rian.

Every game has rules. According to our engagement contract, these are mine:

No dress.

No chemise.

No slippers.

To honor the gods, Lady Sabine Darrow will recreate Immortal Solene’s legendary ride by traveling on horseback from Bremcote to Duren for twenty-one days with only her hair to cover her.

I’m all too familiar with the story this ride supposedly pays homage to. We had an ancient, well-thumbed-through copy of the Book of the Immortals in the convent. I’d spend hours pouring over the sacred text, memorizing the fabled accounts of each god and blushing at the scandalous accompanying illustrations. There was Immortal Vale, the King of Fae, who ruled over the godly court with an iron fist and tanned abs. Immortal Popelin, God of Pleasure, depicted with scantily clad women feeding him grapes. Immortal Alyssantha, Goddess of Sex . . . her illustration, complete with tangled limbs of multiple sexual partners in impossible positions, piqued my curiosity the most.

But one of the book’s most famous tales is when Immortal Solene, Goddess of Nature, celebrates her upcoming marriage by traveling naked on horseback to her husband’s home as a demonstration of her bared soul. The illustration shows her immortal fey lines—the glowing, faintly blue marks that run up the gods’ limbs and necks—on full display across her entire body.“I come to you not as a god, but merely as a woman,”she says. “I come as nature forged me.”

And the man my father chose for me?Apparently, he loves that story, too. Or at least the idea of a naked girl groveling to him.

And yet, even though I’m about to be paraded nude across half of Astagnon, a part of me is still hopeful. It’s probably false hope, and I’m probably setting myself up for an even more shattered spirit, but at least—finally—I’m out of the convent walls.

That small chance for something greater keeps my head high.

I rub the cockleshell necklace between thumb and forefinger, trusting in its secret promise. Overhead, the sun breaks free of clouds, gracing us with a bath of light that makes my skin sing.

In the next instant, however, a man saunters through the gates, and my fragile ray of hope dissolves like morning mist.

He stalks in like a storm cloud made flesh, all midnight hair, hooded eyes, and a scowl that says he’d rather be anywhere than here. There’s no question who he is: there’s a bow on his back, and he bears the Valvere crest on a leather chest plate harnessed around his shoulders.

This was the final rule in my future husband’s game:My most trusted guard will escort Lady Sabine for her safety.

Lucky me.

Lord Rian’s guard drops his rucksack and bow on the ground and then stands tall enough to eclipse my father, who isn’t a small man. The guard’s shoulders strain his shirt so the fabric is taut over his biceps, which are as thick around as my thigh. His brows are low over dark eyes that glint even from across the courtyard. His jaw is square and symmetrical, but his nose is slightly dented in several places, as though it’s been broken more than once. His shoulder-length hair is the rich color and texture of a raven’s wing. He wears it loose, not at all in keeping with fae-inspired fashion.

He’s striking. He’s savage. He’s undeniably gorgeous.

And yet all I can think is:They sent a beast for me.

Lord Rian called this man my escort in the marriage contract, but one glance at his thuggish frame and it’s clear: he is my jailor. His job isn’t to keep me safe on the ride—it’s to prevent me from running away.

The blood in my veins ices over as he looks our way and barks, “Lord Charlin Darrow?”

My father jumps at the call and shuffles forward like a schoolboy instead of the privileged lord protector of Bremcote. They exchange words I can’t hear, but my ears are buzzing with so many internal questions that I feel besieged by a cloud of gnats.

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