White Horse Black Nights (The Godkissed Bride, #1)(6)

“Say your farewells,” I order her.

Lord Charlin’s dark-skinned wife, who can’t be much older than Sabine herself, approaches the horse and clasps hands with Sabine. In a sweet chirp, she says, “We’ve put out the order that no one in Bremcote shall look upon you. All doors will be closed, all windows shuttered. Beyond that . . . ” The young woman’s voice breaks. “We’ve sent requests to the towns beyond also to close their shutters, but we have no official influence over them.”

“Thank you, Suri,” Sabine says solemnly. “You’ve been so kind. I won’t forget it. I wish we’d had more than a few days together.”

Bored with their womanly talk, I scrape my eyes over the sky, looking for any sign of rain. The last thing I want is for this damnable ride to be delayed for the weather. Twenty-one days are twenty-one days more than I should be away from Duren.

I should be in the Blackened Forest north of the city, tracking that troublesome bear that’s been wreaking so much damage in the villages up near the border wall with the neighboring kingdom of Volkany—the cursed kingdom. My mind can’t let go of it. It dragged off a fifteen-year-old girl, and no one has seen her since. Her parents wailed my ears off. She was their pride and joy, godkissed with the ability to find misplaced objects. But it’s strange: When I tried to track the bear, the claw marks it left behind seemed too large—unless it’s the largest fucking bear anyone’s ever seen. I found a clump of its fur that shimmered like fine strands of precious metal.

Lord Charlin climbs the manor’s front steps precariously as he raises his voice to the small crowd of servants.

He slurs drunkenly, “We of House Darrow bid farewell to my daughter on this, um . . . on this joyous occasion of her ride to meet her husband . . . uh . . . ” He trails off stupidly, smacking his lips.

Like a ripple of smoke, Sabine’s scent changes. Her tang of fear is gone, the violets are gone, replaced by the smell of two iron blades striking.

The scent of anger.

Can I blame her? I prefer having no father, if my option is this one.

Suri Darrow saves her husband’s lackluster speech by piping up, “May the wind be at your back, the sun on your face, and the gods’ blessing on your journey, Sabine.”

It’s childish, these theatrics. They aren’t sending her off to her doom. Lord Rian will shower a girl like her with jewels. She’s about to know finery as she’s never fathomed. All she need do is acquiesce to my master’s occasional whim—and granted, his whims can be impulsive—and he’ll lay down the earth at her feet.

Lord Rian’s words slingshot back into my memory.

“I want her, Wolf,” Rian said. “Sabine Darrow will be my wife, come hell or hounds.”

I remember it like it happened yesterday, not a year ago. My master came to Bremcote for business to evaluate some young brute for the combat games. The fighter’s father wanted to charm Lord Rian, so he took him to a Preview where young maidens eligible to be wed in the next few years were put out on display.

Up to that point, he’d sworn never to marry—until he saw Sabine Darrow.

“Her father’s a drunken lout,” he told me after. “But he knows he has a prize in that girl. Honeyed hair down to the floor. A face that rivals the statues of Clarana. And she’s godkissed. She’s young—not ready for another year. And her father won’t give her up for less than a fortune, but I’m not going to pay a penny for her. Watch and see, Wolf.”

Lord Rian could easily afford to buy a bride at any price, but it’s never about money with the Valveres.

It’s the win.

It’s the game.

And in the end, he hadn’t paid a penny for her, just as he’d vowed.

“Open the gate!” Lord Charlin calls.

Servants roll back the wooden gate, and Sabine’s pulse jumps in her veins. She’s not the only one less than thrilled about this ride. I have more pressing work. I can’t stop chewing over that strange bear activity up near the border with Volkany and the missing godkissed girl. But Lord Rian said it had to be me.

I trust you to bring her to me, Wolf, he said. You and you alone.

“Listen, little violet,” I say to her now as I sling my rucksack over my shoulder. “You are the property of Lord Rian Valvere of Duren, who has entrusted me to bring you to him safely and without incident. You will obey my commands on the ride, do you understand?”

She looks down at me through her long lashes, and I have to pretend that I don’t notice the obvious bare curves of her body.

“Oh, I have plenty of experience with people who expect me to obey,” she says evenly.

There’s a challenge in her tone, yet I can’t quite suss out its exact nature. This pampered princess? She’s known no hardship, of that I feel certain.

I tighten my jaw. The little flower might yet have thorns.

“Good,” I snap, and the two of us—me on foot, her on horseback—begin the ride.





Chapter 3





Sabine





Bremcote is a provincial town with middling importance in East Astagnon, best known for its wool market. A network of dirt roads connect wooden houses, a few garden plots, the mill, and of course, my father’s manor house.