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.
Beside me, Suri’s hand trails to her collar as she appreciatively remarks, “He’s certainly large, isn’t he?”
I snort. A married woman can’t say aloud that anyone but her husband is a dark god of a man.
“I wouldn’t know,” I say flatly. “There weren’t exactly a lot of men traipsing through the convent.”
I see movement in the manor’s front windows—a gaggle of maids is also ogling Rian’s guard from inside the house.
“His name is Wolf Bowborn,” Suri whispers conspiratorially. “One of our family’s messengers knew of him when we lived in Buckwen. He’s served the Valvere family since he was an orphaned boy. Even as a child, he made his way with his fists in the combat games. The Valvere family heard about his godkiss, brought him on as a hunter, and renamed him a Bowborn.”
A child in the combat games? I’m certain that isn’t legal, but I’d be naive to think such things don’t happen.
The wind changes, causing my robe to flutter around my thighs. My skin erupts in gooseflesh as I wrangle the silk back into place.
Wolf Bowborn’s head suddenly jerks toward me as whatever words he was about to say to my father are lost. He sniffs the air, sharp and sampling, and then his gaze targets me.
It’s the first time he’s looked directly at me, and with my legs bare up to my thighs, I expect him to leer. But that isn’t the look he gives me. His eyes run down my length like I’m a filly at auction, and he wants to gauge how much trouble I’ll be.
I think I’d prefer a leer, all things considered.
“He’s godkissed?” I ask, surprised.
Suri nods. “Heightened senses, people say. That’s how he made his name in the fights, and now, as a hunter.” Her gaze lowers to my own godkissed birthmark on my breastbone, half hidden by the robe’s folds. “The Valveres like to surround themselves with godkissed people.”
Feeling self-conscious, I close the robe tighter so it hides my mark completely. The fae gods may be sleeping, but threads of their magic remain in a few of us, who are called the godkissed. We are gifted with talents beyond the bounds of human ability. No one knows who the gods will bless from within their slumbering dreams, though magic does have a slight tendency to run in a family. Not in mine, however—neither of my parents were godkissed. It is only once a baby is born, with the birthmark or not, that the gods’ favor is revealed. And only many years later that the magical nature of their ability manifests.
Suri goes back to eyeing Wolf like a decadent dessert, and I half expect her to lick her lips. With the face of an angel on a beast’s body, it feels like a crime for the gods to have given someone so brutish such beauty.
Despite my wariness, my curiosity gets the best of me. My hand goes to a loose lock of hair that’s slipped out of my braid, twisting it around my little finger. For the last twelve years, I’ve barely seen a man. The convent was run by elderly women who swore a vow of chastity, so they rarely even spoke of men.
Are all males this . . . impressive?
My throat bobs with a hard swallow.
Wolf’s head turns sharply toward me again, and I gape.
Did he hear me gulp?
He says a few final words to my father and then strides across the courtyard in my direction. I feel myself shrinking despite my resolve to stand tall. He moves with a sort of heavy grace, though he holds one shoulder stiffly, as though an old injury still gives him trouble. His boots come to a squelching stop in the mud a pace away from me.