The King's Cursed Bride

Alone

She sucked in a squeal and seized two fistfuls of his shirt, sandwiching her satchel between their bodies. "We're going to fall!"

He hugged her more firmly to his chest, until her cheek pressed against the fabric of his robe, as he used his free hand to stroke the horse's slender neck. "A cat spooked him." His blue gaze shifted to her face. "And it seems he's not the only one who's been spooked."

She huffed and pushed away from him—as far away as she could manage while they both shared the same saddle. "I was not spooked."

"Ah. Then you're in the habit of clinging to men."

"Oh!" She folded her arms over her satchel again, lest she succumb to the tingle in her hand that urged her to slap him.

His chuckles poured over her like warm honey, and the tickling, breathless sensation rose in her stomach. But those were most certainly not feelings of attraction. More likely, it was just a by-product of her anger towards him. Nothing more. "Now, you were about to say something concerning your parents, were you not?"

She tore her gaze from him and fixed it on the rickety taverns, stone stores, and laden market stalls. "Well, you see, my parents have always been overly protective, never allowing me to even play with other boys and girls for fear of my injury. I suppose it's simply how they express their love for me." Which was mostly true.

She could practically feel suspicion radiate off him in waves, but he only said, "Seeing Zonah must have been a shock for you then."

She nodded once and fell silent, hoping she'd never so rouse his suspicion that he'd unveil her deceit. 

***

"Another one of your projects, I see?"

Viltus' hands slipped from her waist as he turned to face an old woman with more gums showing than teeth in her rotting smile. She stood in the doorway of a house adjacent to Viltus'. More than a few holes dotted its crumbling stone walls.

The blush that had heated her cheeks as he'd assisted her in dismounting quickly receded. What had the woman called her? A "project?" She stumbled back against Freckles to grip the pommel of the saddle behind her.

Viltus' hand returned to the small of her back before she could speak. "Go inside and make yourself comfortable."

"Viltus, what does she mean 'project'?"

The woman plunked wilted hands on her wide hips. "I mean the last thin, pretty girl he dragged off the streets to live with him."

She blinked. What? Did Viltus do this regularly? Her skin warmed. Was Viltus expecting her to be his... his plaything? Was that how she was to repay him for his kindness?

Viltus clamped his jaw and increased the pressure against her back. "That's enough, Garma. And she's not my project; she's my wife."

This was most certainly something she hadn't agreed to. Before she could even recover from her shock, he'd jerked her into cob-walled hovel and smashed the door shut behind them.

Her hand flew through the air before ending its journey in a stinging smack against his cheek. "How dare you?"

He scrubbed his hand against his reddened cheek, keeping his back firmly pressed to the door. Once more, he blocked her escape. "How dare I?"

Her blood bubbled hot within her veins, singeing her skin. "Yes! How dare you make me seem your, your—"

"Whore?"

She stepped back from him, lest she be tempted to hit him again. Further battering to his pretty face wouldn't end well for her.

His hand dropped to his side as he shook his head. "Carissa, you misunderstand. If I hadn't introduced you as my wife, then she would have assumed you were a prostitute, just like my last—" His lips seamed shut.