Dusk of the Realm

24

Tarin could not believe he had held himself back for as long as he had. After all, it felt so good to throw himself at Ambrose, to tackle the Fae to the floor. Ambrose was strong, obviously, and he was more than just a decent fighter, but he was not prepared for Tarin. Nobody was ever really prepared for Tarin.

He was not even sure what he was doing; just that he was angry, and that he wanted to cause Ambrose more pain than the Fae had ever known. Ambrose was acting high-and-mighty, as if his experience of life was greater than Tarin's, as if he knew the impact of the things he was saying, as if he had any right to speak to Tarin the way that he was. As if his adolescent crush on the princess was of any importance to Tarin, who cared for her in a way deeper than his own levels of understanding.

He knew that there was blood, and he knew that it was not his. He had not drawn his weapons; there was an immense sort of satisfaction that came from beating somebody with one's own hands - though he was sure that his magic came into play as well. Ambrose cried out in pain more than once, but each time he attempted to retaliate for the injuries Tarin had inflicted, Tarin batted him aside and struck him again.

There was only one person that could have gotten him to stop at that point, in that state. Vice and Vex were obviously trying, but nobody was a match for him. Nobody but the one person he would do anything for, who held his heart in her hand.

Nobody but the person whose magic he sensed immediately as she grabbed his arm.

"Tarin, cut it out," Serena ordered sharply.

Tarin stared at her for a long time, and Ambrose managed to squirm out from under him while he was distracted. It was clearly not a trick; this was Serena. He could feel it, he could see it in her eyes. She was wearing a thin nightgown, and there were goosebumps on her skin. Her hair was slightly mussed on one side, as if she had just been sleeping. She was looking at him with concern in her eyes, but the lines in her face also indicated irritation.

She was here. But...

He turned to face Ambrose, who was staring at the princess with similar degrees of shock. His lip was cut and bleeding, and his right eye was swollen closed. He held his right arm close to his side with his left, and his clothing was torn in more than one place. Tarin did not feel bad about any of it; he could have inflicted much worse on the Fae.

"Explain this to me, Ambrose," Tarin commanded, his voice soft and dangerous.

Ambrose opened and closed his mouth like a gaping fish, and Tarin felt Serena press closer to him as she grew uncomfortable under Ambrose's stare.

Tarin moved, and had Ambrose pressed up against the wall of the hallway in less than a second. While he heard the three women speaking urgently behind him, he tuned them all out. He squeezed slightly, and Ambrose spluttered as more pressure was applied to closing his throat.

"Apparently, the story you told me has some holes in it," Tarin stated, his muscles straining after all the exertion of the day. "How about you give me the truth now, Ambrose?"

Ambrose tried to shake his head, which was turning redder by the second. "I--don't--und--erstand..."

"Tarin, let him go."

Tarin's nostrils flared, but he turned and threw Ambrose down the hall like a sack of flour. Ambrose shouted, but went silent after striking the opposite wall and sinking to the marble floor.

There was a sigh from behind him, and he knew that it belonged to his princess.

"Unnecessary," she said under her breath, but she too fell silent when Tarin turned around to face her, his gaze taking all of her in as if he might never see her again. After believing that she had been stolen from him yet again, that he had failed her yet again, he could hardly believe his luck. She was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, unharmed, looking as beautiful as ever in the pale pink satin that reflected the moonlight shining through her unshuttered window. She was fine; she was here. She was safe; she was with him.