Loving the Forbidden Prince

ETAN

Sarya didn't like being dismissed, but she also had the grace to know that to push herself against his will would only create further tension. So instead, she bowed her head once, then smiled at him. 

"Your secrets are safe with me, Etan," she murmured. "I'll see you at dinner."

He nodded, then watched her warily as she swayed out of the clearing and back onto the trail towards camp.

He waited several minutes to ensure that she wasn't going to return, then he took the few steps to the thick stump and let himself sag onto it, propping his elbows on his knees and dropping his face into his hands.

He wasn't sure whether to laugh, cry, or roar his rage. How had he gotten here? How was it possible that he was in love with one woman, but forced into the clutches of another—who vowed to keep his secrets?

Could she be trusted? Clearly she hadn't shared them to this point. There's no way her parents would have allowed her to leave with them if they'd known. So… she was true. But why? And would she remain so when she lost the hope of catching his regard?

Etan groaned. He needed to talk to Borsche who was so much better at seeing through the layers of strategy employed by an enemy—

The sound was tiny, the smallest rustle, as if something snagged on the branch of a bush. He would have ignored it as more wildlife if his reflexes hadn't been honed by weeks among the Zenithrans. His head came up, seeking an intruder, before he'd even had time to consider what he'd heard. But then there was no more thought as his eyes landed on the last rays of sunlight glowing on a head of full, thick, red hair, on eyes that flashed with rage, and a mouth twisted into a snarl to reveal tiny, perfect, white teeth.

"Ayleth?" he breathed, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. His beautiful, gorgeous, apparently furious wife descending on him from between the trees at the side of the clearing, her body slick and flowing in black fighting leathers, her eyes glinting like blades—but shining too, as if she fought tears.

"You bastard!" she hissed and flowed towards him.

Etan was on his feet in a flash, stepping towards her, reaching for her, twin screams in his head of joy and alarm, but there was no time to form a thought as Ayleth reached him and, instead of pulling him into a kiss, or falling into his chest, one arm shot out, a whip-fast knife-hand for his temple.

He barely ducked in time, the blow brushing his hair. But he couldn't do more than gasp and get his guard up before she was on him, hands flying, darting, thrusting, punching—every strike intended to wound or kill. And every word she hissed punctuated by another blow. 

"Bastard," she spat. Thwack! A punch straight for his sternum that he only barely blocked. "Cheating!" Thud. "Lying!" Whack. "Traitorous ass!" She turned, sweeping a heel high and around, misjudging only slightly so the blow caught his shoulder, rather than his head. But he was thrown off balance by the force of it and as one of his arms flew wide, she grasped his wrist. Holding it and yanking it towards her, she used the leverage to bring the leg back around and kick him straight in the stomach.

As the wind rushed out of him and he sagged forward, he had a fleeting thought of gratitude that she hadn't gone for his groin. But then she used that grip on his arm to pull him close and brought her knee up into his chest with a hiss of rage, and Etan realized unless he did something quickly, he might very well end up dead.

When she was forced to drop her foot to find her balance before striking him again, he whirled, air whistling in his chest because he still couldn't breathe from that kick in the guts, and turned her off-balance. 

"Ayleth! Stop! I'm not fighting you!" he growled.

But she only snarled and leaped on him again, hands flying for his head, his ribs, his stomach again.

Etan was forced to concentrate, to block her blows. 

He was stronger, but she'd always been fast. And now she was fueled by anger and jealousy. Her hands and arms flew faster than he'd ever seen—faster even than when they'd fought in the arena. She was a whirlwind, her blows thick and quick so he had no choice but to defend himself.

"Ayleth!" he panted between blocking a hook she'd unwisely thrown for his jaw and a feint with another knee—this time to his groin. But she used his reaction against him. When he dropped his body to protect his most tender parts, she pulled him down and hooked his ankle with hers.

"Vowbreaker!" she hissed. "Adulterer! You are…. You are…"

"Ayleth, please—"

"I can't believe I trusted you!"

"I have been faithful to you. Ayleth, please let me hold you!"

"You will never hold me again you fucking Judas!" she spat, turning again, this time to slip around him and thrust an elbow into his kidney.

Etan grunted and tumbled forward, but Ayleth was already turned to face him and leaping after him. 

He rolled quickly to his back and braced, but before he could jump to his feet, she was standing over him and now there was a blade in her hand.

Etan's mouth dropped open as she stood over him, the blade pointed at his throat, tears tumbling down her cheeks to drip off her jaw and patter to his chest. 

Etan put his hands up, palms out, pleading. "Ayleth… darling… It's not what you think—"

"You broke your vows… you broke our vows!" she cried through gritted teeth.

"No, no. I never did. I promise you, Ayl—"

"Your promises are worth nothing!" she snarled and her blade nicked the skin at his throat.

The sudden ring of swords drawn from scabbards filled the clearing and Etan screamed, "No!" as a sword appeared, laid against Ayleth's neck.

Etan followed it to the hand that held it, then the arm, then… 

"No, Borsche! You will not touch her!" Etan cried hoarsely. 

Ayleth's eyes never left his, but she'd stopped moving because that blade was razor-sharp and laid right against her jugular.

But then a second knife, held by thick, capable hands, was suddenly pressed against Borsche's neck and Falek snarled, "Remove. Your.. Blade."