"And where two raging fires meet together, they consume the thing that feeds their fury, though little fire grows great with little wind, yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all. So I to her, and so she yields to me, for I am rough and woo not like a babe."

--From The Taming of the Shrew

By William Shakespeare

"MY ANSWER IS no." Jovana put her hands on her hips, her leather gauntlets brushing against the red silk of her dress. Both sides of her: warrior and lady. "I could never accept your offer."

From the corner of her eye, she could see that Ilyas Durand looked to be seconds away from snapping her neck for her complete, blatant rebellion. What was it that had freed her, liberated her to speak after so many years of silence? It was odd. No longer did the threat of banishment or beheading hang over her like a sword, though she knew well that those were possible punishments that the Lord Regent could wield against her. She finally felt safe. She finally felt free.

"How very interesting," he said languidly, surveying the situation with his grass-green eyes: the same shade as hers. "Because your Lord Regent assured me you would acquiesce to my proposal. Whom should I believe?"

Her green eyes flashed with fury, and she had to grit her teeth, had to exert sheer willpower over herself to keep from ripping out his throat or breaking all his bones slowly and without even a touch. Magic rolled off her skin in waves, the scent of it primal and feral and utterly, utterly inhuman. She was not human—she was Mordania incarnate, snow and storms and steel, ready to strike down all who stood in her way.

"Believe the woman who is rejecting you of your own free will, Kaiden," she suggested, ice hanging from her tone as it did from the eaves of the manor. "Believe the queen whose territory you are standing on."

He chuckled. She had to curl her hands into fists, feeling the hide stretch against her skin with the movement, to keep from using her magic against him. "Is it true that Mordania's coffers are empty? I can't imagine that having to raze your crops to the ground constantly for fear of an Atlan invasion using the plants against you, would be very good for your economy. And then there's the matter of Othar, with which you trade a great deal of—what is it again? ice?—in exchange for furs, leather, and food. If you married me, you wouldn't have to worry about an invasion. Your people could have enough to eat. You could live in luxury, the likes of which you have never known before, for the rest of your days. Be my queen, Jovana Dusang."

He said her name in the common tongue. So very unlike Carlyle Lambert—and why did she think of him, even if it was his heat cloaking her and his sword at her back ready to defend her? The sound of this Atlan man, this foreign weakling saying her name in all the wrong ways... It curdled her blood, and she spoke.

"I would rather die as a disgrace and fighting for Mordania than live like a queen and languish in Atla. My answer to you will always be one of refusal, Kaiden Thorne." No matter how desperate she became, it was the truth. Jovana would rather bleed herself dry for her country than let it be given over to foreign control. "We have no need of your plants, your crops, or your hand in marriage. We have no need of your foreign fingers dabbling in our own affairs."

"Your Majesty," she heard the Lord Regent say, and Jovana had never heard a title of respect used so much like a curse. "Let Kaiden and I negotiate privately, will you not?"

"Very well." If she did not leave, she felt that she might kill someone. All the magic inside her had built up to a high peak, one that she needed to release through fighting, sparring—or through more scandalous ways... Though, of course, she would not do such an improper thing.

Blood magic was very corporal. The excessive use of it intensified every longing of the body, all hunger pangs and thirsts, bloodlust and other desires amplified. That was why greater warriors were not merely physically superior but had the mental fortitude and discipline to control themselves when they were training and practicing their magic.

"Jovana," a low voice said from behind her as she walked out of the armoury, letting the heavy wooden door slam shut. "Jovana, come here."

Only one person would dare call her by her name. Only one person would say it like that.

"Captain Lambert," she greeted him, turning around and taking his arm. She half-dragged him into a secluded corpse of trees, abandoning her other guards to wait and wonder where they had gone. "Come here."

Her hands were shaking with the magic that had spent her. She wanted, she wanted—something. Jovana didn't know what. She had not let herself wish for anything, to have hope in anything, for so long that the thought of desire was now foreign to her. She didn't know where to direct this deep-rooted ache in her bones that screamed for something more than she could give it.

"Your Majesty," Carlyle said, reverting back to the use of her title. She was noticing now that he seemed to do it to distance himself from her. Maybe he was worried about feeling something for her, something beyond protectiveness and loyalty. "Are you alright?"

No. No, I'm not.

No, I almost killed a man just now.

No, my magic has never surged in me as much as it did today, and I have no idea why.

No, I am spiralling out of control and I don't know how to catch myself.

"Kiss me," she rasped out suddenly, too quietly to be heard. Or so she hoped.

Carlyle's dark brows furrowed. She wanted to reach up on her toes and smooth them out. "Could you repeat yourself, Your Majesty?"

"I—hit me." She dared him, challenged him. It was a challenge that she knew would shock him only slightly less than her real request would have.

"Your Majesty, it is forbidden."

That was the truth. No one could lay hands on Mordanian royalty with or without their express permission, because of blood magic. Blood mages' power increased with skin-to-skin contact, and what if one of those mages had nefarious intenta against the crown? It was only permitted if the Royal in question was betrothed to the one who laid hands on them, and even then—never in private until the betrothal ceremony had occurred. It was only permitted in public, with plenty of witnesses to corroborate that neither of them were trying to harm the other.

"I need to fight." She gritted out the words, hating how weak she felt. How dependent upon him she had become. What she had been reduced to. "Please, Carlyle."

He struck suddenly and without warning, a blow to her side that she easily dodged, and gods above, it felt good. Tension slowly unwound from her, uncoiled her body until her movements felt free and easy and limber. Each strike and blow was like another step in an intricate dance, making her recall the time they had danced together. They had compared it to a fight then, and it seemed to ring true now. Every action he made, she was ready to counter him; they were equals.

And then—she tripped over a tree root, twigs snapping, and her ankle twisted. Jovana hissed in pain as it wrenched, and immediately Carlyle's body stilled. He towered over her, curled in on herself and clutching her injury as she was. His looming frame seemed larger than usual—he was a whole foot taller than her usually, but she bridged that gap with heels. She'd worn those today, not expecting to spar until after a change of footwear. She had been foolish to do so, because now...

Now he was too much. Too tall as he loped over to her, those shoulders too broad as he tucked his sword securely in its sheath so it wouldn't hit her when he crouched down. He was so much bigger than she was, that raw masculinity bringing out all the soft parts of her. It brought out all those same primal instincts in her once more, only now they were saying something different. They were saying, you are secure. You are shielded. You can be vulnerable.

Her instincts were lying to her. How could she be safe in the middle of the woods, with her two worst enemies conferring a few feet away in the armoury, and her ankle sprained in a most painful fashion? Yet every age-old reflex screamed at her: you are protected. And then she realized, as Carlyle hefted her into his arms despite her protests saying she could walk just fine on her own, that for the first time in a long time, she was not alone.

"We're safe now. We're safe." She heard Alastair repeat those words over and over again, like a mantra. Like if he said it enough times, it would be true. She prayed to the gods that it would be.

Then he kept saying it, and she opened her eyes. Jovana realized that she was lying flat on her back on the cold floor of the armoury, both of the Durand siblings hovering over her with concerned looks. Mireille had her hand on her arm, and Alastair—Alastair was holding her hand. She sucked in a sharp breath, heading her teeth chatter and feeling herself shiver.

"I'm fine. You don't need to fuss over me," she murmured. An image of her mother's face, white and tense as she threw the dagger to Jovana, flashed before her eyes and she suppressed the tears that swelled a lump in her throat. What had just happened, all of it had been too much. Too fast. One moment, she had been swearing lifelong vows to a boy she hated. The next, Atlan soldiers had been flooding the sanctuary, and everything had descended into a mess of weapons and wounds.

Alastair's black and silver brocade coat was warm and soft when he took it off and placed it over her like a blanket. It smelled metallic, like blood and steel, but also horsey, like the stables. She didn't protest at the sudden warmth, didn't dare for fear that it would be taken away as so many other things had, so quickly. Jovana sat up slowly, taking in their surroundings.

"We should barricade the doors," she murmured. "In case the Atlan soldiers get in."

The other two nodded, and began getting to work. Jovana adjusted the coat so that it was more secure around her small frame and followed them, finding heavy furniture and pushing with all her might so that it would keep anyone from getting in through the set of heavy double doors.  When they had shoved with all their might a weighty bench in the direction of the door and barred its handles with a sword and a staff, they collapsed in a tired pile onto an uncomfortable couch.

"What do we have to eat?" Mireille wondered.

Rightfully so. There had been a feast planned right after the betrothal ceremony, of course, but now... now there would be no feast. No celebrations. No dancing. No one to gawk at their pretty dresses and no loving uncles to let them stand on their feet in lieu of actually waltzing.

"I'm sure there are supplies in here, or a storeroom." Jovana tried to sound confident as her stomach rumbled. She got up from the bench, a dagger in hand, but—

"If we go anywhere, we all go together. It's safer that way." She could see the determination in Alastair's eyes, the fierceness. "I'm not letting either of you out of my sight."

Jovana, because she was his betrothed. Because he had just sworn oaths to be the blade that protected her.

Mireille, because she was his little sister.

She understood the logic behind his statement. She simply didn't like it.

But this was the first move of many that she would not like, and would have to make anyways.