A Girl Named Calamity (Alyria 1)

“You’re wrong. What kind of man would I be if I let you travel alone?”

“What kind of man would you be if you kept me here?” I retorted.

“You will hardly be a prisoner.”

“No, I’m sure I’ll be fed well before I’m tossed around between your men.”

He smiled mysteriously. “The only sex you’ll have is of the willing variety.” He moved to sit down behind his desk. I imagined he thought I would willingly have sex with him.

“Sorry to break it to you, but you aren’t my type,” I lied.

The look he gave me told me he knew I was lying. I imagined he wasn’t used to hearing that. Or no, for that matter.

“Only time will tell,” he said coolly while watching me.

“Well, I’m leaving, so we won’t be getting to know each other.”

He leaned back and rested his feet on his desk. “Go ahead, then.” He nodded his head toward the tent flap. His demeanor was completely relaxed, but there was something in his eyes I didn’t trust. Something dark. He was playing with me, and I didn’t like it. I hated it. Hate and self-preservation never had much in common. Try nothing.

“Is my freedom a joke to you? You sit behind your desk like a prince and think you can control other people’s lives? Well, you know what? Go to hell.”

The man looked at me with amusement and interest. “You better hope I offer you protection with that mouth of yours.”

“I don’t want your protection!” Had he not heard anything I said?

“Then I’ll have some servants in here to clean you up. You look like you’ve been rolling in mud.”

Why would he offer me a bath?

My brow wrinkled. “Why?”

“Because if you don’t have my protection, then we strip you naked in the middle of camp and sell you to the highest bidder.”

I faltered, swallowing hard. “That’s disgusting.” Thoughts of how to get out of this situation ran through my mind but were interrupted by an Untouchable entering the tent.

“Your Highness, may I have a word?” the Untouchable asked.

‘His Highness’ watched me with amusement while everything sunk in: he really was a prince. I told a prince to go to hell. That was surely the final nail in the coffin. Fortune telling—check.

The prince exited the tent, and I grabbed the knife on the floor and stuck it back in my pants.

I sat down in one of the chairs across from his desk after I’d perused the map that was laid out. My stomach was rolling with uneasiness while I tried to come up with some kind of plan.

When the prince came back in, I had many questions on my tongue. Questions that would hopefully distract him from what I had said earlier.

“Why didn’t your touch kill me?”

“You insult me. I am royalty. Only the working class cannot control their ability.”

I mulled it around a little bit and wondered why Weston had never mentioned that. I assumed it was because he liked to use as few words as possible.

I sighed. “What does being under your protection entail?”

“You will be protected until I can find a protector for you.”

“A protector?”

“A husband, I believe they call it in the north. Your fair hair and skin give you away.”