Defy (6 page)

through me, shredding me, threatening to pull me apart inside.

Marcel was the one who’d kept me together when our parents were

killed, convinced me to pretend I was his twin brother when the

army came for us. He was the one who’d saved me again last night,

taking my beating for me. He had saved me over and over, and

now he was gone.

I had failed him.

With the loss of Marcel, there were only eight of us left. I

looked into the familiar faces as we gently laid Marcel down on

one of the many funeral pyres that always stood ready, awaiting

their fuel. Another one was already in use — probably the king’s

guard. There was never a shortage of bodies to burn, not for long.

King Hector’s war on King Osgand’s kingdom ensured that. Our

captain, Deron, met my gaze, his dark eyes sorrowful. Jerrod, next

to him, stared forward, stone-faced.

Someone handed Rylan a torch. He stood on my left, so close

that the fire burned hot by my face. He cleared his throat. “Marcel

was one of the best of us. Brave, strong, loyal.” His voice broke and he paused, trying to regain control. Finally, he whispered, “Go in

peace, brother.”

“Go in peace,” the others murmured.

I couldn’t speak. The words stuck to the tears in my throat,

the sobs I desperately swallowed back down.

Rylan looked to me, and I realized they were waiting. Waiting

for me to give the signal. As his brother, I was to either light the

pyre or give Rylan the go-ahead. I couldn’t bring myself to do it,

34

so I gave the barest of nods and Rylan slowly lowered the torch.

The dry wood of the pyre ignited instantly, spreading to encom-

pass Marcel’s body in a bright orange grave of heat and smoke.

The firelight played across the faces of the other guards.

Deron’s skin was so dark, he almost blended into the night, but

the firelight revealed the grief on his face. Jerrod, Asher, Jude, Kai, Antonio, and Rylan next to me, all stared into the f lames, watching as my brother was consumed.

Finally, I couldn’t bear it any longer. I turned and strode away

from the last member of my family.

35

 five 

T
he next morning, I woke up in the same clothes I was

wearing the night before. I’d collapsed onto my bed and

cried for hours, smothering the sounds in my pillow until I finally

fell asleep. I rolled over to see Marcel’s empty bed and the pain hit me all over again. I bent over double and clutched at my stomach,

tried to push the agony away.

The smell of the fire was still in my hair, in my shirt, on my

skin. The scent of Marcel’s death.

I tore the clothes from my body and threw them in the still-

hot coals in the fireplace, then scoured my body with water and

soap, trying to scrub away the smoke, the sweat, the tears, the

guilt.

I was supposed to be the best. I was the fastest, the most

skilled at archery, unparalleled at swordsmanship. And yet I let my

brother get shot down right next to me. All my training, every-

thing I’d learned and become were for naught.

My clothes finally caught fire. Thick, black billows of smoke

chugged into the air, then were swallowed up into the chimney.

I heard noises from the other side of the wall, muted and

indistinguishable from the rest of the palace sounds. My room was

next door to Prince Damian’s. All of the guards’ rooms except

36

Deron’s f lanked the prince’s. Two guards per room, two rooms on

either side of his chambers to keep us close, even in sleep. I knew

I’d be summoned any moment if he was up. He’d want an account-

ing of our pursuit of the attackers last night — and he’d most likely want it from me, since I’d shot down the enemies. And since my

brother had died.

I raked my hands through my short hair. Already, it was almost

dry. That was one benefit of wearing it short. I’d mourned the loss

of my hair for a year after Marcel cut it off. Now, after three years, I was used to it. But I still wished things could be different. I

wished I could be a member of the guard
and
a girl.

Instead, I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my traitor-

ous body. We’d lied about our age when we joined the army,

claiming we were seventeen, afraid of what would happen to us if

they knew we were only fourteen. Now everyone on the guard

believed me to be twenty, when I was actually only seventeen. But

my body had really begun to change in the past year, since I’d

won the position on the guard and left the regular army behind.

Rather than feeling joy — planning a party with my mother

and friends to celebrate my coming into womanhood — I glared at

the breasts that had doubled in size in the last few months. They

were still small by anyone’s standards, but
anything
was too big for a boy.

I took a long strip of cloth and bound it around myself, as

tightly as I possibly could. It hurt, but there was no other choice.

Now, more than ever, I couldn’t risk discovery.

I’d barely pulled a tunic over my head when there was a knock

at the door, and it opened after a pause.

“Prince Damian wants to see you,” Rylan said.

37

I finished tucking the tunic into my long pants and turned to

face him. I was tall for a girl, thankfully, but Rylan was taller.

Almost everyone in the guard was taller than me. That often

worked to my advantage, though; no one worried about the small

guard taking him down — until it was too late.

I nodded and bent to quickly pull on my boots.

“Alex, are you okay?”

I stood up, grateful my tears had dried and the red blotches

that would have given me away were gone. “I’m fine,” I answered,

making my voice gruff. It had taken me a long time to gain the

respect of these men. I couldn’t afford to show weakness, not even

for my brother. I moved to storm out of the room, but Rylan

grabbed my arm. I immediately tensed, jerked away.

“You know that no one would blame you for being upset. He

was your brother. We get that.” I met his gaze, just long enough

to notice again how much the color of his eyes resembled melted

chocolate, with little f lecks of gold in the morning light.
That
was something none of the other men would ever notice.

I clenched my jaw, keeping my expression severe. “I told you,

I’m fine.” I crossed my arms, taking a wide stance.

“Okay.” He held up his hands. “Then do you still want to spar

this morning?”

“Of course.” I nodded curtly as I exited the room.

“I’ll go make sure everything is ready,” he said.

I lifted one hand to acknowledge him without looking back.

Prince Damian didn’t like to be kept waiting. And I was too

vulnerable to be standing alone in my room with Rylan right

then — Marcel’s death had made me feel all too much like a

girl again.

38

Squaring my shoulders, I took a deep breath, and opened the

door to the outer room of Prince Damian’s chambers.

“There he is,” Nolen grumbled. “Alex, get over here before —”

“Alex!” I recognized the bellow from the inner room,

Damian’s bedroom. The prince was on the verge of having another

temper tantrum. I’d already endured one yesterday, when he

demanded to know why Marcel and I hadn’t come to report Iker’s

response to him as he’d commanded us. It was hard to believe that

had been less than twenty-four hours ago.

“His Highness is rather unhappy this morning.” Nolen pursed

his thin lips together. He was a small man, an inch shorter than

me, with scrawny limbs that seemed too long for his body. He

almost made me look burly.

“I gathered that.” I grimaced.

“Alex!”

“You’d better go. Good luck.” Nolen sat back down at the

desk where he went through all of the prince’s correspondences,

picking out only the most urgent and important missives with

which to bother His Royal Highness.

I stood as tall as I could possibly lift my five-foot-ten-inch

frame and marched into Damian’s room.

“Finally.” The prince stood by his window, watching me

enter. Thick, velvet curtains the color of blood framed the enor-

mous glass panes. His room was luxuriously appointed, full of

furs, velvet, silk, and every other expensive fabric known to man.

An enormous four-poster bed dominated the far side of the room,

but he stood near his mahogany desk today. He was tall, with

broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Even though his posture

was perfect, he somehow exuded an air of indolence. His dark hair

39

was perfectly pomaded into the current fashion, swooping back

from his broad forehead, emphasizing his aquiline nose — his

father’s nose. But his olive skin was a gift from his Blevonese

mother.

Sometimes it seemed like those with the most rotten interiors

were blessed with the most exquisite exteriors.

“Your Highness.” I pressed my fist to my heart and bowed

to him.

“Yes, yes, get up already.” The entitled boredom of his voice

grated on my nerves. He seemed to think it created loyalty to him,

to act like the niceties of court were a nuisance, but in reality, it was one more thing that annoyed me. He knew I
had
to bow, to

posture to his demands and acquiesce to his every whim — even

though at twenty-three, he was only six years older than me. To

pretend like it was all for show, and one he didn’t enjoy, was ludi-

crous. I’d seen the gloating expression on his noble face too many

times to believe that he didn’t relish everyone’s subservience.

I stood up straight again, at attention. The one thing I dis-

liked most was when he looked at me as he was right then, his blue

eyes cold and calculating. His lashes were dark, and the corners of

his eyes tilted slightly, giving him an exotic look. But his irises

were such a clear, crystal blue, it was a shock the first time I’d met him. For all of his whining and tantrums and other spoiled behav-ior, there was true intelligence and cunning in his eyes. Usually

hidden, but sometimes, as was the case now, the sharpness of his

gaze cut me through. There was a part of me that wondered what

he really thought. What did he see when he looked at me as he

was now?

40

I’d had years of practice at hiding emotion, of staying calm

under pressure. Even the unwavering eyes of the prince couldn’t

shake me. Not visibly anyway. But no amount of control could

keep my pulse from quickening.

“I hear there was a death during last night’s pursuit.” Prince

Damian tilted his head.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“One of my personal guard?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Someone important to you, Alex?” He lifted a hand, exam-

ined his perfectly trimmed nails. Hands that had never seen work,

never gripped a sword or loosed an arrow. He had the perfect build

for fighting, tall and lean, but it was wasted on him.

“My brother, sir.” I clenched my jaw, looking down at the

ground in an effort to maintain my composure.

“Your twin, if I recall?”

“Yes, sir.” Was he trying to drive the pain deeper? “The attack-

ers were all taken down, Your Highness.” Keeping my voice low

had become second nature to me, but I always had to work harder

to make it sound natural when I was under stress.

“Very good.” He paused. “Always duty first with you,

right, Alex?”

“Sir?” I couldn’t keep myself from glancing at him brief ly. He

looked up from his hand at the same time, so that our gazes met.

There was something in the depths of his eyes, an echo of my own

grief — an unexpected empathy — that made my breath catch in

my throat. The intensity of his gaze — this wasn’t the way a prince

looked at just another member of his guard.

41

“I had a brother, too,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine, his

voice strangely soft. A f lash of unmasked pain crossed his face. “I

kept a stiff upper lip when he died as well. I’m . . . I’m impressed with your dedication to me and my safety.”

“It’s my duty, Your Highness.” My voice came out unsteadily

and I hurriedly clamped my jaw shut. In the year since I’d won a

position on his guard, I’d never heard him speak of his brother.

His unexpected admission brought my own grief far too close to

the surface. It took all of my willpower to force the emotion back

down, to keep control.

Prince Damian watched my battle silently. “Alex.” He took a

halting step toward me. “Must you always pretend — even with me?”

Despite all my training, I could feel the shock on my face, the

sudden fear, and he froze with his hand partially outstretched to

me. My heart pounded so loudly in my ears, I wondered how he

couldn’t hear it as well. What did he mean? There was no way

he knew my secret — it wasn’t possible. Was it? Panic made my

throat constrict. He had to be referring to trying to hide my grief

about Marcel’s death. That was all. I had to remain calm. Breathe.

In and out.

With a sudden shake of his head, Prince Damian waved his

hand in the air and in the space of a heartbeat, his normal, apa-

thetic expression slid back into place. “Well, as you said, it is your duty to attend to my safety. I’m fortunate indeed to have such a