Feathers and Silk

Archer’s Journal

Day 2,412.

She looks at him with a warmth she has never once offered me. If the commander thinks he can waltz back into her life and claim what is mine, he is gravely mistaken.

“I think you should both change for dinner,” Queen Leora’s sharp voice cut through the suffocating tension in the corridor like a drawn blade. “Your fathers have an official announcement to make regarding the alliance.”

Archer couldn't care less about official announcements. His mind was stuck on the way Adalia’s eyes had dilated the moment that Southern commander stepped into the yard. She had treated Archer like a nuisance, a shadow, an inconvenient piece of political baggage since the moment he stepped foot in her castle. But when that bastard Xander touched her hand, her whole body had trembled.

Archer’s blood felt like liquid fire in his veins. He wanted to tear his broadsword from its sheath and challenge the commander right there on the flagstones.

When Adalia retreated to the guest quarters to wash off the battle soot, Archer found himself pacing the upper hallways like a caged predator. He couldn't sit still. He couldn't swallow the bitter taste of jealousy clawing at his throat.

He noticed a chambermaid setting down a tray of fresh towels near the bath chambers, and without thinking, Archer brushed past her and grabbed the linen himself. He told himself he was just delivering the Queen's message, but it was a lie. He needed to look into her eyes again without that commander standing in the frame.

He pushed the heavy oak door open without knocking. “Adalia, dinner is in an hour, and your father expects—”

The words choked in his throat.

The air was thick with hot steam and the scent of crushed jasmine. Adalia was standing right in the center of the deep copper bath, completely bare, her damp skin glistening under the candlelight. Archer’s brain short-circuited. He froze on the threshold, every drop of blood in his body rushing straight to his ears.

Before he could even process the curve of her waist, her royal power violently exploded outward.

With an explosive draft of wind that nearly blew out the wall sconces, two massive, ink-black feathered wings tore out from her shoulders. The wide, terrifying span of dark plumage swept forward in a fraction of a second, snapping shut around her body like a steel shield.

“Forgive me!” Archer choked out, slamming his palm over his eyes so hard he saw stars. His heart was hammering against his ribs so violently he thought it would crack his chest plate.

“A chambermaid could have delivered that message, Prince Archer!” her voice whipped across the room, laced with absolute venom and lethal indignation. “Do you mind?”

“Mind what?” Archer stupidly dropped his fingers a fraction of an inch, caught a blinding glance of her smooth, bare thigh peeking beneath the bottom edge of her black feathers, and immediately slammed his hand back over his face. The heat scorched up his throat to the tips of his ears. “Right! Leaving now!”

He spun on his heel, slammed into the doorframe like a blind fool, and threw himself back into the corridor, kicking the heavy oak door shut behind him.

Archer collapsed against the stone wall, dragging both hands down his face as his lungs fought for air. His chest was heaving. He had watched her split a man’s skull open with a broadsword on the battlements three hours ago, but seeing those magnificent, terrifying black wings wrap around her bare body in the steam made his soul drop to its knees.

She wasn't just a royal match. She was a storm.

And as Archer stared down the dark hallway toward the dining hall where Xander was waiting, he swore on his kingdom that he would make those wings open for him, or die trying.