Loving the Forbidden Prince
[COMPLETE] Can a royal Romeo and Juliet find their happy ending? Ayleth, Princess of Zenithra, is secretly trained in hand-to-hand combat, and collects swear words she doesn't know how to use. During the Festival of Peace, in which every royal son on the continent will be at the castle for a month, she is instructed by her parents to find a husband. Yet, Ayleth has never even been kissed—until the very first ball, when she meets the man in the Lion mask. Etan is a seasoned warrior, and the Prince of Summitras. He attends the Festival hoping to find a powerful wife who will help him conquer the dark sorcery of their bloodsworn enemies, the Kingdom of Zenithra. But at the very first ball, he discovers the masked woman who captures his heart is the Heir to the evil empire. Ayleth and Etan face an impossible battle. Will their love survive? Or will their parents' dark dealings keep them apart forever? [Mature content. No sexual violence.] ****** “You…” She stepped back. Then back again, her mouth dropped open. “You… You cannot be…” “I am,” Etan said, and his hair raked back as he pushed his mask off his handsome face. So handsome her heart raced. His hair was ebony black, his skin a warm brown that threatened to fade in in the winter months. He stared at her with glittering green eyes, over high cheekbones and a noble nose, his jaw tight and shadowed this late in the day. His chin was high over the pillar of his neck that she’d just touched with its hard lines and steel strength, so different to her own. And his chest... She gasped and covered her eyes. She’d humiliated herself revealing her stupid, childish curiosity. “No, Ayleth. This changes nothing.” “How can you say that? It changes everything!” She was horrified to realize she was crying. “Ayleth, please.” His voice cracked on the plea and she stared at him, shoving her mask up and off, despite how it would pull her hair out of the beautiful twist the maid had managed for her. His eyes locked on hers and she couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. She had met her One. And he was the son of her bloodsworn enemy. She stared at him as he stepped forward again, offering both hands, palm up. “Touch me,” he whispered. “Hold my hands. This is real, Ayleth. I don’t know how it happened, but this is real. Please don’t deny it.” She couldn’t resist. She raised a trembling hand to his cheek, letting her palm catch on the scruff of his jaw. He blew out a breath and put his hand over hers, and that jolt that happened whenever they touched shivered through her again. “Please, Ayleth.” “I cannot deny it,” she whispered. [Cover specially commissioned and illustrated image by Same Van Rijn. See more of their amazing art on Instagram: @same.vanrijn]
To the Death
ETAN
When he saw the blood on his fingertips, rage flowed out of his chest and heated his veins. "You will regret that, sir," he muttered through his teeth. The man grinned, and Etan returned the smile.
And then he unleashed.
As he cleared his mind and focused only on the tiny areas of open skin and vulnerable spots, he could vaguely hear Borsche calling him from the sidelines, pleading with him to forfeit the fight, but he ignored him.
He would fight, and he might even lose. But he would not surrender to these people, these despicable cheaters.
Forward, forward, he flowed, twisted, and slashed—all his power freed. The Duke was forced back, blocking and parrying just to keep himself upright as Etan turned and came up his leg with the blade—a cut that, if his own blade weren't dulled, would have cut through the man's tendon. Instead, the pressure slackened his leg and he overbalanced with a curse as Etan turned again, kicking the man's foot out from under him and, as he tumbled to the dirt, lifting his sword and bringing it, point-down to the man's neck.
He froze then, tempted. The right pressure in the right place… he could kill this man.
His hands shook with the desire to do it.
"Savage," the Duke snarled, on his back in the dirt, both hands raised. He'd lost his sword in the fall. Etan shook his head at the poor control and forced himself to straighten.
The umpire's whistle blew and the crowd roared—some in excitement, others in protest—as Etan let his sword swing back and away, so it was no longer a threat, though he didn't sheath it.
He didn't trust this man as far as he could throw him.
With a grim smile, he offered the Duke a hand to get up. "In the Spirit of the Festival of Peace," he said through his teeth.
The Duke looked at his hand for a second, then rolled to his feet without taking it. Etan shook his head again, adding petty to his charges against him.
"A foul! A foul!" some in the crowd called.
"Cheats! He cheats!" others screamed.
With one eye on his humiliated opponent, Etan turned to bow to the King as was the tradition. But the King was leaned forward in his seat, listening to one of his men. He beckoned the umpire towards him, who trotted nervously to the side of the arena to hear the King's speech over the roar of the crowd.
Etan and his opponent waited as the men discussed their fight, then the King pointed at Etan, and the umpire nodded.
He returned to the center of the ring and turned to face the crowd. As he raised his hands for silence, Etan felt the weaves of magic circle the man to amplify his voice. His skin crawled.
"We have a claim of foul," the umpire said.
The audience roared and Etan winced as the sound buffeted them from every side.
"He bleeds! He bleeds!" some called, others shouting for his forfeit for using a barred move.
But Etan just watched the umpire, waiting for the inevitable. The man glanced at him nervously—with an apology in his eyes.
"We appear to have foul on both sides," the umpire called, "and so the fight will be called a draw, and the conclusion of the fight determined by the hand-to-hand-combat."
The crowd were out of their seats—in thrill and protest, but Etan just shook his head. He turned to look at Borsche who was glaring at the Umpire, but caught his gaze and looked at him.
He didn't stop glaring. He was going to have words with Etan later about giving in to his temper.
Etan didn't care. He would not surrender to these people, no matter how immoral or unjust they were.
"Please take your places for the combat!" the Umpire called. His voice was swept around the arena as Etan and the Duke handed their swords off to their men, then turned again, still breathless, to face the King, and then each other.
"You'll regret that, dog," the Duke snarled.
Etan gritted his teeth but made himself smile. "We'll see," he said. Then the whistle blew, and he darted forward, leaving no time for the man to prepare.