Brie
I’m not sure if I’m experiencing sea sickness for the first time or if this horrible ache in my stomach is from the mutual rejection I just experienced. I should have been more prepared for this feeling, actually. I curse at myself while settled on a plastic bench, watching the startling green valley on either side of the wide river sprint by. Smaller towns and villages hug the river bank, everything nestled under the umbrella of control of Veiled Valley, forever protected by my family. One day, Aris will rule all of this. He’s the new Shadowsyner of the family–the one with those creepy shadow powers passed down by my grandfather, Ryatt, and my mother.
I look down at my normal, powerless hands and curl them into fists, closing my eyes against the rolling nausea threatening to pull me to my hands and knees.
I didn’t eat breakfast. I didn’t have the stomach for it, knowing I’d be thrust into a week-long journey with Logan, my mate.
Not anymore.
I slouch on the bench, leaning my head against the window while fiddling with the flowy cotton pants and matching shirt I choose for the day. The pale gray does nothing for my warm tones, but again, I didn’t have it in me this morning to dress up. In fact, my normally perfect hair is tossed in a lopsided ponytail now falling out of its scrunchy, and my normally made up face is bare, freckles on full display.
It’s not like I have anyone to impress.
I glance at Logan, who’s seated on the opposite side of the indoor upper deck with his neck bent as he looks down at the heavy-duty laptop resting on his thighs. He’s wearing glasses with a dark rim that make him look… sophisticated.
He blends in with the crowd of passengers milling about with paper cups of coffee and tea, but we’re the only two people not dropping into conversation with anyone. I continue watching him, watching the light of his laptop reflect off his glasses. I can’t stop. To think I’ve known this man since I was a child but know nothing about him other than he’s one of my dad’s captains in the Ghost army.
That’s a high ranking position. It takes years of dedicated service to reach the level of captain. Years of training and missions, in fact.
I briefly wonder what he’s seen in the field, what he’s gone through, and whether those experiences turned him cold and emotionally void, or if that’s just who he’s always been.
But then his eyes meet mine and hold.
I blink, then turn to the window.
Eventually I get up to move around and search for a snack. The coffee is stale and weak, but I welcome the rush of caffeine that unthaws my rejection-addled head. I wander the lean, unimpressive ferry, taking in the signs plastered on the wall that prohibit shifting, smiling at the irony as I notice several men grumbling on the outdoor deck, all of them itching to stretch their wolf legs the second we reach land again.
Hours pass like this–with me wandering, sometimes sitting, sometimes leaning against the railing and watching the water go by. I ignore the buzz of notifications coming from my purse, knowing it’s likely Maeve blowing up my phone now that we’re out of range to use the mind-link.
As the hours drift into late afternoon, we reach the mouth of the river, having ridden against its current for several hours, and the valley fades away behind us, replaced by mist that robs the air of the warmth of the sun.
Only then do I go inside.
But Logan isn’t on his bench. I feel slightly relieved, but right as I sit down, he passes from behind me and settles back on the gray plastic surface of his old spot, legs splayed in a very male position.
I stare at him, my cheeks heating. He just… looks back at me, expressionless.
“Have you been following me around all day?” I ask, and not kindly.
No one nearby looks in our direction, but he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His dark jeans fit him like a glove, much to my dismay. Thick, muscled thighs ripple underneath as he shifts his weight, glancing toward the inner sanctum of the ferry before meeting my eyes again. “I’m your bodyguard, remember?”
“I fear that’s far below your rank, Captain.”
He smirks, and I feel my stomach twist. Goddess, he’s nice to look at. The stubble on his jaw has only grown darker during the course of the day, and his normally brushed back dark hair is loose and curling wildly in the sudden surge of humidity brought on by the mist now hugging the boat.
He could be in the movies. He could be a contestant on one of those stupid reality dating shows Maeve’s particularly obsessed with.
He would never be interested in someone like me, mate bond or not.
I reach up to pull out my scrunchy so I can fiddle with it, needing something to do with my hands. My hair bounces over my shoulders, and I make the mistake of glancing in his direction again.
His pupils are blown wide, watching my natural, unruly waves settle against my chest… my breasts.
I find it impossible to swallow past the lump in my throat. I toy with my scrunchy, winding it around my fingers.
“I–I don’t need a bodyguard,” I stammer.
“No one needs a bodyguard until they’re in a situation where they actually do, in fact, need a bodyguard.”
I frown, refusing to look at him. “The odds of me being assaulted on a private yacht owned by my parents is slim–”
“But not zero.”
I chance throwing him a glare. He’s still seated nearby but hasn’t adjusted his position. He’s entirely relaxed with the ghost of a smirk on his wide, full mouth.
“Are you messing with me?” I ask.
“No.”
“Then why are they looking at me like that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re–you’re smirking at me.”
“This is just my face, Princess–”
“Brie,” I correct, swallowing hard. “Brie is fine. There’s no need for formalities at this point.”
I hear him sigh through the murmur of unrelated conversations whispering between us.
“Brie–”
The captain of the ferry’s voice blares from the speakers, alerting everyone onboard that we’ve reached the port city of Avalone, otherwise known as the Gem of the Sea. It’s a beautiful city, if anyone could see it through the mist. It’s the second largest city in all of Veiled Valley, second to the capital, my home, of course.
I rise and shrug my purse over my shoulder. My luggage is locked away downstairs with the rest of the cargo. I start heading in that direction, sandwiched between passengers who don’t recognize me or don’t care that they’re in the presence of one of their princesses.
It doesn't surprise me. I’m often overlooked, and I’m fine with that, honestly. The stares and whispers Maeve has to endure every time she leaves the castle…
I jump when I feel someone touching my lower back and turn my head, finding myself staring directly at Logan’s chest.
He looks straight ahead, giving me a little nudge to keep moving through the narrow passageway leading to the stairs to the cargo hold.
When we reach the bottom of the stairs, he gently grabs me, his fingers wrapping fully around my soft upper arm and steers me in the direction of the luggage lockers. He lets me go to fetch my suitcase and the trunk I brought, and directs me with a nod of his head to move with the crowd now getting into vehicles or walking off the ramp onto the dock.
I can’t see much through the fog hugging the massive commercial port. Trade ships and cruise liners surround the dock, which is full of local workers and tourists either leaving Eastonia to explore Crescent Falls and the northern territories or coming to Eastonia for the adventure of their lives.
I breathe in the coastal air, closing my eyes for a moment as I fill my lungs, but I’m rudely interrupted by the scraping of the trunk being dragged across the concrete floor of the ferry.
“The yacht is in bay six,” Logan says to me, I think. He’s not looking at me as he scans the crowded dock, narrowing his eyes. He’s not wearing his glasses anymore and looks like himself again–the Logan I know. The warrior. The ruthless jerk in a tight Henley.
“I can carry my suitcase–”
“No,” he says matter-of-factly, tilting his head in a motion to get a move on.
I hug my purse to my chest and step off the ramp, moving slowly through the crowd while Logan stays within three steps of me, occasionally tapping me on the waist to move me in one direction or the other. He has his hands full with my trunk and suitcase but carries them effortlessly while also silently bossing me around.
When I pause to stare longingly at a cafe settled on the outskirts of the dock, he gives me another nudge.
Past the cruise ships and cargo boats, a private area of the port comes into view. Yachts bob in the calm water, and I feel my shoulders slumping with relief when the sleek, black yacht owned by my parents comes into view through the fog.
It’s not the biggest, but it’s high-tech and totally, completely sea worthy, which is all that matters.
“Princess Brie!” Captain Louis beams, meeting me on the ramp. He bows, smiling broadly, his wide smile making his eyes crease. His silver hair is full and swept back over his head as he offers me his hand.
A few other crew members I don’t recognize hurry to take the luggage from Logan while Captain Louis explains that we’re fogged in and won’t be leaving until later tonight but that my suite is ready for me.
Behind me, I hear Logan tell one of the crew members he’ll be back in twenty minutes, and when I turn my head, he’s gone.
Maybe he’ll stay gone and leave me in peace.
Wishful thinking, of course. I have a feeling he’s going to be watching my every move for the next week on the water.
The captain personally shows me to the main suite, normally inhabited by my parents when we take this exact route to Maatua. Now, the spacious room is mine. The modern finishes, the giant bathroom with a walk-in shower, the windows that overlook the water…
The quiet, nothingness when he closes the door.
I sink to the edge of the king-sized bed with a groan, hanging my head in my hands. A voice over the intercom tells me dinner will be served on the upper deck in two hours before shutting off, leaving me in silence once more.
I rise and take a long, hot shower. Hunger tightens my belly, reminding me I’ve only had half a dry bagel and three or four cups of weak ferry coffee today. Dressed in a robe with my hair gathered in a towel, I pad back into the bedroom to fetch a new pair of clothes when I notice the drink tray on my bed.
An iced vanilla latte sweats in the soft, warm light of the crystal chandelier above my head. Beside it, a small cardboard box rests on the sheets, cinnamon and chocolate spicing the air.
I stare at the latte. It’s my order, exactly. I open the box and find a warm, double chocolate muffin and a flaky, buttery croissant stuffed with cinnamon cream.
It’s from the cafe I saw. The same cafe Logan refused to stop at as he escorted me through the crowded port.
I swallow past the knot in my throat, plucking the drink from the tray, and sip.
It’s perfect.