Chapter 17: The Third Kiss
The flight from the border fort was a blur of jolting motion and biting cold. Freir led them on a punishing route, not along the road but through a narrow, rushing creek that chilled the horses’ legs to the knee and left no tracks. Jared rode stiffly, his face a mask of pain, one hand perpetually pressed to his bandaged side. Kellen was a silent shadow, his eyes constantly scanning the black tree line. Clara simply held on, the rhythm of the horse unfamiliar and aching, her mind a trapped swarm of everything that had happened.
They rode until the sky began to soften from black to deep navy. Freir called a halt in a thick copse of pines, the trees so dense they swallowed the emerging dawn.
“We rest here for an hour,” he said, his voice hoarse with fatigue. “The horses are done in. So is Jared, though he’ll never admit it.”
Jared started to protest, but a wave of dizziness visibly hit him as he dismounted. He caught himself against his saddle. “An hour,” he conceded through gritted teeth.
“I’ll take first watch,” Kellen said, already turning to survey the ground they’d covered.
“No,” Freir said. He tossed his reins to Kellen. “You’re half-dead on your feet and you’re bleeding through that shirt you finally put on. Sit down. I’ll watch. Clara, come with me. I need your eyes.”
It was a transparent ploy. Clara saw Kellen recognize it, his jaw tightening. But Jared was already sinking onto a bed of pine needles, his eyes closing instantly. The need for rest was a physical weight on all of them.
Without a word, Clara followed Freir as he picked a path through the trees. They didn’t go far, just enough for the campsite to disappear into the gloom. He stopped in a small, rocky clearing where a patch of grey sky was visible overhead. He didn’t look at her. He just stared upwards, his profile sharp in the dim light.
“We’ll head for Silverwood Keep,” he said, his tone all business. “It’s a minor holding, mostly used for hunting. My father forgets it exists. We can lie low there for a few days, let Jared heal, get our bearings.”
“Alright,” Clara said. Her voice felt rusted from disuse.
The silence stretched, filled with the distant call of a waking bird. Then Freir let out a short, humorless laugh. “A week ago, you were a political prisoner in your own home. Now you’re a fugitive in a wet forest, hunted by your father’s men, tied to three men you didn’t choose.” He finally turned to look at her. His amber eyes were unreadable. “How does it feel?”
“Different,” she said honestly. The cold air was real. The smell of pine sap was real. The ache in her thighs was real. It was all horribly, wonderfully real.
He took a step toward her. Then another. The casual distance evaporated. “Back in the infirmary,” he said, his voice dropping, losing its polished edge. “Kellen had you against a wall. Jared had you in his lap the day before that, stitching him up. Everyone gets a piece of you in a crisis.” He was close enough now that she could see the faint shadow of exhaustion under his eyes, the tight set of his mouth. “So where does that leave me, wife? What’s my share of the chaos?”
His words weren’t lighthearted. They were stripped bare, an unvarnished question that hung between them. Before she could formulate an answer, before she could even breathe, his hand shot out and closed around her wrist.
He pulled her.
Not back toward camp, but deeper into the trees, his stride urgent. They burst through a final screen of brush and into a low, stone structure she hadn’t seen—a forgotten hunter’s blind, half-collapsed and overgrown. He didn’t stop. He shouldered open a creaking wooden door and dragged her inside.
It was dark, smelling of earth and old timber. And metal.
As her eyes adjusted, she saw why. They weren’t in a blind. They were in a tiny, concealed armory. Rusted weapon racks lined the walls, holding broken spears and notched swords. A few sets of corroded armor stood like skeletal sentinels in the corners, their empty helms watching. The air was thick with the scent of old oil and damp rust.
Freir released her wrist only to plant his hands on the wall on either side of her head, caging her in. The polished prince was gone. In his place was something far more raw, his breath coming fast, his eyes burning in the gloom.
“Where do I take you?” he asked again, the question a rough whisper. “The heroic duke gets a dagger fight and a kiss. The noble captain gets your gentle hands. What does the second son, the pretty pawn from the neighboring board, get? The logistical planning?”
“Freir—” His name was a gasp on her lips.
“No,” he cut her off, his head dipping closer. “I watched you. I watched you clean his blood. I watched you kiss Kellen like you were drowning. I’ve been watching you since the moment they shoved you into that wedding chapel, a scared bird in a ridiculous dress. And I’ve had to stand there, smiling, playing my part, wondering if you were the viper they all said, or just… this.”
His mouth found hers.
It was nothing like Kellen’s desperate, searching kiss. This was a claiming. A devouring. It was heat and demand and a year of frustrated, vigilant silence poured into a single, wildfire moment. His body pressed hers against the cold stone wall, the ancient weapons rattling softly on their racks. There was no gentleness in it, only a hunger so long denied it had sharpened into an edge.
Clara’s mind blanked. The shock was a lightning strike, followed by a surge of something else—a terrifying, answering heat. Her hands, trapped between them, curled into the fabric of his tunic. She didn’t push him away. She held on.
He broke the kiss as suddenly as he’d started, but didn’t pull back. He rested his forehead against hers, his breathing ragged. “You’re not a viper,” he murmured, the words vibrating against her lips. “You’re a revelation. And it’s going to get us all killed.”
Footsteps crunched outside, slow and heavy. Jared’s voice, groggy with pain and sleep, called out. “Freir? Clara?”
Freir didn’t move for a second, his eyes searching hers in the dark. Then, with a forced calm, he pushed himself back. The raw hunger was sealed away, the polished mask slipping back into place so swiftly it left her dizzy.
“In here,” he called back, his voice miraculously even. “Found a cache. Might be something useful.”
He turned from her and pretended to examine a rusted broadsword, his fingers steady as he traced the pitted blade.
Jared appeared in the doorway, his big frame filling it. He looked from Freir’s casual appraisal of junk to Clara, still leaning against the wall, her lips swollen, her breath not yet under control.
A knowing quiet passed over Jared’s face. Not anger. Not judgment. Just a weary, profound understanding of the complicated mess they were all in.
“The hour’s up,” Jared said simply. “Kellen’s got the horses ready. We need to move.”
“Of course,” Freir said, replacing the sword with a clatter. He walked past Clara without touching her, pausing only at the doorway. He didn’t look back. “Coming, Princess?”
Clara pushed herself off the wall, her legs unsteady. She walked past Jared, who offered a slight, almost imperceptible nod. It felt like solidarity.
Outside, the world was washed in cold, grey dawn light. Kellen stood holding the reins of all four horses. His eyes locked onto Clara, then flicked to Freir emerging behind her. The icy comprehension in his gaze was instant. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
Without a word, he handed Clara her reins.
“Silverwood is a hard day’s ride from here,” Freir said, swinging up into his saddle, all brisk efficiency once more. “If we’re lucky, they’ll think we’re still running west. Let’s not waste the head start.”
He kicked his horse into a trot, taking the lead.
Clara mounted, the saddle soreness a familiar pain now. She felt the weight of Kellen’s stare, the memory of Jared’s knowing look, and the brand of Freir’s kiss still burning on her mouth. The gilded cage was far behind her.
The tangled wood of their new reality stretched out ahead, thick and deep and full of unseen turns.