The Queen, the Lover, the Huntress, and the Rogue

The Badlands

Corrin’s POV

“We’ve been here for a week now, and we’ve deduced virtually nothing. It’s time to move on.”

Emmett, of course. I’m starting to gather that he’s going to be our voice of reason on this little excursion. Westley will be our voice of passion, Bentley will be our voice of wisdom, and I…

Well, I don’t know what I am. I’m not sure I ever have.

“I think we need to be bold,” says Westley. Like I said—voice of passion. “We need to get closer to them.”

“Even I don’t know Castle Gibbous well enough to get you in undetected,” Bentley reminds him, “and it’s too packed for you to stand a chance of getting out of there alive if you are detected.”

“Castle Gibbous is too risky,” I agree. “But Westley’s right—we need to know for sure that they’re not here before we continue south. Why don’t we get a bit closer to civilization in the Umbra Badlands? There’s bound to be some guards standing outside the House of the Alpha, right? Maybe we can catch something they’re saying without breaking in.”

We’ve tried our hand at listening in on campgrounds, inns, and smaller residences already, but this would be different. The House of the Alpha is almost guaranteed to give us some sort of answers.

“The Umbras are a nasty bunch,” Emmett reminds me. “Some say even nastier than the Gibbouses. You get that close to the House of the Alpha, you’d better be ready for a fight.”

“Don’t worry,” Westley says immediately, flashing him a toothy grin. “We are.”

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Westley this past week, it’s that he’s somehow even braver than I thought he was—and I never doubted that he was. It’s not just the way he talks to me; it’s the way he talks to everyone—the way he lights up at the thought of battle—the way he doesn’t quiver or shake in the slightest when approaching a lion’s den.

I’m jealous, to be honest. 

And aroused.

Did I really just think that?

“I know of a route that will get you most of the way there undetected,” says Bentley, reaching for his pad. He sketches out a map of our path from here to the center of the Badlands, where the House of the Alpha is. He puts stars next to each potential danger spot, and advises us where to move the slowest and the softest.

“I could come with you,” says Emmett as we gather our things. “You might need the help.”

“We don’t,” Westley says cheerfully. “We’ll see you soon.”

And we take our leave of them.

I’ve grown fairly used to traveling with Westley at this point. I always try to be as quiet as possible, and he always tries to talk. I answer in short, dismissive responses, and he pushes. It’s sort of endearing, really, except for the part where it might get us killed.

“I like to live on the edge,” he always says when I point that out. “Don’t you?”

And then he winks at me.

He likes to wink at me. He seems to know exactly what to do to constantly keep my head spinning and my heart racing. He seems to truly enjoy his effect on me, frustrated as he may be with my constant rejection of him.

“You look ravishing tonight,” he informs me as we climb up a particularly gnarly ravine. He’s beneath me, of course, giving him a view of my clothed backside; I roll my eyes and say nothing as I continue to climb.

Unfortunately, despite my eye roll, the compliment got to me, as it always does, and I find myself thinking so much about the stirring feeling in my groin that I lose my footing, slip, and fall.

We’re about two stories up—the fall wouldn’t kill me, but it certainly would hurt.

He, of course, catches me by the hand and hoists me back up towards him.

“Thanks,” I mumble as I reach to find handholds for myself again. To my surprise, though, his grip on my hand tightens, and he wraps it around his neck.

I have no choice at this point but to wrap my legs and other hand around him; it’s that or continue holding up all of my own weight with the one hand he’s taken hostage. As soon as I do so, I feel his hardened bulge press against my s*x, and the blood rushes to my cheeks.

“Now you look even prettier,” he murmurs as he takes in the sight of my reddened cheeks. “Don’t worry, lassie. I’ve got you.”

I half-expect him to kiss me then and there, but—whether because he’s got the good sense to continue climbing rather than break out into a midair make-out session or because he just isn’t feeling it—he reaches up and continues to climb. When he reaches the top, he hoists both of us up so that he’s in a seated position with his legs dangling off the side of the ravine and I’m, well, straddling him.

I should get off, but my legs don’t seem to allow me to.

Our eyes lock, and I know, in that instant, that I’m totally f****d. 

Flirtatious and animalistic as he might be, Westley has real feelings for me. I can see it in those pale, beautiful blue eyes of his. He wants me like he’s never wanted anyone else, and I want him just as badly.

But that only means it’s going to hurt both of us worse when we come to terms with the reality that we aren’t supposed to be together, so I tear my eyes and body away from his and start to rise to my feet.

Before I’ve fully risen, his hand grabs my arm and yanks me back down. I part my lips to chastise him, but he instantly covers them with his hand, and I realize that we’re not alone. 

“It’s a problem with the stallion, not the broodmare, if you ask me,” the voice in the distance is saying. “Can’t get it in? More like, can’t get it up.”

Are they talking about what I think they’re talking about? Sophie and Sawyer?

“He claims it’s some sort of spell, but I doubt it.” A different voice—also male. “The b***h was no virgin when they married—that’s for sure. Dewey, Morgan, and Fitz all say they’ve nailed her in every corner of Castle Gibbous.”

My fists clench involuntarily. I don’t know who Dewey, Morgan, and Fitz are, but I do know that they’re lying bastards. If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that Sophie Lancaster is a virgin.

“It’s a shame Lancaster took her and Marleigh south with him,” says a third voice, catching my attention for multiple reasons. South? South, where? And how many of these guys are there? I squint to count, but all I can make out is their campfire. “If she was still here, we could see for ourselves.”

I glance at Westley then, who looks about as disgusted as I feel. There is one good thing about this conversation, though: we’ve confirmed that Sophie Gibbous isn’t in Castle Gibbous. And it doesn’t sound like she’s here in the Badlands, either.

If Sawyer Lancaster took them with him, they’re almost certainly in the Crescent Castle.

“I just hope he’s right about the Crescent b***h’s attachment to his pretty, little wife. Maybe she’ll come on down to save her friend and give us a taste of the princess’s pink, little—”

A fierce, guttural scream escapes my lips before I even know what’s happening, and I wrench away from Westley’s grip, yanking my spear from its holster on my back and sprinting over to the group of scoundrels.

These are scoundrels. Westley might be a Rogue, but he’s nothing like them.

“Cor!” Westley shouts, but he doesn’t try to stop me this time. I hear him shift and sprint past me, straight toward the gaggle of men, who are now reaching for their own weapons.

“Is that…?” asks one of the four men at the campfire, squinting toward me in the darkness. Four. Not so bad. “That’s the bodyguard wench. The other Oakshield!”

“My name is Corrin,” I hiss at him as I throw my spear straight at him so hard and fast, he doesn’t have time to react. It takes him straight to the heart. The men around him jump back in shock, eyes wide and afraid; I seize the opportunity to sink my foot onto the man’s fallen body, rip my spear back out of him, and say, “And she’s not a princess. She’s a queen.”