Content Note: language.
He’s not rescuing me.
He’s protecting the horse still dancing and snorting in the ring. Protecting Perseus from me.
My energy is so volatile that a stranger thinks that I would harm —
Shifting his hands from my upper arms, he presses his forearm across my chest, leaning into me and finally switching to slightly accented English. “What the fuck were you thinking? Trying to ride him in the dark? Do you want to die? Do you want him to kill you? Do you want to be responsible for his death when he breaks a fucking leg?”
That’s too many questions to answer. Even if I had the answers.
“Look at him! The ears, the eyes!” the enraged figure spits madly. “He’s scared of whatever the fuck you’re trying to do in the middle of the fucking night.”
Realizing that my arms are free to move and that the ground is once again solid under my feet — as if my mind is still checked out, still expecting the death blow I saw coming and did nothing to thwart — I finally shove my hair out of my face.
I look at Perseus in the ring.
I look and see everything I’ve willfully ignored.
My rescuer eases back, slowly removing his arm from across my upper chest and muttering a disconcerted, “Fuck, fuck …” under his breath.
I stay pressed up against the side of the stable, knowing I’ve fucked up and not really wanting to face it. Cowardly, yes. Except …
I’m no longer coming out of my skin.
As stupid and reckless as my actions might be, I feel invigorated for the first time in months.
So I meet the stranger’s gaze.
He’s fucking gorgeous. In that way that only a pretty boy transitioning into a grown man can be.
Sharp jawed, wide green eyes, slashes of prominent cheekbones, medium-brown skin flushed with health. Full lips. Straight teeth. A shifter of some sort.
He’s holding his hands up now, his gaze flicking between my eyes and my left shoulder.
Because he can’t remember if it’s okay to look royalty in the eyes? Or because he’s noticed the purple hue to my gaze?
His palms face forward placatingly. No, pleadingly.
He’s just realized who I am.
Who he’s pinned up against the side of a stable.
Putting unwanted hands on me is technically punishable by death. As in, there’s an actual archaic law covering that, still logged in some ancient tome in my father’s study.
“Your Highness …” he murmurs, his tone gentle as if waiting for me to bite back. To lash out with whatever my purple eyes declare I can do.
I am, however, not my father’s child in essence. Not like Armin was.
“Have I …” He stammers as he continues, “I didn’t know … I would never hurt …”
A slow, wide grin spreads across my face. I’m all riled up, but invigorated rather than desperate now — and I’m not sure I’ve ever been so struck by someone in my life. Attraction is usually a slow sort of burn for me.
Confusion mars his perfect fucking brow, and he swallows hard.
Maybe he’ll be less pretty in the daylight. But as inappropriate as the impulse is, I’m moments away from asking him to press me against the side of the stable again. Even if it doesn’t go anywhere sexual, just being … dominated? No, that isn’t the right word, not the right feeling.
Just being out of control of my own body, my own choices, even for just a moment was … freeing? But not in a destructive way.
His hands and guidance are forceful, but not —
A soft smile finally overtakes his confusion, possibly because he’s noticed I’m still just staring at him and still smiling myself. As if I’m shocked dumb by his beauty, by our abrupt … introduction.
And maybe I am.
– Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One
