FYNN
This is the ugliness of war—the price of rebellion. If you've lost, you lay down your weapons. You don't take up arms with your ragtag band and assault foreign troops. That's not courageous; that's a death wish.
Did these men really think that taking out a handful of mine would make a difference in the grand scheme of things? Their army has already pulled out of the area. It's over. It didn't have to be over for them. They didn't have to stay and fight a losing cause. But that's patriotism, I guess.
Killing these men who were desperate to clutch onto their home—it gives me no pleasure. War is not pleasurable business. War is about taking. It's about sending a message. It's about sweat and blood and tears, all for reshaping the world. And it's about believing in the new world that you're trying to create.
I think all these things as I stare at the faces of the men before me. Men of varying ages. Young and old. Fathers and sons. Friends and strangers. Some of them look terrified. Others are stone-faced, clutching onto the belief that they did the right thing to the very end. All of them know they're about to die.
I should be numb to snuffing out life. I've taken so many lives since this war began. Countless is the number of bullets I've gone through. On the battlefield, all you think about is surviving. Each man down is one less that could kill you. But this isn't the battlefield. These men don't have guns in their hands. Their time for defending themselves is over. Now they are powerless. The accused waiting for the guillotine to come down. I bet they all wish they had died fighting. I know I would, in their shoes. Nothing is worse than knowing what's coming and being unable to change your fate.
I wait for my General to give the order, standing by out of respect for the men who were so brazenly willing to give their lives for a lost cause, grateful for not having to be the one to pull the trigger. There's no pride in slaughtering defenseless men, even if not long ago they were anything but.
The sound of gunshots firing echoes across the land. A cool breeze brings with it the smell of blood. Dirt kicks up from the bodies collapsing to the floor. It's done, I think, letting the softest sigh escape my lips.
I cast a glance up at the blue sky that's beginning to turn hues of purple. The sun is half-hidden behind the horizon. I want to think that it's a good day to die. Is any day a good day to die, though? Death is so final.
When my eyes begin to descend, they catch on something in one of the windows in the house adjacent to us. There's a sliver of a body peeking out from behind the curtains. A dark silhouette with a curvy figure. The tendrils of long blonde hair protruding from beneath the black hood are the last clues I need to know it's a woman. Her gaze is fixed on the fence. Her pink lips are set in a line. Her expression is hard. Angry.
A spy, is the first thing that comes to mind. Someone from the rebellion sent to report back on the status of their people. Why else would she look at me with such hatred when our eyes meet? Big blue eyes. I'm afforded only a second to gaze into them before she disappears.
I immediately spring into action, pulling one of the men from the firing squad to follow her. There's not a second to waste. If she is a rebel spy, I'll need to know where their camp is so I can eradicate the threat. Having sent him off, I return to my tent with General Daniel Hansson on my heels.
There's not much left to do here. With the main fighting at its end, I've been mostly busy with stomping out what's left of the resistance and setting up a base of operations. In a few months, I'll leave everything in Daniel's capable hands and return home. Father has been persistent in the issue of me marrying and siring him grandchildren that will one day be heir to the throne. Marrying has never been anywhere near the top of my list of priorities. And the way all the princesses throw themselves at my feet quite honestly makes me sick. It was fun when I was coming into puberty and realized I could have any woman I wanted. But after getting so much of what you want, you don't want it anymore. It becomes mundane. Ordinary. I've become so jaded with women that I've practically lost interest in them.
This is where I belong. Here with my men. Cleaning up the toil and creating a better, bigger dynasty for the heirs that I can't even dream of conceiving right now. I want to live life the way it was meant to be lived, not watch it pass by through the windows of the castle, listening to the deeds of better men. Many would say I'm the better man, at the top of the hierarchy thanks to my royal bloodline. But that doesn't make me better, just privileged. And I don't want what is mine to just be given to me. I want to earn it. This is part of me earning it, and now that I've had a taste of what it's like to actually achieve something, I don't want to go back to the way things were before.
“The threat to our forces grows smaller,” Daniel comments, speaking of the men we just executed. If it were anyone else, that comment would have been followed up with Your Highness. I'm glad he drops the honorifics when we're in private.
“But there are still some left.” I sit in the uncomfortable wooden chair that's been brought for me, my elbow propped up on the armrest.
“You sent Kenny Öberg on a rather urgent errand. Anything I should be concerned about?”
Nothing is lost on him. That's why he's the General. But beyond that, he's also my best friend. We've been friends since childhood, running around the castle together while his mother tended to my family. There's nothing special about his bloodline, but he's a hard worker, and with my support has managed to ascend to a coveted position in our army. When we were deployed, it was only natural that father made sure we were sent together. He knew that Daniel would gladly die for me, not out of a sense of duty but out of love. No one knows me better.
“Nothing as of yet.” I give him a look that says he shouldn't be concerned. I'm not. “There was someone watching the execution.”
“Oh.” He doesn't sound surprised. Very little surprises him anymore.
“It was a woman.” I wave the threat away. “He'll catch up to her soon enough and report back.”
He nods, dropping the subject and redirecting his attention to more pressing matters.
Kenny doesn't return until early the following morning. He has me woken to make his report and informs me that the woman fled to an abandoned building where there were a handful of other people. He didn't see any weapons. I tell him to prepare a map for me of the location, then pat him on the shoulder and praise him for his good work before returning to bed. This isn't particularly important and can be dealt with later.
I wait until I finish my duties the following day before I decide to investigate the situation myself. Normally, I would send out a small scouting party to sweep the area. That would be enough to drive any displaced persons out. Anytime they hear that the opposing military is coming, they scatter like cockroaches exposed to a light source. But something about the way that woman looked at me has me disturbed. To get that close to a military encampment... I'm not 100% convinced she's not an enemy. Maybe I'll see something that Kenny missed if I have a look for myself.
I make the journey on foot as to not arouse any suspicion. For all I know, the camp could have already moved. It's not uncommon for them to relocate if they fear the presence of danger. Our eyes connected, so she knows that I saw her. She knows we could be coming.
I must have arrived in the nick of time, because when I come upon the building marked on Kenny's map, there are people filing out of it with baskets of stuff. Like a line of ants, they carry things to the new location, and I follow silently.
The blonde woman is with them. The sides of her hair are twisted into braids and pinned back away from her face. The rest falls between her slender shoulders. Her blue eyes are larger than life, cast mostly to the floor as she walks. Her expression is that of a kicked puppy. She feels guilty for me having seen her—for them having to move; it's written all over her face. I find myself observing the others in her group less, my gaze mostly fixed on her. What was she doing in that house, I wonder. Maybe she is a type of spy, the kind that checks in and reports on our location to keep her people safe. Perhaps she's been watching me longer than I know. Watching me like I'm now watching her.
She doesn't seem like she belongs with the others. She's too small and frail. Her hair too light. Her skin too dark. Olive and golden and the blue of the sky all rolled into one. She's absolutely stunning. A woman like her shouldn't be walking around in tattered jeans and a dusty black jacket. She should be wearing exquisite gowns fit for a princess.
There's a strange electricity in the air. A need to connect with her. A desire for her to look up and see me staring at her, though it would most assuredly put me in danger. I'm alone. There are more than a dozen of them and only one of me. And I'm not just any soldier, but the prince. Capturing me could turn the tides of the war for them. It would give them a bargaining chip of sorts. It reminds me that I shouldn't stay out here any longer than necessary.
I head back to base, the memory of the woman burned in my mind. I spent too much time concentrating on her while she walked, my eyes taking in the shape of her body, wondering what she looks like beneath all that baggy ill-fitting clothing. Her jacket covered her ass so I couldn't see the tightness of it in her jeans. And it hung down the slope of her breasts, denying me an image of their fullness. Fuck. Why am I even thinking about this? A woman hasn't caught my eye in what seems like a lifetime, and this is the last place I should be thinking about having sex. She's one of the last people I should be thinking about having sex with. She spied on us which makes her an enemy. I should be swooping in and having her executed, not fantasizing about what's beneath her clothing.
I'm agitated by the time I step foot back in the encampment. Thinking about such a delicate flower unprotected sets me on edge. A million horrible things could happen to her out there with those people. And who are they to her? Relatives? Strangers? Does she have a husband or a boyfriend? I saw no ring on her finger, not that that means anything in wartime. People trade what they have for things that they need, especially when resources are scarce and they have little to bargain with. If she was close to any of the men in the group, I couldn't tell. Mostly, they walked single file. The thought that she could belong to one of them irritates me even more. What man would allow his woman to go off on such a dangerous mission?
I return to my tent and try to forget what I saw. From what I could tell, her people weren't carrying any weapons with them to their new camp—no sign that they were anything other than displaced. It wouldn't hurt to leave them be, to turn a blind eye. That way, she would stay safe a bit longer. At least for as long as she was in my district and I was still in command. Once I leave to go back to the palace, there would be no guarantee.
For as much as I try, though, I can't stop thinking about her. Instead of the usual blood and horror that I'm accustomed to dreaming about at night, my thoughts are filled with soft olive skin, supple breasts, and those thick pink lips set in an O as I drive my cock into her. It's enough to make me wake in a pile of my own fluids, something that hasn't happened since I was a teenager. I curse at my body's inability to contain itself when presented with images of the displaced Goddess.
Every day that I'm in the encampment, I find myself gazing up at the window where I first saw her, hoping to spot her again—hoping to see her looking down at me with something other than hatred. But all I see are curtains and emptiness. And each day my yearning turns more into a nagging until I can't take it anymore and return to where I know she now resides, desperate to catch a glimpse of her.
I make the journey and watch her every chance I get. Until watching becomes not enough. Then I wait. I wait until she leaves her camp in the early morning, and I follow her.
She makes her way into one of the nearby neighborhoods with a bag slung over her shoulder. It doesn't take long for me to realize what's going on. She's foraging for supplies. I feel a mix of relief and anger knowing that. On the one hand, I'm less worried about what she has to trade for food. On the other hand, what she's doing is damn dangerous. A woman her size could easily be overtaken and raped. And what man wouldn't want to put their hands on her? My cock throbs painfully just thinking about touching her skin. I want to know if it's as soft as it looks, if she would be as soft in my arms as I've imagined so many times.
They sent her out alone. Without a weapon, by the looks of it. Defenseless.
She should be staying at the camp where she can be protected. I can't have her wandering around this war-torn city where any man who finds her could do unspeakable things to her. Just the thought of it makes my blood boil.
I decide to stop pussyfooting around and make my presence known, but I don't want to startle her. Or rather, I don't want her to be able to get away from me. If I had men with me, catching her would be easy. As it is, I have no idea of her athletic abilities. She may be able to outrun me. She may also know this neighborhood better than I do. And she's definitely small enough to slip into spaces that I wouldn't fit.
I wait until she enters one of the houses, then I creep in behind her, being extra careful not to make any noise. I come upon her opening cabinets in the kitchen. For several moments, I simply stand there and watch her. The fact that I was able to sneak up on her so easily is disconcerting. I could end her life right now, and she'd never even see it coming. Perhaps that would be a mercy. No doubt, life is hard for her. But I don't want to end her life. Far from it. I want to protect her from any harm that may come to her. In fact, I would kill any man who tried to hurt her. No, I'm here to save her. She just doesn't know it yet.
My breath is still as I take slow, calculated steps behind her. I plan to wrap her in my arms, to cup my hand over her mouth and hold her against my body. To feel her frantic breathing and get a taste of that soft skin against my palm, of how she molds back against me. But a misplaced footstep on a broken piece of glass sends a near deafening crunching sound into the air. Her body goes rigid for half a second before she turns and sees me, and then the chase is on.
I don't bother telling her to stop. I'm smart enough to know she won't listen. Because right now, she thinks that me catching her means her death. Even if I told her I meant her no harm, she wouldn't buy it.
Since I'm blocking the entryway, she takes off towards the back of the house. A sofa pushed in front of the back door causes her to divert up a set of stairs. She bounds up them, and I follow, praying she doesn't turn and deliver a kick to my chest that would send me tumbling back down. She doesn't turn, perhaps too afraid to confront me. I can already hear her ragged breathing.
She doesn't appear to have any solid plan, dashing into the closest bedroom and trying to close the door on me. I'm too quick, though, and far too strong for her. I don't even have to put all my weight against the door to fling it open. She stumbles back, her eyes wild as she digs in her pocket for something. A moment later, she's brandishing a small pocketknife at me. I hold my palms out to her, trying to calm her down. She casts a glance back at the window. It's closed, but I know she's desperate enough to jump. She's thinking it through right now. I can see the wheels in her head turning. Fight me and die, or take the chance that the fall might not kill her. Those are the options she's weighing; the only options she thinks she has.
As she edges back towards the window, I know what she's decided. She's caged in and frightened. Death by her own hands is better than death by mine any day of the week. That's what she's thinking.
I wait until she looks away from me again—drops her guard for a fraction of a second—before I move in. She struggles and screams when I clutch onto her wrists. I'm not even sure she would try to stab me if she got free, but I'm not about to find out. I pull her away from the window, away from the possibility of jumping through it. Then I wrestle her down onto the bed in the far corner of the room, squeezing her wrist until she drops the blade and pinning her down until she stops struggling.
Her chest heaves wildly from the exertion. The fear in her eyes from earlier has reverted to hatred. Tears cling to her bottom lashes. Angry tears. Tears of despair.
And then she spits in my face.
I'm taken aback by it. No one has ever spit in my face. Not ever. To disrespect me in such a way would be punishable by death. Perhaps she doesn't realize who I am. Or maybe she does, and she doesn't care.
The fact that she's resisting me instead of cowering like a frightened lamb stirs something deep within me. It makes me want her more. A sick need for something that I can't have. There are so few things in this world that I can't have. But I won't take her against her will. I'm not going to be the monster she fears I am. No doubt, she's thinking of all of the horrible things that I have planned for her.
I don't take a moment to wipe my face, because holding her down is more important. Hovering over her. Feeling her beneath me. Watching her chest rise and fall in that ill-fitting hoodie. The closeness to her makes my body react inappropriately. My cock is fully erect and twitching in my pants. Knowing what I could do to her. Having to restrain myself. It's all way too arousing.
“I'm not going to hurt you,” I say finally, longing to hear her voice.
“Of course you are. You're with them.” She jerks her head toward the window. Even in anger and fear, there's a sweet silkiness to her tone.
“If I let you up, will you promise not to run?” I want nothing more than to keep holding her down on the bed—to keep touching her soft skin. But I know that the longer I keep her captive, the harder it will be to earn her trust. I need to show her that I mean what I say.
“And if I run?” she challenges me.
A smirk plays on my lips. “I'll catch you again.” The thought doesn't displease me. Any chance to hold her warm body against mine is more than desirable. I could play this game of cat and mouse all day.
She settles beneath me, the fight leaving her eyes as she contemplates her next move. Then she nods, though she gives no promises.
I wet my lips with my tongue, my eyes lingering on her face. I'm not sure what will happen if I let her up, but as long as my body is blocking the door, she won't be able to get away. Hopefully, she doesn't dart for the window.
“I'm not going to hurt you,” I remind her one last time before I push away from her, releasing her wrists and standing up straight.
She sits, resting her weight on her palms. She glances at the window but thankfully doesn't make any attempt to go for it.
“What do you want?” she asks, refusing to look at me.
“Who are you and why were you watching me?” I give her a chance to explain herself.
“Watching you?” Her eyes flick up to me. She seems confused by the question.
“A few weeks ago, I saw you standing in the window of a house next to my encampment.”
She clips her bottom lip between her teeth, and I hunger to do the same to her. Her lips are so full and lush. It's hard to tear my eyes away from them when all I can think about is tasting her.
“I was scavenging for food when I heard voices. I thought I would go see what all the commotion was about.”
“That was dangerous,” I chastise her.
“I was curious.” She shrugs.
“You're with the rebellion.” I try to test her reaction. “A spy, perhaps.”
“I'm displaced,” she insists vehemently. “I was just trying to find food so I can survive this bloody war. I didn't know you people were in the area.”
I'm pissing her off, but there's something endearing about that. The longer we're together, the less I think she knows who I am. And I'm not about to peel the veil away from her eyes. I like that she's not groveling at my feet and begging for her life.
“What's your name?” I need to know because I'm tired of her seeming like a stranger. I've spent weeks watching her, listening in for this tidbit of information. No one has spoken it, and it's driving me mad not knowing.
“Anya,” she replies quietly.
“Well, Anya, if you hear a large group of people talking and you're alone, you should head in the other direction, not towards the sound. It's dangerous for you out here.” I gesture around us. “And if someone starts to chase you, for the love of God, don't head up the stairs. Haven't you ever seen a horror movie before?”
She folds her arms over her chest, looking stubborn. Her expression quickly softens, though. “So you're just going to let me go?” It sounds more like a statement than a question.
I sigh, feeling an emptiness in my chest from the thought of being apart from her again. I just made contact with her. I've heard her voice and discovered her name and touched her skin. I don't want to lose all of that just because we're on opposite sides of this war. But I don't know what else I can do right now.
“Do you have everything you need at your camp?” Now I'm the one looking away. Letting her go is bad enough. Offering her support is a betrayal to my people.
“Of course, I don't have everything I need. Why else do you think I'm scrounging through abandoned houses.” Malice returns to her eyes.
I'm annoyed by her hatred of me. I don't want her looking at me the way she is now. I don't want her thinking of me as an enemy.
“Go back to your camp.” I move away from the door, half expecting her to bolt the second she sees an opening. She stands but doesn't move beyond that. “Make sure you stay out of sight.” I don't look at her, because watching her go would be too painful.
She steps past me finally but pauses in the doorway to turn to me. “Who are you?”
“My name is Fynn.” It's the only clue I'm willing to offer. Recognition doesn't seem to hit her, and for that, I'm grateful.
“Thank you, Fynn,” she tells me with the tiniest hint of sincerity before disappearing out the door and taking my heart with her.
***
Thinking about Anya scavenging for scraps, putting herself in danger day in and day out to feed her people...it doesn't sit well with me. I know I should mind my own business—that this is just part of what happens during war, but I can't let it be.
When I'm not in the encampment, I'm at my temporary home, one of the largest estates in the area that didn't get destroyed during the bombings. I have all the creature comforts I would back at the palace. Servants. Finery. More food than any one person could possibly need. I'm the crown prince, after all, which means I get more than anyone else, even if I don't deserve it. Seeing all the poverty and strife around me, it feels like such a waste. There have been many an afternoon that I've invited my best men to dine with me.
But now I've repurposed my excess. Ever since my encounter with Anya, I've had my servants load up the trunk of one of my cars with food and take it over to Anya's camp, only keeping enough to feed my household. I've had to be incredibly careful about doing it, swearing my servants to secrecy. If my father ever found out, he'd shit a fucking brick. Worse than that, he'd probably immediately ship me back home. Thinking about it makes me feel like a child, even though I'm almost thirty.
Once the war is over, he expects me to settle down with a princess of his choosing, a political match to strengthen our country. Love doesn't matter when you're royalty, only securing political bonds. I've known that since I was a child. I've known my duties, and I've never really cared about the whole arranged marriage thing because love has never been on my list of priorities.
But now, lying in bed at night thinking about Anya—about her cold blue eyes and soft olive skin, about her fiery attitude and selflessness—all I want is her. I want her stripped of her filthy clothing, laid bare before me. Her thighs spread, her lower lips fully engorged, her slit wet and ready to take me. I want to fill her with my cock, clutching her small body against me as I spray my seed into her, put a baby in her belly so that no one can tear us apart. I want to claim her and make her mine forever.
Maybe it's just lust. But lust has never felt like this before. Lust has never had such desperation attached to it that I sneak out every chance I can get to spy on Anya's camp from afar and make sure she's alright. She's only gone out foraging once since I started making regular deliveries. The one time I went and found her gone, I was both enraged and frantic. I must have scoured an entire neighborhood looking for her before returning back to base. That night, I didn't sleep I was so worried that something had happened to her. But when I returned the next day, she was safely back at camp. It took everything in me not to barge in there and chastise her for leaving. After all, why else am I sending food to her people but to keep her safe?
I'm glad that the war is mostly over because I'm wearing myself thin staying on top of my duties and keeping track of Anya at the same time. Apparently, my exhaustion hasn't gone unnoticed. Daniel brings it up while we're having dinner together one afternoon. We typically dine together to hash out the day's events and talk military tactics. Sometimes we just bullshit, but for the most part, we keep our conversations war-related. It's difficult for it not to be the most prominent topic of discussion when we're so immersed in it.
“Looking forward to returning home and getting married?” He eyes me with a smirk from across the table.
My thoughts immediately go to Anya in a wedding dress. Seeing anyone else in her place feels like a betrayal. “Not really,” I admit to the returning home part. Getting married has become debatable, but only if it's to Anya.
“You've got to fulfill your duty to the kingdom,” he reminds me that marriage is a duty.
“I'm fulfilling my duty to the kingdom right now.” I gesture around us, beyond the estate to the encampment, dragging the conversation back to the war.
“It won't last forever.” He grabs a roll from the plate between us and tears it in two. Steam rises from its soft center.
“I think you're looking forward to returning home and getting married more than I am.” I grin.
Daniel has a woman waiting for him back home. A raven-haired beauty that he's been courting for the past six months. I've never seen him serious about a woman until Tanya. At this rate, he's likely to get married before me. I'm happy for him. He's been a great friend and an exceptional General, and he deserves all the good things that life has to offer.
He nods. “I think I'm ready to start a family.”
“It helps that you get to marry who you love.” I eye him over my plate.
He snorts. “Love. That's never mattered to you before. Did you meet someone before we got deployed? Some common woman at a bar you secretly snuck out to?”
I laugh. “You're right. It's never mattered to me before. And ending this war matters now more than anything. I'm tired of spending my days sending out units to chase down ragtag bands of people who can barely even be called a resistance. This country is so torn apart right now. People are just trying to get by. There's no reason for us to be here anymore.” No reason for me except for Anya. I'm not sure what I'll do when I'm forced to leave her behind.
“You've been different since we executed those rebels,” he notes.
I want to avoid his gaze, but then he'll know something is up. If anyone can read me, it's Daniel.
“I feel like we're hunting down people who don't deserve to be hunted down. People are poor and desperate here. They're trying to defend a country that's already lost to them. Once we pull out the military and show them we're not a threat, things will change.”
“That wasn't your stance before.” Daniel cuts into his steak. “You were all honor and duty.”
“I want to make my father happy, but I also see the reality of the situation. And I've been thinking a lot about what it would be like if we were on the other side of things.”
“We would have been on the other side of things if we had lost.” He points his fork at me.
I shake my head. “That never would have happened. My father is one of the greatest military tacticians alive with one of the largest armies in the world. He wouldn't engage in a war he couldn't win.”
“Indeed,” Daniel replies absentmindedly.
We eat in silence for several minutes. My thoughts are still on Anya, playing a million impossible scenarios in my head. I wonder if her people cooked up the beef and potatoes I sent and are now sharing a meal similar to what we're having. Divided among so many people, the portions would be much smaller, I think with a frown. I wish there were fewer people in her group or that I had more food to send.
“For as much as you're not enjoying this grunt work,” Daniel says, breaking me free from my thoughts, “we're going to have to do another sweep soon.”
“Oh, goodie.” Sarcasm is thick in my voice.
“I want to make sure that sector seventeen is cleared out. There've been reports of activity in the area. It may be nothing, but I'd rather drive out any potential threats than leaving it be and waiting for bad elements to move in.”
My ears perk up at the mention of sector seventeen, and my immediate knee-jerk reaction is to tell Daniel that there's nothing there. I've been going to that sector almost every day because that's where Anya's camp is. If there were rebels in the area, I would know.
“We've swept that place once already,” I remind him, knowing he'll argue with me about it. We haven't gone through that sector since shortly after the fighting ended two months ago.
“Well, we're going to sweep it again,” he says firmly.
Shit. He won't be dissuaded. It's no longer a question of if Anya will be pushed out of the area, but when. The thought that she might catch wind of the news of the sweep and disappear without a trace is unacceptable. I have to make sure that doesn't happen. Some way, somehow, I have to find a way to get closer to her.