Isabeau soars through the sky. It would be easy to get mesmerized by the majestic ease of her flight, but today is an exceptionally beautiful day and Lachie is with me. It's hard to focus on the hunt when his eyes shine bright in the sunlight. Furthermore, he had the audacity to roll up his sleeves and now his sinewy forearms scream for attention like courtesans in red dresses, shameless and loud.

"Stunning," he gasps in awe of Isabeau's prowess.

"Certainly."

I clear my throat and force my gaze back to the sky. "She's about to stoop," I point out, recognizing Isabeau's mannerisms.

"Holy fuck! How did you know? Look at that! She's so fast. Where did she go?" Lachie's enthusiasm only adds to his appeal. I want to rip his clothes off. Good weather for it too.

"Patience," I tell him—or perhaps I'm telling myself.

There's always that uncertain moment when Isabeau dives down and disappears in the distance behind bushes, trees, or in this case an outcropping. "She'll either soar back up with nothing or start screeching to let us know she caught something." I have barely spoken the words or her call pierces the sky.

Lachie looks impressed. "Now what?" he asks eagerly.

"Now we have to go find her."

"Really? She's not going to carry her prey over here? She must be at least a mile away and those rocks are one hell of a climb."

"She's trained to wait for the dog, but out here," I sigh, expecting him to mock me after what I'm about to say, "I have to be the dog. That's my job now. Don't you dare laugh!"

"Laugh? Mari, this is ... you are ... Is this what you've been doing every day?"

He pinches his nose, looking at me in a way that makes my chest squeeze. I've never seen him like this in the palace. I don't think I've ever seen anyone looking at me like this, like I'm worth something not because of the crown I wear but because of who I am and what I do, rather than what I could do for them.

"What?" I mutter as I notice his gaze dropping to my lips. Heat flares up my throat and cheeks. I want him to kiss me. I want his hands in my hair and his mouth on my skin. I probably shouldn't wet my lip, bite my lip, but I do all those things, because I want ALL THE THINGS.

But Lachie doesn't move. He stands transfixed. Too far, too far away from me.

And then, out of the blue, as if this rock in the ocean is a blooming rose garden in a fairytale book, he whispers, "I love you."

What?

I gasp for breath, not knowing what hit me.

I wished he would just kiss me.

He blinks himself out of his stupor and repeats quietly, "I love you," this time directed at my eyes instead of my mouth and the amazement in his eyes tells me he's only coming to this conclusion at this very moment. He's as much telling himself as he's telling me.

So impulsive.

So vulnerable.

What the fuck is up with him?

I can't believe he said that.

It reminds me of the moment when he unexpectedly painted me red. Who does that? Who does this? He can't blurt out he loves me just like that. How can he even think that? Here? Now? In this forsaken place while I'm this disheveled mess?

I've never been less lovable.

Visibly affected, he moves his hands up to his hair, displaying more forearm and a strip of stomach as his shirt moves up, mother have mercy. "That was uncalled for, I didn't mean to frighten you ," he says, "We should go get your bird."

The moment he turns away, disappointment washes over me in a tidal wave.

"Lachie?" I hear myself call after him while I'm still figuring out what I want to do next. I can't say it back. I can't even begin to handle that he said it to me, but at the same time, I know what I want, dammit, I know what I want, his hands, his mouth, his body.

There's still a good chunk of queen left in me and I grab it and hold on tight, reminding myself that queens don't need to explain themselves.

Queens go get what they want.

I grab his arm and swing him around. "Lachie."

He's panting slightly, struggling to get a grip on himself and I relate. I relate but I also enjoy. The sight of his parted lips, the sliver of despair ... it's all very becoming.

With renewed confidence, I slide my hand up the nape of his neck. He's a bit taller than me but not too tall. My fingers brush the short curl of his hair. I can't resist tugging it gently so his head falls back and his neck stretches before me, revealing uncovered skin below the line of his face-paint. His Adam's apple looks utterly kissable.

"Marigold." He draws a deep breath.

I move closer, my body aching for his. My breasts touch his chest first, the coarse fabric of our shirts grating against my nipples. I take another step and feel his groin press into my stomach. My inner queen growls at the feel of him. In response, his hand curls around my waist to pinch the small of my back, telling me we're in this together.

We're doing this.

Running with our desires.

Queen and Jester.

Savages.

Who cares?

All that matters is how good it feels to mold my body to his. Tentatively, I place my lips on the skin that stretches over his Adam's apple. He swallows in response and I flick my tongue against the bobbing piece of skin to get my first taste of Lachie. It's warm, salty, and worth savoring.

"You're going to break my heart," he whispers against my forehead, his words pulling me out of my body and into my head. He keeps saying the oddest things, things most people keep to themselves. Perhaps he would be more reserved if we were still in the palace, but we're on this uncivilized rock and it seems to be getting to him too. Perhaps it makes us more real than savage? Perhaps these are the same things ...

"You want me to stop?" I ask.

"No."

"You want me to say it back? I can't say it back. My heart's already broken."

"I know." He loops my hair behind my ears and cups my face with both hands. "I know and it's beautiful. It's still so fucking beautiful, Marigold." As he dips closer, my feelings take over my capacity to process words. Beautiful is a good word and that is all I'm willing to register.

He kisses my bottom lip first, gently acquainting me with the taste of perfumed face-paint. All I can think is that it's too gentle for my taste. I wrap my hands around the sides of his neck and claim him, lips, mouth, tongue ... I want it all and to my delight, he doesn't need convincing. We hold onto each other's heads like two drunk wrestlers, our mouths hungrily exploring, our heartbeats pounding in our ears. It's everything I need this kiss to be.

And then Isabeau shrieks again.

WC 1230 words
TWC 12157 words