Loving the Forbidden Prince

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ETAN

Trystan was a good man, Etan knew that. He was a good man, and she could be trusted with him. He would not hurt her or force her to anything. He even showed care for the other men in the marriage market, though few showed thoughtfulness of him and his wellbeing.

Etan liked him, he reminded himself.

But when Trystan kept staring at her with such intensity that her eyes shone despite the clear tension she was feeling, when he said something and she threw her head back and laughed… he almost climbed out of his own skin. Watching her in another man's arms, watching her be courted… it was going to drive him insane!

Then the music began to slow, and Trystan brought them to a halt, then offered his arm to walk her to the edge of the dancefloor. He cut an expressionless look at Etan but didn't walk towards him, just led her to the end of the open space closest to her parent's table. Etan ground his teeth. He knew he shouldn't ask her to dance, but he wanted to get close enough to hear her. Her tension was now mixed with shock and humor—and he wondered what had brought it about. Was she simply tired? Or was there something else?

He stood there, seething, as a handful of men hurried towards her the moment Trystan left her side. The urge to go to her—especially when one of them startled her by standing too close—was overwhelming. But he knew it was too much of a risk. He would watch for her. He would make sure none of these pricks did anything to hurt her. But otherwise, he would stay out of her way.

And he kept that vow to himself through six—six!—more dances.

Until Lord Isolde stepped up and offered his hand.

He was a wickedly handsome man, three years older than Etan—himself one of the oldest, unmarried Heirs at the Festival—and he was an utter snake. A very intelligent, very strong snake. And Etan could sense Ayleth feeling nervous and disturbed, from the moment she took his hand.

Etan stood, feet planted and hands open where he could reach his sword if he needed to. Ayleth's body language—which had been mostly boredom and forced humor, except when she danced with Trystan—changed. She seemed to recoil from the man, though her manners were too perfect to openly show it. But he could see it, how her head pulled back slightly further than necessary. Her shoulders leaned slightly away.

And the way her face tensed when he pulled her in tight against him for the turns.

Etan was almost trembling.

"Do not do anything unless she indicates discomfort," Borsche stood beside him, murmuring through unmoving lips.

"She already indicates great discomfort."

"She will not appreciate you jumping in to save her from something she can handle."

"She shouldn't have to handle everything herself," he hissed. "Her father should be weeding through these… these…"

"Don't say it, Etan. These men are your peers and will be your allies and enemies your entire life."

"They are also cads and selfish brutes, and I will not see her put in a position where she is in danger, simply to make the men feel better."

"She's in the middle of a crowded ballroom, Etan. She would be in more danger alone with you at the stables."

"Take that back." He whipped his head to look at Borsche, who shrugged, then looked back to her.

She was still deeply uncomfortable, but the man was a good dancer and it was clear she wasn't actually in fear. So, Etan shifted his weight, but didn't move.

Then a movement beyond them caught his eye, and he found Falek, prowling the other side of the dance floor, staring at her—but also at Etan.

A look passed between them that Etan thought he must have misunderstood—the man couldn't possibly—

But just then, the odious Lord Isolde and Ayleth were passing on Etan's side of the dancefloor and the man pulled her into a turn—and as he did so, his hand slid to her backside and he gripped her there, grinding her into his hips as they turned, and his cheeks flushed.

"Rutting pervert!" Etan hissed and stormed onto the floor.

Three steps in, Ayleth saw him coming and her eyes widened, but he was locked on the man whose grip she was unable to dislodge without making a scene—and the way he saw her knuckles white on the man's shoulder.

Well, he would make a scene for her. Make no mistake.