Aren Bellamore wants freedom, not fairy tales. Running the Raven’s Beak tavern and dodging marriage proposals is challenge enough—until a near-death encounter binds her to Prince Dietan. Cursed by the deadly Rings of Fate, Dietan is running out of time and enemies are closing in. To conceal his magic and survive a dangerous journey to break the curse, he needs a fiancée. Aren needs an escape. Their bargain offers both—until political intrigue, monstrous Kilandrar, and undeniable attraction complicate everything. As danger grows and pretend feelings turn real, Aren and Dietan must decide if risking their hearts could save not only themselves, but two kingdoms.
CHAPTER ONE: Aren
When you’re a barmaid, marriage proposals are a natural part of the job. A drunkard can find salvation in the bottom of a pint glass as easily as he can find love gazing across a bar. Luckily for me, I’m very good at saying no.
“Still no, Shep,” I say firmly. “Don’t you remember I turned you down yesterday?”
I set another tankard of ale on the bar and blink at the glassy-eyed farmer who just asked me to marry him for the tenth time this month. Will this jackass ever learn?
“Come on now. I’m serious, Aren,” he slurs. His black, beady eyes are unfocused and glassy. “What’re you gonna do with your life? Clean mugs all day? You’d be a good wife. You’re always a ’workin’. It’s time you settled down.”
This man exhausts me. Or is it all of the men in this town? In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more tired. I’m tired all the way to my bones.
And I’m only twenty-fi ve.
My shoulders sag as I sigh, long and deep. There’s no point in letting Shephard Belmis get to me. He’s a mouse to be toyed with, and I’m the cat.
His drinking buddy, another ruddy-faced farmer, slaps him hard on the side of his head. “Leave ’er alone, arsehole. You’re wasted. Lady’s already told you no several times.”
“This is your last chance! Marry me, Aren. Ye’d make a good wife and ma. With that sturdy—hic—back of yers. Sturdiest back in all of Evandale, and that’s saying something!”
The nerve of this bastard. Where’s the nearest cliff so I can promptly hurl myself off of it? I would rather die than marry a man who only sees me as a hardworking mule.
Without looking at the geezer, I fold my rag and set it neatly on the bar and prepare to bat around dear ol’ Shep. I lean my forearms on the sticky counter, prop my chin on my hands, and flutter my eyelashes.
“A sturdy back! Such a compliment! Please, tell me more!”
“Well, since the wife passed, my kids ain’t got no one to look after them,” he whines.
“No one? Aren’t you sitting right here? Unless you’re a…” I pause and then gasp for effect. “…a ghost!”
“Blimey! I’m not a ghost!” But he clearly questions his existence on this corporeal plane because he holds his hands up to hazy eyes to inspect them for a second. Once satisfied that he is, in fact, a living old meat suit, he continues. “I just don’t have those ca’bilities, you understand. Ain’t no one else can cook ’em warm meals or make sure they’s clothes is clean—hic. A man can’t be livin’ a life with no woman—hic. Ain’t natural.”
His buddy groans, having more good sense in him than ale, but Shepherd ignores him.
I slap my hand flat against my chest in fake surprise. “My goodness! I never thought of it like that. My heart—it’s beating so fast! You really know how to sweet-talk a girl. This is all so…so…unexpected!”
The things I would do for one—just one—proposal that doesn’t make me feel as sexy as a sack of flour.
Shep wobbles as he stands from his barstool and bows his head in a certain kind of reverence. His friend outright scoffs at this gesture. I can’t stifle a laugh.
“So, what do you say, my—hic—love? Will you do me the honor of… my wifely honor? My wifely becoming…to me?”
He stopped being totally coherent long ago, but I have to admire his conviction. Shep blinks his droopy eyes as his head bobbles. Sad sack is waiting for an answer.
I’ve had practice rejecting Shephard Belmis and countless other farmers high on liquid courage, but like I said, I’m fucking tired.
I’m tired of running this bar that I still try to find love for. I’m tired of being on my feet from morning to night. I’m tired of never having any time for myself, not that I ever did anyway. I’m tired of this small-minded town. I’m tired of my regulars. I’m tired of my family, as much as I love them. I’m so tired I could scream.
And Shephard Belmis? I’m most tired of him.
So, I’ve taken an extra step to fi x that tonight. I point to a wooden sign hanging behind me. Painted in neat black lettering, it reads:
BAR RULES
No spitting.
No bare feet.
No gambling.
No poisoning (knives and fists OK).
And last night, I hastily scrawled in one final rule.
No marriage proposals.
*If any of these rules are broken, patron must buy whole bar a round of drinks.
A sobering shock settles on Shep’s face as he reads the sign.
“Rules are rules, Shep,” I say with a smirk as I wipe a glass clean.
Vindication.
His drinking buddy nearly doubles over in laughter.
“She’s got ya, Shep,” he cackles.
“But, but—hic—I was serious this time,” Shep stutters between hiccups.
“So am I,” I reply, elated that I’ve bested him.
“You’d make a good wife and ma,” he rambles as I set down the clean glass and walk toward the end of the bar. “Who’ll have you—hic—but me!”
He really knows how to woo a woman.
I reach a rope and tug, ringing a heavy brass bell. The sound of it cuts through the noise of the tavern, an alcoholic’s dog whistle. The raucous din of the packed tavern quiets for only a moment, heads swiveling toward me.
I give them my best shit-eating grin. “Good news, degenerates! Next round’s on Shep!”
Everyone explodes into cheers, so loud it makes the floorboards shake and the glasses on the bar clink together.
I lean over the bar, close to Shep’s weathered face. Renewed hope flits in his eyes. He puckers his lips, expecting a kiss.
“I’d never admit it, but Goddess damn it all, I want more. I want the fairy tale, even if I know I’ll probably never get it. Just once, I’d like someone to see me for who I am, even with my smart mouth.”
Instead, I reach into his pocket and pluck out a silver stamped with the crest of Alarice. “That’s for the ale.” I fish out the remaining three coins. “And the rest is for suggesting the insult of marriage.”
His drinking buddy is crying tears of laughter now, and before Shephard can protest, I shove the coins into my apron. They land with a jingle against the rest stored there—just enough noise to remind me the night wasn’t a complete waste.
I look out into the crowd. The place is packed. Low benches and long, well-worn tables are crammed with too many bodies. Farmers and laborers sit shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee with merchants and artisans, all of them clinking mugs like they’re the best of friends. The Harvest Mother’s festival begins tomorrow, so the mood is high. Evandale doesn’t get many reasons to celebrate, with a backbreaking workday and the steep cut paid to the marquis, as predictable as the seasons. The very ale they’re drinking is the product of the farmers’ hard labor. I don’t blame them for indulging, even if it does turn the best of men into bumbling idiots.
“Need a six cupper,” Bonnie, my junior barmaid, interrupts my musing. She notices Shep, now completely passed out at the bar.
“Another proposal?” Bonnie asks, nodding in his direction. She’s a little breathless from running around doling out pints, her cheeks almost as flushed as the patrons’. “How many is that this week?”
“I lost count,” I say, pouring another mug. Bonnie stacks them high, like playing cards. She’s an expert at this.
“And you’d never consider it?” Bonnie asks.
“Marrying one of these clowns? No fuckin’ way. They’re not looking for a wife, they’re looking for a barmaid at home.”
“I heard the marquis himself proposed. Is that true?”
I let out an annoyed sigh. “That old perv asked me to be his mistress not his wife. Disgusting.”
“Can’t be that bad, can it? Close your eyes and think of Albion?” Bonnie jokes. “You’d be set for life even without a ring.”
A shiver runs down my spine. That slimy lech is literally one of the most repugnant people in town, even if he’s by far the richest. But isn’t that always the case? The asshole thinks he can buy his way into my pants. Gross.
I step back from the bar and gesture to my tired, formless gown, stained with beer and grease from the roast pork on the spit out back. Standard barmaid uniform. “I’d rather stay here forever than get anywhere near that man. Girl’s gotta dream there’s something more out there, right?”
The marquis might be chair of the town Chamber of Commerce, but I’ve kept my books clean and paid our dues on time from the moment my father handed me the keys to the Raven’s Beak. He’s got nothing on me.
“More? In Evandale?” Bonnie sputters out a laugh as she hefts the tower of mugs, expertly balancing them in her fists. “Good luck with that. And heads up. He’s here.”
“The marquis?”
“The very same,” she says, and I nod, thankful for the warning. She shoots me a meaningful look and heads toward a table of rowdy regulars at the far end of the tavern.
My shoulders relax, and I manage a rueful smile. Good ol’ Bonnie. With her pristine complexion and her ready smile, she’s all of seventeen and already betrothed to a successful farmer’s handsome son. She’ll be married soon enough, living a quiet life in a quiet town.
But Bonnie’s wrong. There has to be more out there. Is it so terrible to want something bigger out of life? To want the kind of love and adventure bards sing about? I’d never admit it, but Goddess damn it all, I want more. I want the fairy tale, even if I know I’ll probably never get it. Just once, I’d like someone to see me for who I am, even with my smart mouth. More than that, I want to fall in love. Not with a man I can flatten like a rolling pin over biscuit dough. I want a man who will stand up to me sometimes, who’s got a backbone and can shoulder some of the weight. Someone I can count on to have my back, no matter how sturdy it is.
May as well wish for the moon.
I shake my head. At least I’ve got the bar to fall back on, even if I’ll have to find a new barmaid soon.
Two mugs of ale in hand, I make my way between crowded tables to where I’ve been flagged by a couple of sellswords, their faces as sharp as their steel. They’re not from around here, but that’s not unusual. Evandale is at the crossroads of several popular routes, so we’re a prime spot for travelers to stop for the night—or longer, as they flee from more dangerous lands.
The sellswords don’t look up from their conversation as I serve their drinks. Apparently, the Usurper King of Penrith is hiring anyone who can lift a blade, but neither of these men is convinced the coin is worth the risk. If our King Elgar increases his soldiers’ hazard pay as he’s been promising, these men would rather sign up to defend Alarice. I’ve heard others whisper about the Usurper looking to expand his borders and make war against Loegria and Alarice, so there might be some truth to it.
I collect their empty mugs, keeping a mild, disinterested expression on my face, but they don’t even acknowledge my existence.
I’m used to being ignored. Patrons talking among themselves, keeping their voices low as I serve their drinks. They don’t think I’m listening, or simply don’t care if I am, because I’m a nobody. Barmaids couldn’t possibly care about the politics of Penrith, a kingdom half a world away. What harm would it do if I were to overhear? I’m used to being invisible, just another set dressing, and I like it that way. It’s way better than being proposed to, that’s for sure.
Extracted from Rings of Fate by Melissa de la Cruz, out now.
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