For The One(8)

“No one should ever be that desperate.”

My hackles rose. I couldn’t help it. “That’s easy for you to say.”

His face clouded. “It’s not easy and it’s not hard. It’s just a fact.”

“It’s your opinion.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’ll get your item back. What is it?”

Oh goddess, this was embarrassing. I was making a big deal out of a tiara. I could see the princess jokes coming, but no one knew what it really meant to me. It was a symbol of something I’d lost and could never get back. It was mine when so little else really was.

“It’s a…it’s jewelry,” I hedged.

“Okay. I’ll speak to Doug now.”

“That’s not going to help. He won’t budge. I was hoping you might go to the clan elders.”

William appeared to think that over. “I’ll speak to Doug,” he repeated, then turned on his heel and headed back the way I had come—straight for Doug’s tent.

Oh shit.





Chapter 2

William

I’m winding my way between tents and encampments. On my right, there’s shiny cookware, all period authentic, set around a stone-ringed fire pit. Atop the ring is a metal spit that I worked on last year in my own smithy. On my left, there is a weapons rack with a boastful display of wares for sale. In the next camp over, Ginny is laying out her homemade jewelry, hoping customers will wander over from the battle ring.

I can smell the preparations for lunchtime wafting over from the eating area. The food is cooked traditionally and authentically to the period, as much as possible. Our weekend outing is just getting started, and I’ll have blacksmith orders coming in the entire time. It will be a busy few weeks in my workshop.

But right now I’m not thinking about that. I’m thinking through the words I want to say to Doug. With each step I take that brings me closer to his tent, another phrase or sentence comes to me. It’s always easier for me in conversations when I’ve prepared most or all of what I need to say beforehand. Or with written notes. That’s often best, but I have no time to do that now.

Jenna’s been tagging behind me the whole way, interrupting my thoughts, trying to stop me from talking to Doug for some reason. I’m ten feet from his tent when she clamps both of her thin hands around my wrist in an attempt to yank me around to face her. If I were to train her how to fight, I could show her how to do that properly. My eyes dart to her hands—specifically, her wrists. She has the most delicate wrists. Elegant. Like a swallow’s wings. I hesitate, but I don’t look up.

I can’t look in her eyes. And I hope she doesn’t ask me to.

“Wil—stop.”

She called me Wil. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I frown for a moment, still studying her hands. Her long fingers are digging into the muscles of my forearm. She holds me firmly, and I like that feeling. I usually don’t like being called by nicknames, or being grabbed by people. But this is different. This feels…special. Like how holidays and birthdays are supposed to feel, yet how I never feel on those days.

“Jenna,” I say quietly, though I’m confused and I don’t know exactly what I want to say until the words are vocalized. That unsettles me. “Let me be your champion.”

She’s silent for a moment and I chance a look at her face. I’m relieved to see she’s not looking at me. She’s looking down and her mouth is open…like she’s trying to breathe. Slowly, she lets up on the pressure on my arm, and I pull it back and away from her. I’m regretting it even as I’m doing it.

Something in my throat makes it hard to swallow. My eyes catch on the strands of Jenna’s pale blonde hair trailing in the breeze. She’s so beautiful.

“Be careful, okay?” she says.

I laugh. “I’m not afraid of Doug.”

She blinks and looks up at me, and I barely have a second to avoid the entrapment of her stare. I know if she catches me, I won’t be able to look away. I’m more afraid of that than I am facing Doug and his six best friends without my armor on. My heart is pounding. It’s a narrow escape. This time.

I turn and head for the door of Doug’s tent. It is poorly made to vaguely resemble something from the period, but it’s nothing next to my pavilion-style tent. The fabrics he’s used are not authentic, and it appears as if he does not care. I’ve noticed that the only thing he does care about is fighting—and winning. There is no other interest in the period for him. He spends very little time acting as part of the community or helping younger fighters rise up through the ranks.