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Hunted(29)

By:T. A. Grey


The time was here for her to go to the arena where the Claiming ceremony would take place. She would stand at a podium near the king as the contest began. Any contestants wishing to fight for the right to claim her as wife would come forth.

Ryon would be one of those stepping forward. For her. The anxious nerves that fretted around in her belly did nothing to ease her anxiety. What if he lost? What if other spectators tried to fight for her? There was so much that could happen, so much out of her control. She could do nothing but play her part today. Like a role that must be filled.

One thing she knew perfectly. Ryon would fight for her, and Ryon would not lose. Tonight she would be his and he would be hers. Tonight they became one. Years of passion and quarreling combusting during one magnificent event.

Penelope followed the written instructions given to her by the king’s steward, searching for her room at the arena. The whole kingdom seemed to be in attendance, their cheers and shouts of celebration rang through the hallways.

Her sisters, Priscilla and Phoebe, were of great help that morning, dressing her in the ceremonial snowy, linen gown. She looked beautiful in it. Along with that she wore a braid of baby’s breath flowers around the crown of her head, and, strapped to her thigh was the ceremonial, silver dagger that had been her mothers. The woman always wore it during the Claiming, in an act of submission, after the male fought for her, she would hand him her blade. An act of trust.

“You’ll be turning heads in this!” Phoebe gushed.

Priscilla, watching from nearby, nodded hauntingly. “You look like mom.”

Their parents had perished in an Avagarian attack years ago. The pain still lingered in her heart thinking about her mother and father.

“You should smile,” Phoebe was saying. “You’re going to be the first of the Farris sisters to settle down and marry.”

“Yes, well excuse me for not leaping for joy. I didn’t think I’d be the first,” Penelope admitted, fiddling with the soft material of her gown.

No, she wasn’t leaping for joy, but she was looking forward to the Claiming far more than she’d expected.

But something bigger had been nagging her.

She had yet to see or hear from Ryon.

Why’d he have to leave in such a rush last night? Something had to be wrong. In fact, something was wrong. She could feel it in her gut as certain as she knew she loved Ryon Ward.

She slept fretfully last night after Ryon left with that messenger in such a rush. She’d flopped side to side for most of the night, drifting in and out of dreams of her running from a beastly creature she couldn’t see. It’d shaken her up. In fact, she still didn’t feel fully back to her senses. Some niggling warning lingered in the back of her mind like poison.

She didn’t know what it was, but she knew one thing for certain.

Something was wrong and it had to do with Ryon.



* * *



The Duke of Gaines marched down the stone corridor of the arena with determined strides. Peasants and the like rushed to move out of his way, lest he shove them aside with his hurried pace.

No one was stopping him today. He was going to get what he wanted. And what was that?

First, and foremost, he wanted Penelope Farris. She was a beauty; she could make him laugh, which few people could do. She was talented and had a kind-hearted soul. She would serve well to bear heirs and offer him some modicum of satisfaction in life. He deserved as much. Didn’t he?

A flashback came back, struck him still, his feet rooting to the ground. The mob around him gawked at him, walking carefully around him trying not to touch him. It didn’t matter if they had bumped into him. He wouldn’t have noticed. He was gone. Lost in a time long ago. Locked in the memories.

The memory flooded him, taking him right back to his family home. He hadn’t been back to that miserable house, save for mandatory business calls, in seventeen years.

He stood in his family’s parlor with his father—who was deep into his cups, deeper than usual. Richard Gaines had a terrible temper when he drank. Everyone hated it when he took to the glass, no one more so than Patrick. His father wore a permanent sneer on his hollowed-cheeked, pale face. You could see the blue veins in his temple peeking out from his whitewashed skin. Quite tall, his father’s thinness displayed his stark collarbone, bony wrists, and sickly shallow veins.

His seventeenth birthday garnered him no special gifts. No wrapped presents sat at the foot of his bed come morning. All he received came from his mother. Or, rather, the cook who she’d had bake it. It had been a small cake, the kind that could fit in your palm. When he bit into it, cream gushed into his mouth like sweet custard.

His father had made no mention to him at the supper table about his birthday. No acknowledgement.