Hunted(47)

A smile crinkled the corner of his eyes. “I’ll love you forever,” he repeated.

Lyle Hargrowe, King of Tarlè, nodded approvingly from his throne, and the crowd cheered wildly at the final pronouncement of marriage between Ryon Amadeus Ward and Penelope Farris Ward—husband and wife. They didn’t get there through the Claiming Law as expected, but they did it themselves the olden way.

White flecks of paper confetti danced in the air, tossed up by the crowd, swirling with the wind gusts in beautiful patterns. A piece landed on Ryon’s head, one pale dot on his dark head of hair. Standing on her toes, Penelope pressed her lips to the heat of her husband’s mouth—yes, her husband—and plucked the paper from his hair.

“There, that’s better.”

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you look?” His expression was serious. A blush stole over her at his compliment.

“Ryon—” she hedged, biting her lip. She didn’t know what to do when he said such things. It made her feel silly and wonderful all at the same time.

He studied her reaction, then seemed to come to some conclusion. “Let’s get out of here.”

Her stomach dipped. She knew that look. He wanted her. This was hardly time.

“But…right now? We can’t. We have to stay for the party. It’s a celebration for us!”

They looked around at the arena packed with those who’d come to witness the ceremony. Their Claiming Ceremony had caused quite the stir after the Avagarians’ attack. Many had come to see them married properly since he hadn’t gotten the chance to claim her.

His shoulder lifted in a shrug. He did that often, she noticed. Just one of the many small details she loved learning about him.

“We’ll come back after we’ve finished.” He was already tugging on her hand, slipping her through the crowd of peering onlookers.

“Everyone will know.” Surely, they wouldn’t have enough time to perform to their equal potential if they went running off now.

“They are going to know anyway.”

Maybe she didn’t feel that reluctant.

She was married to Ryon Amadeus Ward, the General of the Tarlèan Army and hero to the people. And, more importantly, to the man she loved.

Since the attack on her by Lysse, she’d become a bit of a celebrity herself. People waved and smiled at her wherever she went; they talked about how brave she was. Penelope didn’t think she was brave. She saved that term for heroes like Ryon who did real work. Penelope had found herself in an uncomfortable position, and she’d had to battle to get out of it. Luckily, she had the help of Ryon, King Lyle, and the guards. Without them, she’d be dead.

“I think I can sneak us out the back through the balcony, then maybe find someplace quiet,” Ryon was saying, distracted.

She tried to get his attention, to stop him from pulling her away. But he was too lost in his own thoughts to hear her. Penelope wasn’t distracted and noticed when the king stood, obviously seeing them trying to make an escape.

King Lyle stopped before them, halting their escape.

Ryon did not look pleased. “Do you mind?”

“It’s your wedding celebration. You can’t leave, no matter how eager you are to consummate, friend. First we eat, then we dance, then we toast and drink. We eat some more, dance some more, and then, finally, when the night is late and everyone tipsy, you may take your leave. That is the tradition. After the attack, everyone could use a little celebration. Besides, we have to make up for the fact that Penelope never got to be properly claimed. Everyone was really hoping to see your fisticuffs with the duke.”

Penelope squeezed Ryon’s hand. “I think that sounds like an amazing time. I would love to stay and celebrate.”

Ryon looked down at her. Maybe it was seeing that she meant what she said but he nodded, even though it looked like it pained him to do so. “Fine, let’s eat.”

“And dance,” she piped in.

He grimaced.

Penelope learned as the day progressed that her wedding day was easily the best day of her whole life. She and Ryon were seated at the king’s table—something she’d never experienced in all her days. She and her sisters came from common stock. They knew it, and had no qualms about it. Their parents had instilled in them at a young age not to want after those with the most—that it was a dead-end cause in which you’d forever crave more and forever be left feeling empty. It had been a dark lesson, but one she’d taken to heart.

To sit at the king’s table was an honor unto itself. Only special guests were invited. Their goblets of wine and cups of water were kept full as the night raged on and the people of Tarlè danced to the lively music and swayed to the slow songs.