Page 42 of Spar of Hearts

His heart pounded in his chest like he was charging into battle. He knew her lips would taste incredible right now.

He pinched his wrist between two nails. No! He had to snap out of it. Anya just started talking to him again. He couldn’t mess this up. The mission! Think of the mission! Everything would go faster if they got along.

“I’m, uh, wondering why you’re in the kitchen by yourself at this hour.” He surveyed the space. It was positively a mess—shards of ceramic scattered across the floor, blue stains on the counter, and, to his surprise, a barrel of ale pried open, clearly with claws.

Dear lord.

The Princess was three sheets to the wind.

“I can go where I please,” Anya slurred, grabbing a mug off the counter. She dipped it into the barrel beside her, sloshing ale onto the floor and her dress.

“Oh, Anya, what did you do?” Roderick raced over to the barrel and peered in. It was nearly a quarter gone. They hadn’t even broken it out for the crew yet. There were plenty more barrels, but this meant she’d drank nearly six mugs’ worth.

Anya stared at him with confused brows, mouth slightly parted, not comprehending his question. Her spectacles were dotted with dried ale. She blinked like she was seeing him for the first time.

“You. Why are you here? I don’t want to see you!” She took a hearty swig and tapped the mug down. “I came here to get away from you!”

He sat on the floor, tapping his head against the barrel. “You’re drunk, Anya.” A smile tugged the corners of his mouth. A real one. It felt foreign on his face.

“Oh, thank the moon, you called me Anya,” she sputtered. “Never call me Princess again. I loathe it. Princess, Princess, Princess.” She practically shoved the mug onto her face and chugged, then slammed it down on the counter beside her.

“I hate this thing.” She stuck out her tongue, pulled the golden ring off her finger and skipped it across the counter. Her wide, wolfish pupils watched it with comical intensity as it swiveled in a circle until it finally stilled.

“You said it means trouble. What is going on? Who’s making it hot?”

A devilish grin crossed her face. “I’ll answer if you drink with me.”

“Fine. But you’re cut off. It’s my turn.”

She dipped the mug into the barrel and handed it to him. He took a generous sip and set it on the floor. “There. I drank. Tell me what you meant by trouble.”

“My stupid cousin.” She shoved her head into the barrel, tapping her claws on the sides. Her words became echoed within it. “He wants to be King. He thinks he’s sooooooo much better than me.”

“Count Scorer?”

She pulled her head out. “Yes. That mangy mutt is probably telling everyone what an unfit, crazy bitch I am. Or—” She reached for the mug with grabby claws.

“Ah-ah.” He swatted her hand. She looked down at him with a pouty face. “You’ve had enough. This is mine.” He took another drink. “Or what?”

Her eyes were starting to glaze over, but she continued, “Or he’s telling people what a disgrace I was during the evacuation. You”—she pointed an accusing claw at him—“did evvvvverythinggggg. Made me look like a bad leader. Now I’ll never be Queen.”

“What?” He’d never considered Anya not becoming Queen. He knew linear succession wasn’t always the case. But the only times he’d heard of that happening was when the monarchs didn’t have a child. But the Delemonds did; a beautiful, smart, and tenacious one at that. They’d be fools to appoint anyone but her.

“They think I’m,” she hiccupped, “irresponsible. Emotional. And stars, when I’m with you I’m at my worst. Maybe they sent me on this expedition so I’d go crazy and prove them right.” She slumped over the barrel, hiding her face inside.

Shame slammed into him like a hoof to the gut. He hadn’t considered for a single moment that his attempts to assist her during the evacuation had actually harmed her. If he was the reason she was passed over as her parents’ successor, the weight of guilt would surely suffocate him.

He tried to console her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”

Anya pulled her head out of the barrel. “You nevvvvverrrr realize. Not even when something is right under your nose.” She grinned and leaned down, strumming his nose with a finger. This was quite possibly the most he’d seen her smile since, well, ever. It was endearing to see her so relaxed, even as she spouted her anxieties. It seemed to help him relax too. But perhaps it was the alcohol settling in.

He set the empty mug down and sighed. One of them needed to keep their wits about them. “I’ll stay with you until you’re presentable enough to walk to your cabin.”

She crossed her arms and huffed like a petulant child. “I’m always presentable!”

“Prove it.” He stood and took a step back. “Walk straight to me.”

“All right…ugh…First I need to take these damned things off…” She yanked a boot off, revealing her pale bare feet and dark pointed nails. She struggled with the other one. He fell to a knee and held the boot, slowly working it off for her. “Confounded cages of fashion,” she muttered.