Page 31 of Bridget & Gabe Are Not Okay

“Whoa there, Llamrei,” Sir Leonard said, his hand shooting out to keep Bridget in her seat. “It’s not a crime to talk to the princess. Calm thoughts. Happy Bridget.”

Bridget was not happy. The ruddy-faced man was saying something to Gwen, frowning and earnest. The guards were watching intently, but hadn’t moved.

Bridget put down her wine. “I’m just going—”

“Happy, happy Bridget,” Sir Leonard said, in a singsong voice. “Think of something soothing. Imagine you’re picking up big rocks and putting them down again, you love to do that. Don’t you feel better already?”

Gwen didn’t look too concerned, beyond the general discomfort of speaking to a man who was absolutely, mistakenly sure that he was saying something interesting.

There was a shout from somebody on the benches, and Bridget glanced over, identified it as drunken tomfoolery, then looked back to Gwen—and found that the man had moved forward and was currently leaning across the table, his hand aiming for the princess’s shoulder.

Perhaps Sir Leonard tried to stop her; Bridget couldn’t have known. She was so focused on her destination that it felt to her as if she simply appeared there, her sword drawn, her body a wall between Gwen and the man who’d tried to touch her. The edges of her vision swam, but she did not waver.

“Hey,” said the man, his face reddening deeper. Bridget was holding on to his arm. Too tightly, perhaps, but that was up to interpretation.

“Leclair,” she heard Arthur hiss behind her, genuine alarm in his tone.

The blood rushing in her ears quieted enough for her to hear that the mood in the room had turned like a sore stomach. Shit.

“I was only talking,” the man said roughly, trying to wrench his arm out of Bridget’s grip. She found she wasn’t quite ready to let go. “Didn’t know you’d outlawedtalking.”

“Yes, thank you,” Gwen said, her voice cut like fine crystal. “That’s enough, Bridget.”

Bridget let go of his arm. She didn’t sheathe her sword until he’d stumbled backward and scrambled away, in the direction of his seat.

The room rallied slightly, but did not fully recover. When Bridget turned, a feeling of immense foolishness rising in her, she saw that everybody at the top table was watching her, Sirs Leonard and Bowen whispering with their heads together like two-thirds of an irritating chimera.

“May I speak with you for a moment,” Gwen said, not delivering it as a question. Bridget nodded, returned her sword to its proper place, and followed Gwen away from the dais and from the room. Her footsteps pounded in half-time with her jackrabbit heart.

In the stone antechamber, now empty, Bridget closed the door and leaned against it, shoulders braced in case someone tried to open it from the other side. It probably looked very casual. There was another door, but she didn’t have enough shoulders to block it. Where did it lead?

“I know what you’re doing,” Gwen said, looking pointedly at the door. Bridget straightened up slightly. “Look, you can’t go around—”

“He could’ve hurt you,” Bridget interrupted.

“We have guards.”

“And where were they?”

“Exactly where we told them to be, Bridget. Nearby. We can’t go everywhere bookended by armed stooges, it’s optically villainous.”

“He was too close,” Bridget said, looking at Gwen’s shoulder like it might have a big handprint on it, despite the fact that he hadn’t made contact.

“You were making a scene. We’re supposed to bebefriendingthe people, not assaulting them. And I notice you haven’t apologized.”

“Yeah?” Bridget shot back, too combative. “I noticed that too.”

Gwen paused. “What’s wrong? Are you… shaking?”

Bridget looked down at her hands. They weren’t shaking. Quivering, maybe. Just a bit.

“No.”

“Yes you are,” Gwen said slowly. “Bridget, what—?”

“Can I touch you?” Bridget said desperately. There was no thinking: just her stupid heart, still racing, and her empty hands. If she wasn’t going to stab someone, she needed to do something else with them.

Gwen considered this, then lifted her arms slightly. Bridget was so relieved by the invitation that she stepped forward into them. She was stiff and careful at first, not wanting to push her luck, but then Gwen let her head fall into the crook of Bridget’s neck, and Bridget pulled them both to the door so that it was no longer her job to keep them upright. She pressed her face into Gwen’s hair, so soft it felt like cold water against her cheek, and breathed in cut citrus and rosemary.