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“Father, he?—”
“A demigod.”
It was Clara’s turn to lift a brow as she flicked her warning gaze in Bronze’s direction. It was one thing to throw her father’s arrogance back at him but to lie so boldly about something so significant?
The king folded his arms over his barrel chest. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“Who is your sire, then?”
“An unknown mortal male. My mother is Saulé, celestial goddess of the sun.”
Every lycan in the room held a collective breath. She had never heard of such a goddess, though she never had a cause to study cultures that did not have a connection to lycanthropy in some way. When she read the uncertainty on the others’ faces, however, it was clear they hadn’t an awareness of such a goddess either.
Which meant her father likely had no knowledge of the subject.
Oh, this would not go over well.
Clara waited in no way patiently to see how he would react.
“And you, it would seem, are also the great coyote killer of the Northeast. Judging by your injuries, it was not so easy a takedown, I gather.” King Halpin’s steely gray eyes roved over Bronze’s form but held neither a note of approval at Bronze’s supposed victory nor disgust that the male who allegedly saved his daughter was not of lycan blood. It was the usual mark of her father’s indifference to her existence, perhaps worsened slightly due to Bronze’s blood collecting on the king’s rug.
“I overheard what my daughter declared. I take it you wish to see to your wounds and collect some form of reward for your efforts.” The last words were spoken with such belabored annoyance that Clara could no longer contain her ire.
If her first small act of rebellion had been fleeing in the night to the human lands, then each act would only snowball from there, surely. Wasn’t that how stubbornness worked?
She didn’t know where it came from, but that gripping thought struck her hard and dug its heels in. What would happen if I kicked that snowy clump down the mountain? “Actually, Father, Bronze is here to compete for my hand.”
The king’s eyes shot to hers, and her muscles went rigid. A flush of anger rose up and colored the king’s complexion a deep crimson. Whether it was for speaking out of turn or the actual words she’d said, she wasn’t sure. Either way, she was over it. It wasn’t like she’d been given many turns to speak her mind anyway.
If she had any hope of rebuilding what the avalanche of her actions sought to bury, she’d need her snowball to gain momentum.
There’s no turning back now.
When her father didn’t immediately respond, however, she took advantage of the silence to stake her claim. “I’m aware that you’ve made a betrothal arrangement on my behalf with Lord Raff from the western territories, but I should like to propose another alternative.”
“You should like?”
Three words. They were three simple words, but they were the most her father had said to her directly in over a month. She tried not to let the pain of it show and barreled through.
“I should more than like, actually.” She lifted her chin and made damn sure to address everyone in the room except her father. “I deserve to have a say in my own future and, more importantly, the future of the northeastern lycans. Therefore, with your advisors and counselors as my witnesses, I am calling for the formal enactment of the Betrothal Games. This male, Bronze, has proven himself worthy to me and, as such, is who I choose to serve as my champion in the games. As king, you have the right to select the other two competitors as you see fit.”
Clara didn’t bow. She didn’t drop to her knees or lower her eyes or make herself appear as if she didn’t deserve to have just as much of a say in her future as the males around her.
But she would wait, and as the silence stretched on, the echo of her words seemed to grow louder with each heartbeat.
Odd. She expected shouting, fist banging, even a thrown object or, worse, a physical blow of misplaced anger aimed at an advisor or two. Perhaps a shift to wolf form in a display of dominance. The laugh that burst forth from her father, however, took her entirely off guard.
“Betrothal Games,” the king bellowed once he’d managed to collect himself. “If it comforts you to think of such a thing as a game, then by all means, call it what you must. I prefer to think of it as strategy, mind you. Your mother, were she still alive, would agree with me. There is only so much one territory can do to thrive without the benefits of trade and expansion.”
Seeming to remember himself and who he was in the presence of, her father carefully softened his features and came out from behind his desk. “Now,” he said, laying his hands on her shoulders, “what’s all this nonsense about games? You are nearly a century old, Clara. Far out of your youthful years. The time for fanciful daydreams should have been left in the past. Look, I can understand your nerves as much as anyone, especially after meeting this—Bronze, was it?”
The angel stood silent. Only Clara seemed to notice the tense tick of his jaw and the shards of citrine-colored ice that flashed between blinks.
“Um, Your Majesty, if I may.” One of the king’s high advisors—Pascal, if she recalled correctly—stepped forward. “The lady is not wrong.”
“What?” the king gritted out.
