Night. Quiet like it's guilty. Garden perfumed with someone else's roses. I'm standing there barefoot, toes in dewy grass, looking up at the damn balcony like it owes me money.
The moonlight catches on the iron railings, all swirly and pretentious. Silk sash tied to the balustrade like a leftover love poem. Ugh.
I kick off my sandals—stolen, obviously, I don't buy sandals—and grab hold of the rose vine climbing the wall. Because nothing says "subtle entrance" like climbing up someone's imported flora with thorns sharp enough to circumcise a goat.
Halfway up, I pause. A thorn catches the side of my thigh. Of course it does. "Shh, baby," I whisper to my own bleeding leg. "We're working."
I reach the balcony. There she is.
Lips like peaches. Eyes like syrup. Nightgown like a scandal.
She gasps. Not in a good way. Like she thought I was her knight in shiny ridiculousness. Sorry, sugarplum. Your brave boy is currently passed out in a puddle of ale and puke behind the Cock & Comet tavern, clutching a half-written love letter and probably pissing himself.
"Message from your beloved," I say, swinging one thigh over the railing with grace and just a pinch of indecency. "He sends his cowardice and deepest regrets. Also this note." I hand her the folded scrap. It smells like beer and fear.
She blinks. "Are you… are you the courier?"
I smirk. "I prefer the term 'romantic subcontractor.' But yes. He paid me a silver and half a sausage to climb your dad's murder garden and deliver that note. You should know he cried. Twice."
She opens it. Her brow furrows. "It's… very wet."
I shrug. "I think he sobbed on it. Or spilled mead. Or both. Look, I'm just here to climb things and ruin hearts. Mission accomplished?"
She looks at me. Really looks. "You're not what I expected."
I grin. "Baby, I never am."
Behind me, a dog starts barking.
Of course it does.
Minute later I'm perched on the balcony rail like some scandalous gargoyle, patting sobbing girlie on her frilly silk shoulder while she makes noises like a goat giving birth underwater.
"Yes, yes, honeybun," I coo, trying not to roll my eyes too visibly. "Men are all treacherous scum. Dogs. Worms. Misbegotten crustaceans who cry when they stub their pride."
She hiccups. "But he said he would duel Papa for me…"
I nod, solemn like a priest at a whorehouse confessional. "And then he met Papa's sword collection. And Papa's manservant with the scar. And the taxidermied heads above the fireplace. Honestly, sweetheart, I think he showed remarkable intelligence by pissing himself and fleeing."
She cries harder. Mascara—or whatever noble girls wear—dripping like black syrup down her cheeks. I hand her a scented handkerchief I stole from her own bedroom drawer just now. She takes it without noticing. Excellent.
"He said I was his moon sugar, his dawn biscuit—"
"Oh no," I cut in. "He said 'biscuit'? Girl, that's emotional manslaughter."
She wails.
"Look," I say, shifting so my bare foot doesn't slip off the damned ornamental griffin head. "He's not worth it. You're young. Pretty. Soft hands. You've got years ahead of you to get lied to by much hotter men."
She blinks through tears. "R–really?"
"Really. And honestly, you deserve someone who can handle a little casual patricide. Or at least climb a damn vine instead of sending me to do it." I wink.
A beat.
Then she throws her arms around me and cries into my shoulder like I'm her long-lost pillow. I sigh. Pat her again. Try not to look too pleased.
"You're very comforting," she mumbles.
"Darling," I whisper, "I'm professionally comforting. But also, if you don't let go in ten seconds I'm going to start charging by the sob."
Morning sun slants through gauzy curtains like the gods themselves want a peek. I blink awake. Soft sheets. Soft body. Arms tangled around me. Perfumed hair in my face. Not my usual wake-up setting.
And then—oh look—a sword.
Right there. Tip resting against the very middle of my chest, just between the boobs. Chill steel, sharp as regret.
Standing over me is what can only be described as a paternal thundercloud with eyebrows. Big. Bearded. Armored. And extremely displeased. The kind of displeased that has ended bloodlines.
Beside me, the girl stirs. Then sees him. Then squeaks. "Papa!"
She grabs the covers. I don't. I have dignity, not shame.
"This is not what it looks like!" she squeals.
I cough. "Okay, yes. It's exactly what it looks like. Unless it looks like I'm robbing her. Which I'm not. Yet."
The sword doesn't move. Neither do his eyes. They're locked on me like I'm a cockroach that climbed into his family tree. Fair.
"She was sad!" the girl blurts, clutching the sheet tighter. "And vulnerable! And—and she climbed the rose wall!"
I raise a hand, lazily. "Tore a thigh doing it, too. You should really trim your—"
He growls.
Louder than before. Lower. Less like a man and more like a siege engine warming up. The kind of sound that makes lesser beings flee and smarter ones pretend to faint.
The girl squeaks, "Papa, she helped me!"
"Yes," I say quickly, shifting in bed and trying not to let my voice crack. "I helped. Emotionally. Comforted her. Very tastefully. Mostly."
She turns pink.
He turns purple.
The sword dips. Not a jab—just a very pointed reminder that I am two inches from decorating the carpet.
"All right," I mutter, keeping very still. "We can all scream, or we can be adults and talk this over like scandalized people of quality."
Silence.
Then, in a voice far too bright:
"We could marry her!"
I turn my head so slowly I hear something in my neck pop.
"Excuse me?" I rasp.
"She climbed for me," the girl beams, like she's presenting me for adoption. "She said I was soft and sweet like honey on warm bread!"
I bury my face in my hands. "Gods. Never compliment a noble."
The old man steps back—not in retreat, but with purpose. The kind of movement generals make before issuing final orders.
"You," he says, voice thundering, "will restore my daughter's honor."
I peek out from between my fingers. "Sir, with all respect, I didn't break her. She's still very much functional. Possibly happier, too."
"You will be wed," he continues, ignoring me, "as is proper."
I blink. "Wait. We're still doing arranged marriage punishment in this century?"
He turns and bellows: "Guards!"
Oh no.
Boots thunder. Walls tremble. Two orcs stomp into the room like they've just been unfrozen from ancient war crimes. Matching vests. Matching scowls. Matching inability to process nuance.
"Escort the betrothed to the salon," Papa Bear intones.
One orc claps a hand the size of a shovel on my shoulder. The other reaches for the sheets.
"Touch the blanket and I'll bite you," I snap.
They pause. Exchange a glance. Apparently that still means proceed.
"Wait," I yelp, yanking the sheet tighter. "We're skipping the proposal? The ceremony? Consent?!"
"To be fitted for your bridal garments," he says, like a man announcing a siege plan. "Preparations must begin immediately."
"I don't even know her last name!"
"You will," he rumbles.
The girl waves. "It's Cindelwyth-Southern-Valebrook. Technically hyphenated. But we can drop the 'Southern' if it's too much."
I stare at her.
Then at him.
Then at the orc gripping my arm.
"Oh gods," I whisper. "This is happening."
"You should be honored," Papa Bear growls.
"I should be drunk," I mutter.
The orcs start marching. The girl claps delightedly. Papa Bear nods like he's just executed a flawless tactical maneuver.
I groan. "You people have a very strange definition of justice."
The orcs grunt in agreement. Or maybe just indigestion. Either way, I'm not walking—I'm being escorted.
To a wedding.
In a sheet.
Surrounded by war crimes in formal wear.
Send help.
Or wine.
Preferably both.
***
The next scene opens with me and the girl — who still smells like lavender and bad decisions — firmly planted in overstuffed carved chairs like we're rare vegetables on display. Two burly orc bodyguards stand behind us, each the size of a barn and twice as dumb, pressing down on our shoulders like they're afraid we might sprout wings and escape.
Spoiler: I would if I could.
Across from us, the father — Papa Bear Supreme — paces like a general preparing to besiege common sense itself. His armor creaks with every dramatic step. His mustache trembles with righteous indignation.
"Right," he begins, voice booming like someone trying to make a mountain blush. "We may have… a situation."
I nod slowly. "Yes. It's called you walked in on us naked."
He ignores me.
"My daughter," he says, gesturing vaguely toward the girl, "as you might have guessed, has always been a little bit curious in the love department."
The girl clears her throat, politely.
He grunts. "Very curious. Adventurously curious. Gender-flexible. Species-flexible. Once tried to elope with a centaur poet—"
"Papa!" she hisses.
"—I shot him in the hoof," he mutters. "The point is: finding a suitable suitor has been… challenging. But now—now! We have you."
He points dramatically at me.
I blink. "Me?"
"You, yes. The wench who scaled the wall, seduced my daughter, and stayed for breakfast."
"I didn't eat anything—"
"You will marry her."
The orcs grunt in unison. I think that means amen in dumb.
"Then," he continues, "you each produce an heir. Then you can divorce, if you must. But two grandkids. From each of you. Simple."
I open my mouth. Then close it. Then open it again. "I'm sorry, wait—one heir each?"
"Exactly."
He nods, satisfied with his logic, like he just solved world hunger with a stick and a stern stare.
I glance at the girl. She looks vaguely terrified and also kind of intrigued. "Don't look at me like that," I mutter. "You've seen how babies are made, right?"
"I read about it," she says, voice barely above a whisper.
"Oh gods."
Papa Bear folds his arms. "I expect a grandchild from both my daughter and my daughter-in-law. It's only natural."
I blink slowly. "That's… that's not how it works. We can't—"
"Why not?" he snaps. "There are stable boys, local scoundrels, bards… I'm sure you two know how it goes."
I stare at him. "Did you just casually outsource impregnation to random passersby?"
He shrugs. "Royal families have done worse."
"I'm not royal."
He grins. "Not yet."
I groan and drop my head back. The orc behind me pats my shoulder like I'm already in labor.
The girl beside me leans in, whispers, "Do you think we could choose the bard? The blonde one with the lute?"
I stare at her. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
She grins. "A little."
I swallow. "Right. Of course. Because nothing says justice like turning me into a walking succession plan."
I glance at him, then at the orcs, then very deliberately at the floor.
"…Just—when this inevitably goes wrong," I mutter, "don't look at me like I planned it."