Her body is hot, the fabric of her dress sticks to her exposed skin. He peels her cloak from her shoulders, exposing the trickles of sweat glistening down her neckline. His kiss gently trails from her lips to her chest. A sharp gasp elicits from Cordelia’s mouth—her heart beats recklessly. Why did something so sinful feel so good? Why wasn’t she stopping him? If her schooling had taught her anything—it was that men’s advances meant nothing good—especially from dishonourable ones.

But, the man didn’t know she was a princess—the princess he was hired to kill. Cordelia forgives herself for her behaviour. Surely the religious text would permit this exchange—especially when it was a matter between life and death. His near revealed frame was distracting—he raised her hands above her head in an attempt to secure her. His loose bangs look tousled, adding to his charm.

<You are a fabulous kisser.>

Was she? No, Cordelia couldn’t look too surprised. That would kill the illusion.

<I told you I had a fiancé.> She scowls.

<You have no love for him?> He says, almost hopeful. <You seemed quite eager to lock lips with me.>

<Do not get the wrong idea.> She huffs, realizing she is still on her back, his weight still upon her. <I intend to be fully faithful to him. You might have gotten a kiss out of me, but hear my words—that is all you shall receive.> His brow is raised when he leans in as he kisses the nape of her neck. She does her best to prevent herself from shuddering, but it fails.

<Is that a challenge?> He murmurs upon her alabaster skin.

<Of course not!> She speaks in the crossest tone she can muster.

<If you were so happy, you wouldn’t have left home—now would you?>

He had her there.

<You were a lot more appealing when you were kissing me.> She says flatly.

<Oh, was I now?> His warm lips return to hers.

<If you give me back my satchel, I’ll allow this to proceed.> She doesn’t care if she’s pushing her luck—it’s the truth.

<For a mere kiss? I don’t think so.> His grin widens as his finger trails around her bustline. <It’ll require a lot more than that to get your stuff back—and as you said, you have a fiancé.>

Little did the thief realize that his teasing made her gut swirl in unfamiliar, yet pleasing excitement. He must have put a spell on her with those cursed violet eyes of his.

<What exactly would I have to do to acquire my things?> She pauses briefly, letting out a long-drawn sigh. <I presume I’d have to use my body in some shape or form.>

His mouth forms into an O shape, appearing surprised by her guess.

<I thought so.>

<Nothing gets past you, does it?> His grin is wicked. <I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what I’m interested in.>

Cordelia squeaks.<No, that is out of the question!> She stammers, her face beet red.

<And why, pray tell, is that?> His amused expression remains.

<Because I’m to be married!> It’s an odd sensation because she wasn’t lying—but she didn’t plan to return home. She would keep up the ruse even if it was only a means to protect herself.

<Well, if your soon to be husband is to bed you, why not get better acquainted with the act beforehand? I can teach you how to make him a lucky man.> His hand caresses her waist, idly pulling the tie of her dress. God, his voice is pleasing to her ears.

<I-I don’t need that kind of tutoring.> Her face is beet red, but she doesn’t push him away. He leans up, guiding her to his bare chest.

<If you’d just let me get a taste of you—I’d do anything you wish.>

As tempting as that offer was, Cordelia bides her time. If she escaped in broad daylight, she’d be carted home and forced to leave her kingdom to marry a man she hardly knew. She missed her window to escape—especially with the sun being so high in the sky. But, if she stayed in the cabin with this thief, she’s not sure if she’d have any virtue left to her title.

<I'm not hearing a no...> He leans in.

<You should count your blessings that you had the opportunity to lock lips with me in the first place.> She inches away.

<I expect nothing less from a woman of your standing.> He chuckles. <I can't wait to do it again.>

<You won't be, I assure you.>

The thief stands up, grabbing his clothes. He slips his vest over his bare chest, swiftly tying it up. <If you don’t mind me asking—why on earth did you run away from such a privileged life?>

<I didn’t run away.> She frowns heavily.

<I suspect that’s a lie. Or, you’d have not been so eager to lock lips with me.> His charming grin returns. <Did you run away because your parents forced your fiancé upon you?>

Cordelia’s eyes widen, briefly letting him know he’s correct. It’s a detail the thief doesn’t miss.

<I hardly know you—why do you think I’d be so quick to share my life secrets?>

<Well, you did kiss me—a man you just met, rather.> He chuckles. <Something tells me that time is not a factor in deciding who you trust.>

<Excuse me?!> She readies her hand to smack him, but he gently kisses it. Her skin lightly tingles from where his lips had been.

<I forgot to ask you your name.> He whispers.

<What makes you think you’re privileged enough to know?>

<There’s no need to be sour.> He raises a suspicious brow. <If we’re to work together, we need to be on naming terms.>

Not that she’d work for him, but she needed to distract him from her real identity somehow. There was a nickname, Delia, that her father called her—but that was too similar to Cordelia—which, was the name of the princess he was hired to kill.

<Dee—ly.>

<Deely?> He ponders, lifting his finger to his lips. <I never heard that name before.>

<It’s a very common name for nobles in Wellspring, so of course you never heard of it!> Her tone reflects her arrogance. <Don’t question it.>

He appears to fold his arms in suspicion. <Is it really? The name sounds oddly casual. I suppose I wasn’t expecting someone of your stature to have a bar maid name.>

Cordelia pretends to be offended—her fake scoff of disapproval hopefully wasn’t a dead ringer. She would do her best to forget responding to Cordelia—for now, she was Deely.

<What of yours?> She sticks up her nose. <A man of your manner and grace surely has a fitting name for his occupation.>

<I’m not liable to say—I’m a hired assassin. If I am to give you my name that would mean I trust you with my life. And my dear—as breathtakingly beautiful as you are…>

<You won't tell me.> Cordelia stands up, brushing off her satin blue skirts. <And if you must know of my past, I’m sick of my parents deciding what I can and cannot do.>

<What do you expect to accomplish by running away?> He curiously asks. She understands it’s a question, but it sounds like he’s judging her.

<I want to make my own decisions—which was working rather well for me until you showed up.> She narrows her eyes.

<There’s no need to look at me like that—I won't hurt you.> He sighs. <All I ask is that you help me find your princess.>

<Where do you think a princess lives?> She crosses her arms. <Not in the woods, I assure you.>

<I know where a princess lives, don't get smart with me. However, I’m sure a noblewoman of your stature has connections.> He smiles.

<What makes you think I will out my princess?> She sighs. <I want my things back, but what you’re asking me to do could peg me a traitor.>

<She's rumoured to be a taxing succubus—spoiled beyond her wildest dreams. Besides, I believe there were gathering celebrating her departure—because your folk were so eager to rid of her.>

<You will not call her a succubus! I will not tolerate such madness from a civilian who knows nothing about my princess.>

<Your loyalties are surprisingly strong. Is she a friend of yours?>

<No, but if she were—I’d be fortunate enough to have the honour of knowing her.>

He laughs, changing the subject. <If you’re not careful, I might just take you away from that fiancé of yours.>

<You don’t have a chance. It’s going to take a lot of convincing to sway my mind.>

<Your soft gasps tell me otherwise.> He almost appears pleasured when he recalls that thought. <I could live for those alone.>

<You're a brute.>

<If I was a brute, I’d have stolen your virtue.> He collects his things, placing them in a large sack around his waist. Cordelia doesn’t miss the daggers at his side—which, would no doubt penetrate her heart should she slip up and make her identity known. She needed to calm her temper. He was a trained assassin—he said so himself.

Twelve hours had passed since the two left the cabin. They had passed three towns on foot—which was tiring. They made frequent stops, eating at a local tavern—which she would encourage the thief to hand over her shillings as payment. With her cloak, no one had recognized her (thankfully). Her full stomach didn’t help her fatigue, however, and it showed that he's losing his patience with her. It wasn’t her fault—the thief claimed they weren’t lost—when he didn't where he was going.

Cordelia, exhausted, leans against a thick-barked tree, bemoaning how tired she is.

<I don’t understand why you’re dragging me so far away. This princess of yours lives in the Kingdom of Wellspring—if you have forgotten.> She grumbles.

<I already told you, I’m taking you to meet my comrades—back at headquarters. You know, The Sands.>

<You never told me we were heading there!> She stomps her foot. <I did not agree to go to St. Antilla!>

<You don't have a choice. I need a translator.>

Cordelia stiffens. She eyes the Inn up ahead, taking initiative by walking towards the stone building. <We’re staying here for the night. I’m tired!> She announces, not caring what the thief’s opinion is. <And you’ll be using those shillings to pay for it.>

Cordelia ignores his grumble as she opens the Inn doors—it looked to be a decent establishment to rest one’s head. Stone built with lined carvings beneath the windowsill—it might just be middle-class. The reception area seemed clean, ornate furniture present in the lobby. A painting of the countryside hangs by the wooden stairwell.

The ragged woman at the desk gives Cordelia a peculiar look. Her hair is brown and adorns wisps of grey—tied back in a loose bun. Did the attendant recognize her? Cordelia gasps in surprise. She had to make sure she wasn’t at all recognizable. She investigates the thief’s posture and slouches—similar to how he does.

Her eyes study the man beside her. “He looks like a ruffian. Are you sure you’re not in any trouble, miss?”

She was—but if she brought attention to them, they'd cart her back to the palace. She's not sure what's worse.

“No, no. He’s …my cousin. Long lost in fact!” She pats his arm as he stares at her in confusion. “He’s eagerly wanted to show me his homelands, and I was just so tired."

“Two beds then? That’ll be ten silver shillings each.” The older woman doesn’t seem to care for her story.

<Give her twenty silver shillings.> Cordelia instructs the man beside her. <We need to pay to stay the night.>

<How do I know you’re being trustworthy? You know I don’t understand Weltish.>

<For crying out loud, just give her the money.> She shakes her head as she faces the attendant. “He’s not familiar with Weltish, please forgive him.”