She was still beautiful in the candlelight.

Every night Brand thought so. He kept waiting for his feelings to change. To get tired of watching Seri’s hands flutter across the chess board, hovering over the pieces, never quite touching them. To get bored of the way she bit her lip, right before she moved her queen in for the attack. To disdain the way she scowled when he knocked out her king, not a fatal move in this game, but one that annoyed her nonetheless.

“I’m going to beat you,” she said.

“We’ll see.”

He still wanted to kiss her.

Maybe not a long, passionate kiss. Not right now. The trust between them was too bruised. But he did fantasize about giving her something, a perfect, wonderful gift, and watching her smile. He’d tell her, “I’m sorry,” and she’d say, “It’s all right.” Then she’d lean over and kiss him.

He didn’t say sorry.

And nothing was all right.

Because they were locked in this chessboard of black and white, pitting their wills against each other, this night, every night. They argued and fought, he threatened her, she prayed for his death, and still, he wanted to kiss her.

This night. Every night.

“I’m leaving, tomorrow,” Brand said, knocking out her pawn.

“Oh?” she replied.

“Just for a little while. I’ll be back soon.”

“I know,” Seri said. “You always come back.”

* * *

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

There was a wedding going on. Manservants—or maybe they were relatives—set out a large table out on the courtyard, girls in their best dresses braided their hair, and women made flowers into bouquets. Brand shifted the rug on his back, felt the pressure of the lute’s neck in his hand. Stealing the bride from her own wedding. That was low, even for him.

Petronille of House Delmen. That’s who he was after. She didn’t even have a proper castle; no blood magic to protect her. It had been easy to sneak in wearing the guise of a wandering minstrel. It would be easy to steal her away.

Did he need to, though? Brand tuned the strings of his lute. Even if Petronille was the secret granddaughter of his enemy, would he derive any satisfaction from punishing her? What if he turned around and left? Nobody could stop him.

And then what would he do?

Go home, to where Seri was, and let her go, too. Send Gretchen back, close up his tower, stop kidnapping girls altogether. Resign himself to his fate. Brand couldn’t imagine stopping. This was his life. Vengeance was all he had.

He saw her. The bride.

He’d cast a simple seeking spell, so he knew it was her. Petronille was not dressed in her wedding finery. Instead she wore a simple pale dress. In the morning fog, she seemed a wraith, sneaking out the back door, alone. He followed her. She was slim and willowy, her hair a fine blond. Petronille ran to small orchard by the side of the house, collapsed at the root of an apple tree, and wept.

Brand approached slowly. “Miss?”

She jumped.

“Oh,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I didn’t see you there.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ve been looking for the bride, to serenade her with my song.”

“I am the bride,” she said.

“But why are you crying?”

“Because the man I’m to marry… I hate him! He’s cruel and ugly and mean.” Petronille cried harder. “But I must marry him. My father says I must—for the sake of the family. I wish I could run away. I wish I could leave this place, go somewhere far away, be free.”

Brand unrolled his rug.

“I am sorry for your sad state. Please, let me comfort you with my music. Sit on this rug, and I will play you a song.”

Still sniffling, she sat.

Brand’s talent did not lie in music. His singing was dreadful, his playing was worse. But Petronille was so lost in her own misery, she didn’t notice. She pressed her hands over her eyes and sobbed so hard her shoulders shook. While Brand warbled a song of two star-crossed lovers—the only one he knew—he slowly lifted up the rug and pushed it into the sky.

He stopped playing.

Petronille wiped her eyes. “Thank you. That was…”

She finally looked around. She blinked.

“We… we’re flying?”

“I’m taking you to my tower,” he said.

“You’re rescuing me?”

Rescue. He liked that word. Brand smiled.

“Yes. Yes, I am.”