IX: I Like Your Guts

After dinner, Angela had freshened up and changed into her nightgown. She didn't stay in her room—she wasn't ready to sleep yet—so she went down to the yard with Zayden, where a bow and arrow lay on a wooden stool, ten feet away from the target on the wall.

Angela drew the string back and released it, hitting the bullseye. She was acutely aware of the presence behind her. "At this rate, I could aim perfectly at a person," she chuckled, turning to see the cigarette between his lips.

"You sure could." Her eyes trailed up from his mouth to his face as he spoke.

"Do you want to try? You said you liked archery." Angela bit her bottom lip. She had always been a social butterfly, not particularly introverted, so there was no harm in talking to her bodyguard as if he were a friend, right?

"Alright." He flicked the cigarette butt to the ground, leaving the rest between his lips as he took the bow and arrow from her. His fingers brushed against hers in the process.

Angela watched as he positioned the arrow against the string, his stance relaxed despite his full six-foot frame. He drew back and released. The arrow flew to where Angela's had been, pushing hers away from the bullseye. "Wow." She chuckled, watching him turn to face her. "Nice shot. Now I see why you caught that arrow so easily."

"Right?" His lips curled as he handed the bow back to her. Angela took it, and Zayden tossed the finished cigarette to the ground, pulling out another from his pocket. He placed it between his lips, lit it, and took a drag.

"You really like smoking." Angela noted, raising the bow again, though her attention was entirely on the man beside her.

"I do," he admitted. It wasn't a crime nor a shame to smoke in Elyverde or any of the surrounding kingdoms he knew. "Do you?"

"My father would never allow it." She shifted her gaze from the bow to him. He turned, meeting her eyes.

Zayden removed the cigarette and held it between his fingers. He blew out a plume of smoke, a smirk playing on his lips. They stood less than three feet apart, the closest they had ever been. "Good girls like you don't smoke." He chuckled when her eyes widened.

Angela swallowed, the motion of her throat drawing Zayden's gaze. He placed the cigarette back between his teeth. She silently thanked the dark for hiding her flushed face, unaware that Zayden could see perfectly in the night and had been watching her closely. "I'm not a good girl," she said defiantly. "Care to share?" Her father would murder her in fifteen different ways if he ever found out she smoked, especially with her bodyguard.

Zayden's smirk widened, and he sighed. "I don't like sharing, but I don't mind since I have plenty." He pulled out the small rectangular box and offered it to her. She took one, placing it between her lips. She had watched him and knew what to do. Zayden lit the cigarette for her, and she took a tentative drag, exhaling a small puff of smoke. "Not bad for a first-timer. You take it so well." He chuckled, and Angela blushed. She wasn't sure if they were still talking about the cigarette or something else entirely.

Angela took another drag, mimicking his movements as she blew out the smoke. In her nineteen years, she had never smoked, and she knew her father would reprimand her, probably tell her to be more like Zara. But at that moment, she didn't care. She didn't care what he thought, what he'd say, or what he'd do. She was her own person, and she was mature, even if her father didn't think so. At least someone did—her bodyguard did.

"Your father said your mother died, but you don't believe him." Zayden finished his cigarette and tossed it aside. "Why?"

Angela bit her lip at his question, holding the cigarette between her fingers. He might think she was foolish for the answer she was about to give. "She didn't have a burial." She began, their gazes locked, blue meeting violet. "My father didn't hate my mother that much. She was his second wife, yes. They argued, yes. But they always made up, talked and laughed. Then one day, he went out with her, and he came back saying she was dead." She scoffed, lowering her eyes. Tears threatened to spill, but she held them back. "He wasn't sad. There was no grief, no remorse. He said it as casually as listing the four seasons of Elyverde. I was eight, not stupid. But he thought I was." She shrugged and looked back at him, her tears now contained. The wind ruffled her curly blonde hair. "Call it gut instinct, but my mother isn't dead. I know it. I feel it." Her eyes shone with determination, and Zayden's lips curved into a smile.

"Well, I like your guts."

*