Wicked Graces

Chapter Two

Much to Chancellor Benneit's dismay, Prince Sebastian Vael paced in front of Starkhaven's open wrought iron gates. Wringing hands clasped at the small of his back and head cocked toward the growing visage of two riders on the road ahead, the prince's stomach felt like twisted, rising dough—both airy and light, but equally agonizing.

His wife was only mere moments from meeting him after months apart. His wife. The years he spent sequestered in the chantry put all such thoughts from his mind, though Andraste herself knew the wickedness and impurity of his daydreams of the raven-haired rogue who aided him in avenging his family. He prayed a lot after he met Hawke, for guidance, for peace of mind and stillness of fluttering heart. Still, he never imagined those daydreams would come to pass. He was committed to the Maker's work, had given up all worldly ambitions, titles, and goods.

And then he met Hawke.

Aggravated in his pacing, he kept his eye trained on the distance and internally fretted over the number of ways the entire thing could go wrong before it ever even started.

Hawke always made him nervous. Since the moment he first met her in the chantry, still covered in dust and the blood of the Flint Company Mercenaries she made short work of in the Vael family name, the mere sight of her was enough to light fire inside him. A fire, Elthina used to say, would burn his soul to ash if he entertained its flames.

Elthina had been wrong about so very many things, things Sebastian himself still had trouble coming to terms with. The Grand Cleric, beloved as she was to him, was both stubborn and blind, and her refusal to take action despite the evidence brought before her cost the woman her life in the end. She would not approve of the course his life had taken after Anders decimated the chantry, but he could no longer sit idle while the world destroyed itself.

Hawke felt the same way. As a woman of action, she would not stand by and ignore injustice. She'd been right about the mages, on point about the Templars, and she tried to warn the Grand Cleric, but Elthina wouldn't listen. Hawke convinced him he could do more from a throne than he could ever do as a priest, and he believed her. So far she'd been right, but then she usually was. Still, she made him nervous at times. Her spirit was unpredictable, and she was easily provoked, but he understood how well he needed that kind of nerve in his life. She lit a fire in his soul, drove him to do great things, and together they would do so much more than rule Starkhaven.

Never had there been a woman more worthy of a throne than Marian Hawke. She liked to say she was hardly suited for it, but who better to watch over his people and stand beside him than a woman who lived to serve and protect. She could do with a bit more faith, but it would come in time; he was sure. All things considered, she was far more suited than she wanted to believe, and he would be the man to give her all she deserved; a throne and so much more. As she took her place beside him in Starkhaven at his coronation, any who opposed the validity of their union would quickly come to understand exactly who it was they rivaled.

His only hope was that she didn't kill anyone to prove her point. Her soul was already troubled enough.

His stomach lurched again, the nervous anxiety making him momentarily dizzy, but he composed himself as best he could and ignored the burn he felt in his cheeks as he contemplated how best to greet her.

Should he take her in his arms as he helped her from her horse, brush lips to hers in front of the Maker, Andraste, and all the kingdom? Would she be happy to see him? Of course she would. He wasn't sure why he fretted that. Every letter she sent since their separation three months earlier overflowed with as much fondness as it did naughty promise to do more than make him blush when next she saw him. The mere thought of her in his arms again, the slow, near-desperate writhing of their bodies in the dark reminded him of the heat that gave away his shame.