Capturing Iris (Beasts of Ironhaven Book 3) Page 2

  I cleared my throat and swallowed hard, trying to shake it off. He wasn't the first male I'd ever been attracted to and wouldn't be the last. I needed to focus on what was important.

  Excelling and dominating today to prove my worth to my sister. Drooling over handsome men wasn't going to help me meet that end.

  I turned back toward the archers, still feeling a little warm under the collar, as I continued down the line.

  There were a couple other unfamiliar faces. A smallish male with burnished orange hair and freckles, and another with golden hair who was also quite attractive and very well built. I quickly pulled my gaze from him, steadfastly avoiding both him and the male who had made my knees a little shaky, when Anaya's voice rang out.

  "All right, everyone! It's time to begin. I'd ask for silence while the archers take their marks and begin shooting. Once the shots are completed, you may applaud and whoop and holler for your favorite," she added with a grin. "In fact, I encourage it. Archers, ready?"

  All ten of the competitors lifted their bows at the ready.

  "Aim!" she commanded, triggering the archers to lift their bows and draw back the string, pressing thumb against cheek as they sized up their target with one eye opened.

  The tension was so thick, the anticipation so keen, it was like the entire city held its breath as it waited for the Queen's final command.

  "Fire!"

  I watched on as the arrows soared through the air. The sound of arrows piercing wood echoed through the field and I quickly assessed the results.

  One misfire--a soldier named Dean Kelly had broken his string, a fate that had him swearing roundly under his breath--but the rest had all hit their intended target. A few weren't close to the bull's-eye at all, but three were looking mighty fine. The golden-haired male grinned broadly as he realized his shot had squeaked into the red circle in the center, and Farell had hit it as well. But it was the dark stranger who had really nailed it. If I squinted, I might be able to say he was half an inch short of dead center. Even that might have been selling the shot short, though.

  It was an impressive shot to be sure.

  You'll just have to do better, then.

  I straightened my shoulders and lifted my chin, and I tugged the bow from over my shoulder.

  "Fine job," Anaya called over the clapping and stomping of the crowd. "Next round of competitors, please make your way to the front to get your number and then head out to the spot in front of the corresponding target. First row, step back."

  A young boy rushed onto the field and handed each of those of us oncoming a piece of parchment.

  I unfolded mine and saw a number scrawled across it.

  Eight.

  I lifted my gaze and scanned the targets, mentally counting down the line and stopping at the eighth one. A relieved sigh burst from my lips as I realized I would be competing against Farell. He’d hit the bull’s-eye but barely, which meant at least I didn't have to attempt to sneak an arrow around the one the male next to him had shot close to dead center.

  "Aw, bloody hell."

  I looked to my right to see Stephen Miller's face scrunched into a wince.

  “You got seven?" I asked with a grin.

  "Naturally," he muttered, toeing a rock with the tip of his booted foot as he balled up the parchment and stuffed it into his pocket. He regarded me for a moment and, never one to stay morose long, his face lit up with mischief. “Oy, you have an in with the Queen. Maybe talk to her about switching me up, yeah?"

  "Sorry, pal. No can do. I swore I would never use my position for ill. Besides, if we're being honest, the only one you had a hope of beating was poor Dean Kelly, and even that wasn't a given."

  Stephen shot me a mock glare and then shrugged. "Eh, so be it. Who knows? Maybe some pretty lass out there will see how wronged I was and take pity on me. Draw me to her bosom for some comfort, if you know what I mean," he added with a broad wink.

  The banter had settled my nerves some, and for that I was grateful, so I didn't shoot down his hopes.

  I stuffed my parchment into my pocket and made my way over to my station. I'd gotten about halfway, with Stephen trailing behind me, when the male at target number seven came into view, walking my way.

  My hands went slick with sweat as I took him in full on and up close.

  Don't say anything. Just keep your eyes in front and walk, one foot in front of the other.

  But every step I took, closing the distance between us, seemed less and less sure. I had the inexplicable desire to wheel around and run in the other direction.

  Which only served to piss me off.

  Perfect. I held on to that feeling as he approached, his gait even and purposeful.

  "Nice shot," I managed with a curt nod.

  His step didn't falter as he cocked his head, those green eyes seeming to drill into my very soul.

  "Nice shot would've been dead center," he replied evenly.

  As he passed me, his bicep brushed my shoulder and I shivered as a rush shot through me. It was like I'd touched lightning itself. The skin on my arm broke out in gooseflesh and I had to call upon every ounce of self-discipline not to turn around and watch him walk away.

  "Cheeky bastard," Stephen mumbled. His words were without malice and I nodded as he pulled up to walk beside me.

  "I guess he's just that good, then."

  Stephen reached his station and slowed to a stop, screwing his face up in concentration as he eye-balled the shot again. "Hell, who knows? Maybe I've got it in me to beat him. Stranger things have happened."

  I was loath to think of any in recent memory, but I managed to keep my thoughts to myself as I crossed the last few yards to my own station and took in Farell’s shot from this new angle.

  It was solid, but nothing I couldn't handle.

  As I readied myself, though, I realized my hands were shaking.

  Get it together, Iris, I counseled myself mentally.

  But I couldn't seem to quell the feelings rising inside me.

  Would the sharp-shooting stranger be watching? Not the competition--of course he'd be watching that. He might have nerves of steel, but he'd have to be made of pure ice to not take an interest in his competition. Would he be watching me, though?

  Something told me he would, and the very idea of it had me straightening my posture and wondering inanely if my bottom looked too big in my britches.

  Another pulse of anger rose inside me and I embraced it, holding it close.

  I wasn't angry at him. To the contrary, I was annoyed with myself. This afternoon, after the contest, there would be drinking and eating and dancing and merry-making. If I caught sight of the handsome stranger then, I'd allow myself to explore these all-too distracting feelings. Until then?

  I had to get my head on straight.

  "All right, archers. All you have to do to move on is best your competitor's shot. Are we ready?" Anaya called with a beaming smile. She sent me a subtle wink as she held up one arm. "Aim!"

  I hoisted my bow and closed one eye, shutting out everything around me as I pulled the string taut. The chatter of the crowd, the scent of meat pies frying and pear tarts baking, the bite of the autumn chill on my cheeks. There was only me and the target before me.

  Time seemed to slow as I sucked in one last breath and emptied my lungs in a whoosh.

  "Fire!"

  My world was shrunk down to the size of a red spot in the distance as I released, my bowstring brushing along my cheek. I watched, still not breathing as the arrow arced through the air, in a near-straight line.

  It buried itself neatly into the target with a satisfying thunk, a few bits of wood splintering around it.

  It was a good shot. A site better than Farell's and my pulse skittered.

  "Nice one, lass!" a chorus of voices called from behind me.

  "Oh, sure, show off why doncha," Stephen said. His teasing was good-natured though, and he let out a low whistle as he eyed my arrow with a nod. "It's a good one, though, I'll giv
e you that."

  I glanced at his and offered him my condolences.

  "Not half bad though, really," I said honestly. He'd managed to hit the ring right outside the center. Given his skill level, he should've been proud and I told him as much. "If you spent half as much time with a bow in your hand as you did a fiddle, you'd be right up there with the rest of us, you know."

  "Ah," he said with a quick grin, "but then you can hardly serenade a lady with a bow and arrow, can you? Priorities, Iris," he said, slinging his bow over his shoulder and tapping the side of his noggin with his forefinger. "Priorities."

  We milled around as the judge walked the length of the field, making his determinations. None were too close to call and, soon enough, the winners of the initial heat were ushered to the front as five of the targets were removed and the other five were replaced by fresh ones.

  The next round went by in a flourish, with all those familiar to me dropping like flies as the remaining ten of us were reduced to five. The rest had fallen by the wayside, relegated to watching from the crowd with chagrin as the targets were replaced again.

  I could actually win this thing.

  We had the full attention of the crowd surrounding us. I could feel my sister’s eyes at my back as I clutched my bow in my right hand. If I could prove to her right here and now that I could stand my own against the men in line with me, maybe--just maybe--she would let me serve in her army.

  This past round, I’d steadfastly kept my gaze pinned to my target, not wanting to allow myself to become distracted again. Now, though, I let my gaze wander down the line of competitors left. All the competitors from the Queen’s Army had been eliminated and I found myself side by side with four males I’d never met before.

  At the farthest end was the dark-skinned god who had captured my attention earlier in the day. He seemed unaware of my gaze; or he was deliberately ignoring me so he could stay focused on the competition as I’d been doing.

  I tore my gaze away from him to take in the countenance of the next male. With a start, I realized that he was equally handsome, only the opposite of the dark stranger in almost every way. Instead of the brooding intensity of the first, he wore a crooked white grin that stretched his stubble-covered cheeks as he cast his gaze around the audience, locking eyes with each and every woman who dared to meet his electric blue stare. A colorful silk cloth flew through the air to land on his shoulder. He plucked it off, raised it in the air in thanks, and then tucked it into the waistband of his brown breeches.

  Beside the charmer stood a man of such height that if I were to stand in front of him, I would have to crane my neck back to meet his eyes. He had wild, dark auburn hair and a close-cut beard that made me want to touch it to see if it felt as silky as it looked. It suited his strong features, and framed a jaw so square, it could’ve been used to chisel stone. He wore a red and black kilt that revealed powerful legs. I caught myself wondering what else might be lying just out of sight beneath the fabric and looked away, cheeks burning.

  Dear lord, what was happening to me?

  I barely resisted the urge to fan myself as my eyes sought my final competitor.

  He was standing next to me and I knew instantly that he was a lion shifter, just like me. He had silky golden hair that was shoulder length and pulled off his face with a blue ribbon. His eyes were the palest shade of gray I had ever seen. He was lean and graceful looking, and held himself with a sort of confidence that I coveted.

  They were all admirable adversaries. I had seen their arrows strike their marks in the previous rounds. I couldn’t allow myself to be intimidated by their skill, their sex or their appeal. I was their equal, in the final round right alongside them, after all.

  I had earned my place and now it was time to bring home the prize. And along with it?

  Hopefully, the respect of my sister and the chance to live out my dream.

  Chapter 3

  Anaya rose from her seat. Her men rose with her. She raised her arms out and a hush fell over the crowd. When she spoke, the joy rang through in her voice.

  “The final round is upon us, shifters of Ironhaven. In due time, we will have our victor! For this round, each archer will have their own target and shoot one at a time. I have the greatest honor of introducing our first competitor, my beloved sister, Iris. The other competitors will follow in order, down the line.”

  I let out an even breath as all eyes fell upon me.

  No need to make it fancy, Iris, I thought to myself as I widened my stance and flexed my fingers. Just put it where it belongs. Right in the center. Everything else will take care of itself.

  This is what you’ve been waiting for.

  I breathed deeply as I notched my arrow and brought the bow up. I drew the string back, and the feather at the rear of the shaft tickled my cheek. I closed one eye and aimed above the target.

  The breeze, almost as if in reverence, had quieted.

  There was nothing to accommodate for. I just had to calculate the trajectory and let her fly. I could do this in my sleep.

  The crowd was silent. Not a soul dared to break my concentration. The men in line with me all stood politely mute, their eyes fixed on my target as I took one last steadying breath.

  On my exhale, I released the string. It twanged, and the vibration hummed in my ear as I watched the arrow soar through the air. It landed with a solid thunk right in the middle of the red.

  I resisted the urge to leap in the air and throw my first above my head. I hadn’t won yet, but it was a perfect shot, and I mentally dared the remaining four males to beat my shot with an unbridled grin that I couldn’t quite control.

  My sister cheered for me from her seat and the crowd followed suit. I enjoyed the brief celebration until they all fell silent again when the first man, the dark-skinned wonder, drew an arrow from the quiver on his broad, muscular back. I watched the muscles of his forearms flex as he drew the bow and notched the arrow in a fluid movement; one made by a body that had done this hundreds of thousands of times over.

  He released his arrow as soon as the string of the bow was drawn. It all happened so quickly that I never even had time to watch the arrow fly. Before I knew it, his arrow was sitting in the middle of the red on his own target.

  I swallowed.

  Maybe you should have tried to be a little fancy, I thought, feeling a little worried that I had underestimated the men I was facing off against. Would just hitting the target dead center be enough? It could be a mere millimeter that would decide the victor.

  The crowd hooted and hollered again, but the male never so much as cracked a smile. His expression remained unreadable as he drew himself back up to his full height. Then he rested his bow point first in the ground before him, and flicked his gaze to the cocky dark-haired man beside him, as if to say ‘get on with it already’.

  I wondered idly if they knew each other but had no time to ponder as the ruggedly handsome young man lifted his fingers to his lips and whistled. The crowd waited, the breathless anticipation moving through them like a living creature, until the sound of hooves on the cobblestone could be heard clip-clopping in the distance.

  What the bloody hell?

  He remained stock-still as the crowd parted to allow a massive, chestnut stallion through. I watched in confusion as the great beast trotted to the man, bowing its head in a polite greeting. The stranger drew an arrow from his quiver and held it between his teeth as he effortlessly hopped atop his steed. He waggled his eyebrows at the crowd to the delight of the swooning females.

  Then, he shot me a dark look—a look that made something unfurl itself below my belly. I stiffened, frowning as a hint of humor touched his dark eyes and he winked at me.

  I wanted to tell him off, right then and there. Who did he think he was? But my thoughts were cut short as the horse reared onto its hind legs and broke into a trot, making a circle around the targets and gaining speed.

  The crowd seemed to hold its collective breath as he came around again
to the targets at a canter, straightening his legs to stand in his stirrups as he drew his arrow and let her fly.

  I narrowed my eyes, gasping in shock as his arrow hit its mark. Maybe a hair left of center, but damn it if all the pomp and circumstance didn’t add something to the shot.

  I looked up to see my sister’s face break out into a gleeful grin and let out a long whistle of approval.

  Son of a bitch.

  I didn’t blame her. It was impressive as hell. I could barely hear myself think as the audience broke into whistles and wild applause. It was only my sister's pleas for silence a full minute later that finally silenced them.

  I was still blinking with awe when the massive male with the wild auburn hair strode up to his spot. He turned to face my sister and gave her a curt bow. That was better behavior—much better than eyebrow waggling and winking, that was for sure. The massive wall of muscle didn’t try anything fancy. No horses that I could hear in the offing, and I let out a breath.

  This was a test of aim, not entertainment value. I still had a chance to win if the cards fell my way when the measuring sticks came out.

  The behemoth lifted his bow, aimed for his target, and then at the last second shifted his aim to the left. He released the arrow and I watched in dismay as it sailed towards my target.

  That dismay morphed into shock and reluctant admiration when his arrow spliced mine in two.

  The crowd erupted with shrieks and I blew out a sigh. I had to admit, I was impressed, too. Impressed, but annoyed. His actions were completely unnecessary and rather rude to boot. I crossed my arms and glared at him, knowing I had already lost the contest.

  The final competitor, the golden-haired lion shifter, shrugged his shoulders as if he knew all was lost, same as me. Then he proceeded to make his shot in a similar fashion to mine. He drew back, exhaled, and released the arrow. It arched perfectly and thudded into the red circle on his target.

  Well, damn.