Bound To The Elf Prince: A Snow White Retelling (Once Upon a Fairy Tale Romance Book 4)

As the Dwarf and I make our way through the woods, I cannot stop thinking about Lyana. She risked her life to take the arrow that might have claimed mine. Why would she do this?

We barely know one another. We did not consummate our bond. She could have easily let me die. Instead, she saved me.

“You’re fortunate she still lives, Elf,” Bran’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “If she dies, I’ll have your head with my axe.”

“Lyana will be fine,” I state firmly. “I gave her my blood. She should be completely healed by morning.”

He stops in his tracks, staring at me in disbelief for a moment before his expression shifts back into anger. “Well, I still don’t trust you. If you ever so much as make her cry even one tear, I’ll lop off your head faster than you can blink.”

I look to the heavens and shake my head. “Are you going to keep threatening me or are you going to help me find the queen?”

He lowers his brows. “Both.”

I purse my lips and draw in a deep breath through my nostrils before exhaling in frustration. Dwarves are indeed stubborn, boorish, and unmovable—just as I have always been told.

“You know,” Bran says, “I always heard that your kind has a touch of evil. When I saw those fangs and claws, I knew it was truth. Elves, Fae—the lot of you are villains.”

“Many races have fangs and claws,” I counter.

“You’re right. Dragons, Fae, Elves, Wolves, Goblins, Trolls, Orcs…” He continues down a list of supernatural species. “You know what else you all have in common?”

I sigh but say nothing because he needs no additional encouragement.

“You’re all villains with hearts of darkness.”

I roll my eyes. It will do no good to argue with this simple-minded Dwarf.

“Nothing to say, huh?” he presses. “Is it because I’ve spoken the truth? Struck a nerve?”

My shoulders tense, but I stay silent.

“Tell me this, Elf,” he growls. “Were you at least gentle with her?”

I turn to him. “What are you—”

I stop short. His eyes glitter with furious tears as he grits his teeth. It is as I suspected. This Dwarf is in love with Lyana.

In this moment, I actually do pity him.

“Not that it is your business, Dwarf, but nothing happened between us last night.”

All the anger drains from his features as he blinks at me. “Truly?”

I nod.

He says nothing further, and I turn away as soon as I recognize the hope that burns in his eyes. I clench my jaw. Lyana is mine. She chose me as her husband, and I will not so easily surrender to a Dwarf.

When we reach the castle wall, I crouch low in the shadows. Bran stomps like a turlayan ox over to my side. I glower and hiss, “Could you at least try to be quiet?”

He narrows his eyes. “I am being quiet.”

I heave another sigh as I return my gaze to the castle. If that is his notion of stealth, we will surely be caught.

A guard wearing Prince Fredrik’s colors strides back and forth along the wall, disappearing around the corner for a minute before returning.

I point toward him. “That is our entrance.”

Bran nods.

As soon as the guard disappears again, we scale the wall with the help of the thick vines. I move deftly but notice Bran struggling. I grit my teeth as he loses his footing and slams into the stone.

He quickly rights himself, and we continue climbing until we have hauled our weight over the top. We clamber down the inner wall and drop to the ground. Ice freezes my veins when I notice the king’s dead body, hanging from a tree. Several burning torches surround him so that all may easily look upon the man who was their sovereign and know that he is dead.

“We cannot leave him hanging there,” Bran whispers, pain twisting his expression. “King Gareth was an honorable man.”

He is right. They have desecrated the king’s body. The old gods will be unable to find his soul if he is left to hang in dishonor. He will be doomed to wander the earth as a lost spirit forever.

“He needs the proper rites for the gods to accept him. We should at least burn his body; not leave him to rot like this,” Bran insists. My brows rise at his words, and he frowns. “Did you think our people had forgotten the old ways?”

I say nothing as he continues. “The humans may no longer keep to them, but we do.” He shakes his head, then returns his attention to the gruesome display before us. “At least, thank the gods, the queen is not hanging beside him. That means she could still be alive.”

“Let’s go,” I whisper as one of the men guarding the tree moves away, leaving an open path to the castle.

As we enter, I’m surprised at how easily we slip through. Considering how many guards pursued us last night, I expected more roaming the hallways. Bodies of Eryadon soldiers litter the floors as we pass. I notice the broken and bloodied forms of my people as well. The scent of iron and death is so thick in the air, I can taste it upon my tongue. So many died last night.

I search for the area where I left Ruvaen, but see nothing. I do not know where he fell or what they may have done to his body. My hands curl into fists at my side. Fredrik will pay for this. I swear it to the old gods.

Sadness fills me anew when we come upon another of my kin, his gaze fixed and unseeing. I kneel beside him and close his eyes as I whisper. “May the gods carry you to the everlasting kingdom beyond all pain and sorrow.”

I stand, and Bran grimaces with pity before we continue on our way.

When we reach the royal chambers, the door is ajar. Carefully, I push through, and we slip inside to find the queen lying upon the bed, her eyes closed in sleep.

There is a long chain attached to her ankle. No guards watch her, however, so I rush forward to set her free. My skin burns the moment my hands touch the metal. Iron. It is poison to my kin. Bran, however, is unaffected.

He huffs. “The rumors are true, then?” he asks.

I narrow my eyes. “Hurry.”

“My queen,” he hisses. “We’re here to free you.”

Her eyes fly open, and panic steals over her features before her gaze settles on his face. “Bran. Where’s Lyana?”

“Safe. In the mountain,” he answers. “That’s where we’re taking you.”

She sits up in bed. The harsh crack of the shackles breaking makes me wince. I worry the sound may carry down the hallway and alert one of the soldiers.

Once she is free, Bran gathers her in his arms and lifts her to his chest. “I can walk, Bran,” she insists.

He shakes his head. “No, my queen. You are with child, and we must move quickly.”

Together, we dart back down the hall as stealthily as we can. When we reach the exit, the queen turns and buries her face in Bran’s chest to avoid the sight of the king’s corpse.

A horse neighs, and I turn to find several beasts tied to their posts, fully saddled. The gates are wide open, and there are no guards in sight.

I cannot believe our good fortune. I suppose last night’s swift victory has made Fredrik confident and careless.

I turn to Bran. “We can escape on horseback.”

He nods.

Extending my nails into claws, I dash to the tree and cut down the king. I remove my tunic and drape it over his face and upper body. Grasping one of the nearby torches, I set fire to the fabric. Quickly, I whisper the sacred rites of passing to ease his journey from this life to the next.

Although I did not really know him, he was the father of my mate, and king of Eryadon. As such, he deserves so much more than this, but there isn’t any time. We must see to the safety of his wife and unborn child.

I rush back to Bran and the queen.

He helps her onto one of the horses, then he and I take two more. He nods to show me he is ready, and we dig our heels into the horses’ sides, racing to the gates.

The galloping hooves of our escape draw attention. Alarm bells clang through the air as guards shout from all sides. “Stop them! They’re getting away!”

We press our horses harder. I dare not look back for fear that they follow closely on our heels. As we disappear beneath the thick canopy of the forest, hoofbeats thunder at our backs, twigs breaking and leaves crunching.

I motion to Bran, gesturing for him to follow as I turn down a path that twists and winds through the trees to throw them off our trail.

The sound of running water catches my attention, and I lead us toward it. Wolf shifters have an exceptional sense of smell, but if we travel through the water, we have a chance of losing them.

When we reach the water, I am stunned at just how wide and fast the river roars before us. This will be more difficult than I anticipated.

My horse tosses his head in protest, so I place a gentle hand on his mane. “Be calm, my friend. We can make it. I know we can.”

“Easy for you to say, Elf,” he replies sarcastically in my head. “You see how swift that current is just as I do.”

I sigh. It seems my horse is the surly sort. I address him. “I was not implying you are simple-minded. I was merely trying to inspire confidence.”

“Are you talking to the horse?” the queen asks.

I nod, but Bran interjects, “Elves are able to commune with many creatures. It’s unnatural, if you ask me.”

I cross my arms and sigh. “And I suppose the stone whispering you Dwarves do, when you mine and build things, is natural now, is it?

Bran narrows his eyes.

My horse snorts in an approximation of a laugh.

I swing my leg over his back and drop to the ground, grabbing his bridle. I choose to ignore Bran’s comment as I address my horse aloud again. “I’ll lead you across. I will not add to your burden.”

He dips his massive head. “Thank you. Now I feel as though we have a chance.”

As we wade into the water, the current pulls at us, trying to swallow us into the river’s depths. Bran leads his horse and the queen’s, while she stays mounted.

When we reach the other side, I turn to my horse. “Are you all right?”

He nods as his critical eyes travel over my form. “It’s cold in the forest,” he comments, and I understand he does not wish me to ride him now that we’re both completely drenched.

I sigh. “Worry not. I’ll continue to walk.”

Sure enough, as we draw closer to the mountain, I no longer hear the sound of horses or men in pursuit behind us. It seems our plan worked, and we have lost them.

Bran takes the lead. “I know a secret entrance we may use.” He turns back to me with narrowed eyes. “Can I trust you not to reveal it to your kin?”

I huff out an exasperated breath. “Despite what you may believe, I am not your enemy.”

“Hmph,” is all he replies before continuing.

I follow him through the forest. The entire area is thick with long, wiry branches that catch on our clothing like skeletal hands trying to hinder our progress. Wherever he is leading us, it is a path that is likely seldom traveled, given the thick vegetation and uneven ground.

We reach a cave entrance completely concealed by a mass of hanging vines. I knew the Dwarves possessed the ability to conjure illusory magic, but this is indeed impressive. If not for Bran, even I would never have found these doors in the side of the mountain.

He opens them and, as we pass through, a subtle tingling sensation moves over my skin. An effect of the magic, I suppose.

It feels like an eternity before we come upon a heavy metal gate. Bran raps a strange cadence against the doorway, and the gate opens a moment later. Two guards greet him warmly before glowering in my direction. Their eyes widen when they notice the queen on the horse behind us.

Their expressions turn somber, and they bow in respect to her as they allow us to pass.

“Where is Lyana?” Bran asks one of them.

“The princess is with your father in the throne room.”

Bran helps the queen dismount and then guides us down a long corridor.

Glowing gemstones embedded in the walls provide enough light that it is as if we are standing outside despite being deep inside the mountain. We enter a wide cavern lined with massive support columns, carved with such precision they are truly impressive to behold.

Several dwarves stop and observe as Bran leads us to a set of large golden doors directly across the way, to what I assume is the hall of the king. The doors groan on their hinges as they swing open.

Lyana’s head whips toward us. Relief inflates my chest. I am so glad to see her looking better. It seems that my blood is working to heal her quickly, because I notice she does not appear to be in pain when she moves.

The queen rushes toward her. Lyana throws her arms around her stepmother, and they both burst into tears.

Eventually, Bran leads the queen away, telling her she should rest and gather her strength.

I observe, from the shadows, as Lyana makes her way down the hallway and through a another set of golden doors. The etchings in the metal suggesting this is a place of worship.

Although I do not understand it, some primal instinct within me insists that I follow her. Perhaps it is because I gave her my blood—one of the most intimate acts among my people, and usually only shared with one’s mate.

Before I can question it further, she walks inside and I quietly follow her.