Wild Heir (Fated Royals Book 4)

by Nikolai Andrew

  Rushing toward me were six women that I had never seen before, dressed in matching silk dresses with flowers in their hair. They were all thin, eyes red rimmed and glassy, reminding me of how my friend Natasha had looked of late, and that just made my heart ache for someone familiar.

  Wordlessly, the six of them grabbed a hold of me, and the bone-grinding pain of Petre’s heel in my spine was exchanged for their rough hands on my arms and my body.

  For once, I didn’t fight. There were too many of them, and what was the point? I’d seen Vasile surrounded by Petre’s men, I’d been brought here against my will. I was going to be married and there was nothing anyone could or would do about it.

  The only person in the world I wanted was certainly dead and unable to protect me. And if I didn’t go along with what Petre wanted, he would kill everyone I still cared about.

  I let the women drag me down a snowy path without even trying to pull free, through frozen and forbidden gardens, and finally into a room in the disused monastery behind the cathedral, where a wedding dress awaited me.

  The women shoved me into the room, and I stared at the dress, stunned. It was, in fact, the same dress that I had picked out myself. But so much had happened since then that it felt like some other version of me had picked out the pearl details on the corset, the satin trimmings on the sleeves.

  No doubt most girls in my position would have felt like they were standing in their fairy tale gown. But to me it was as forbidding as a noose.

  Five of the attendants stripped me naked, while the sixth stood watch at the door. They treated me with a humiliating ruthlessness, like I was a cow being prepared for slaughter rather than a human being.

  I desperately tried to cover my nakedness, but they were uninterested in my comfort or embarrassment. Two of them seized my arms, holding them out straight, and two others shoved me into my undergarments, two layers of crinoline, wrapped me in my corset then finally, into my gown, pulling the corset ribbons so tight that my ribs and stomach screamed for mercy.

  Before any of them could see the ring Vasile had placed on my finger, I slipped it off and hid it between my breasts to keep it safe.

  Once the encasing was done, I was shoved into white satin ankle boots, and a wide diamond choker. Patting it with my fingertips, I felt that it was made of three parallel rows of square diamonds, but each setting had a prong that dug horribly into my skin, turning even the tiniest shift of my head into pure agony. I clawed at the clasp on the back of my neck but one of the attendants swatted my hand with such force that I felt one of my nails split in two.

  “Who are you?” I asked desperately, searching their eyes for any hint, any sign of kindness. But I found none.

  They gave no answer, but one by one left the room, until only a single attendant remained. She wrenched my hair out of its braid and brushed it ruthlessly, with an awful sharp-tooth brush that made my scalp feel like it was starting to bleed. I shoved her away from me, snatching the brush from her hand.

  She eyed me with a worrisome, empty coldness. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice raspy and hollow, “I’ve been ordered to do your hair.”

  I clenched the brush hard in my hand, readying myself to hit her in the face with the back side.

  Even through my panic and exhaustion, I realized I was not completely powerless. She had called me Your Grace. That meant she recognized my title; she knew who I was. Which meant she very well might recognize my authority. And so for the first time in my entire life, I decided to pull rank.

  In the grand scheme of Praquean royalty, I was nobody of any importance at all. But as my father had often told me, there was royal blood in my veins. And for the first time ever, I was proud of it.

  “Get out,” I said, pointing at the door.

  In her eyes, there was a momentary hesitation. An impasse. An uncertainty. A doubt.

  “Out,” I repeated. “Unless the King himself ordered you to do my hair, it’s my word you’re bound to obey. So get the hell out of this room before I have you stoned for disobedience. Or hanged for mistreatment of a royal. Petre is not royalty, he holds no power. I do.”

  The words felt like they were coming from some other woman’s mouth, but whoever she was, I was damned grateful to have her inside me. The attendant dropped her head and did a quick curtsy, then scurried to the door.

  I needed to be alone. I wasn’t some show horse and if I walked down that aisle, I was going to do it with messy hair and dirt on my cheeks.

  As the thought of Vasile once again had me on the verge of tears, the door flew open behind me.

  Spinning around in surprise, I was confronted with a ghostly but familiar face.

  “Natasha! Thank God!” I said, my heart leaping at the sight of my roommate and friend. “I don’t know what to do.”

  But she was different. Frailer. And the look in her eyes was vacant, like she wasn’t quite sure where she was and then I saw the ugly purple bruises wrapping around her neck.

  “What happened to you?” I asked, backing up.

  “Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been?” Natasha said, looking wild-eyed and strange. Her glances kept darting to me and then away, like she couldn’t focus on any one thing for more than a second at once. “How dare you, Valeria? Running away like that! And with Petre’s own brother. You put your own mother and father in mortal danger. You are selfish.”

  Her voice was trembling, high and unsure, and the words came out in strange little rushes, like she’d memorized tiny chunks of a script but couldn’t remember the whole sentence.

  I held her arm, as I had done so many times before, to try to calm her. But she snatched her wrist back from me, gripping it tightly. That gesture drew my attention the exactly place she was trying to hide, I realized. Beneath her bony fingers I saw more angry purple bruises.

  “Who hurt you?” I said, trying to pull her into me again.

  “No one!” she shrieked. “It’s just like you, isn’t it? Being handed everything and then pissing all over it? You do not know how lucky you are. You have family and you are putting them in the worst sort of jeopardy with your games!”

  I was horrified and stunned. I had long suspected that something was going on with her, but never had she been so unpredictable.

  Then, it dawned on me. An explanation that made sense. And I knew who had to be behind it.

  Of course, Petre would want eyes close to me, and who better than my roommate? He had drugged her. He had forced her to work for him in order to keep getting them. But had he…

  Oh, God, the thought made me sick. The rumors about how Petre treated his women, about how he used them up and cast them aside when he was done. But not Natasha? Not the sweet girl I’d been friends with all these years?

  “Let’s just sit down for a second,” I said, taking a seat on the window bench. “Please. Sit here with me.”

  Natasha hovered there, staring at me, wobbling like a hanging marionette. I didn’t know if she was going to start screaming at me again or collapse to the floor, but before I had a chance to find out, the door swung open, and my so-called “bridesmaids” returned in a silky rush.

  Though their dresses were deep blue, the fabric had a grayish sheen; the way they moved, like a quiet pack, reminded me of half a dozen rats, all acting and thinking as one.

  The women seized me, and this time my protests and orders fell on completely deaf ears. Before I knew it, they’d hauled me through the graveyard, and down a path that led to the front of the cathedral. At the steps of the big church, they jammed a bouquet in my hand, opened the cathedral doors…and shoved me inside.

  Stumbling forward, I raised my face to the sound of a hundred pews squeaking as the assembled guests rose and turned to face me. The organ bellowed the traditional Praquean bride’s march, but the organ was off tune and it sounded more like a funeral dirge than anything else.

  I wanted nothing more than to turn and run, and I was about to do it. But there, at the end of the long aisle, de
corated in silks and flowers, were my parents, waiting for me by the altar.

  My heart dropped. My father looked pale, shaken, and unkempt. My mother looked thinner than ever, seated in a special chair beside him. She was clearly too weak to stand, even for this.

  As if I had been winded once again, all the fight drained out of me when I laid eyes on them, which I was sure was the point. To remind me of what I stood to lose.

  My father looked terrified. With his eyes, he urged me forward, shooting sidelong glances at Petre, who stood there waiting as well a smug smile tugging his lips into a twist.

  Scanning the crowd, I saw no sign of Vasile. Three empty seats in the front row on Petre’s family’s side were empty, presumably set aside for his parents and his brother, none of whom were in attendance, and I didn’t understand what was happening.

  Had Petre killed his entire family? Could his cruelty be so sharp he took all of them, just to claim the business and the royal title?

  Grief gripped my heart. Vasile was dead, I was sure of it, or he would be here. He would have come…

  I gripped my bouquet hard and closed my eyes, inhaling the scent of incense and candle wax. Thorns of holly leaves dug into my palms as I squeezed the bouquet; I focused on that pain, channeled it, let it clear my mind. I knew what I had to do. Not for my sake, but for my parents. For their safety and for their future. As for me, I would have time worry about that later.

  I hoped.

  Opening my eyes, I finally let my gaze fall on Petre. As I did, it was as if all my fear froze in my veins and turned to courage.

  He might try to kill me, it was true.

  But not if I killed him first.

  Marry him. Save my family.

  Then save myself.

  The memory of holding the knife to Vasile’s throat flashed in my mind. Only this time, it was Petre’s face I saw and I sliced his throat, watching the life drain away.

  With that murderous cold calculation in my head, I took my first step down the aisle. Then another. Then another. But with each step, my resolve began to fade and fear took its place.

  Again and again, I let my eyes sweep back and forth across the church, desperately urging myself to wake from this nightmare. Telling myself that it wasn’t real, that the scent of incense and mildew was in my head, that the chill in the air was just me shivering in the bed I still shared with Vasile, that at any moment he would turn and wrap his arm around me and I’d be comforted, knowing that we were together.

  But none of that was true. The nightmare was real, and I was stuck in it for the rest of my life.

  If I turned to go, the rats would seize me. If I escaped, my parents would be killed, and eventually so too would I.

  I couldn’t bear to think of it. I couldn’t even let my mind gloss over that sadness. Forward was my only choice. And so I took another step down the aisle towards my doomed future life.

  Once I arrived at altar, I refused to look at Petre. I would not give him the respect of my gaze and attention.

  I stood beside him, straight and cold, looking up at the priest, who looked shocked by my appearance, disheveled as I was, a smug satisfaction that I came to him on my terms. Wild and furious.

  Let them all stare at the dirt and bruises. Let them all know what the man standing beside me had done. The priest cleared his throat, avoiding my gaze, and began to address the congregation in Latin, as was the way of all ancient Praquean royal weddings.

  “In nomine patris et fili et spiritus sancti,” the priest droned, running all those ancient words together as if they were one.

  He signaled to the crowd to be seated. But as the hush of five hundred sitting guests filled the huge cathedral, one person didn’t move.

  My father.

  I turned to look at him. This was the part of the service when he too was supposed to step forward to take my arm, then hand me to Petre, symbolically giving me away.

  As if he hadn’t already done that very thing months ago at that cursed poker table.

  I stared at him hard. But he met my angry, conflicted gaze with nothing but sorrow in his eyes. He took me in, concerned at the state of me no doubt, then for one second, he gave me the smile that I had not seen since I was a child.

  It was the smile of fishing together on Sunday afternoons, of reading books together, of gobbling up my mother’s fresh ushtapaka dumplings until we were both covered in powdered sugar like snowmen.

  In that smile, I saw my dad. The man I loved with my whole heart.

  “I cannot let this marriage go forward,” my father bellowed, filling the cathedral with his booming voice.

  The crowd gasped and chittered with whispered confusion. Turning to my father, I was on the brink of asking if he was sure, if he had thought it through, but before I could speak, he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close.

  “No, father.” I begged knowing the consequences if his debt was not repaid.

  But, before he could re-consider, Petre came up right behind him, facing me from behind my father, and eyed me with the most venomous gaze.

  “You fucking people. You thought I didn’t expect this? Some heroic family bullshit at the last minute? You made a deal. Your daughter or your life. Now, I want both.” he hissed. From his pocket, he pulled a glinting knife.

  And drove it straight into my father’s back.

  I screamed. My mother screamed. The nightmare was worse than I’d ever believed.

  In my arms, my father buckled against me, gasping and staggering forward as the church erupted in chaos. Screams from the guests, some rushing to leave, others stepping in to force them to stay. Then, everything became dreamlike, slow and shimmery, like we were underwater.

  My father slumped to my feet and I fell to my knees beside him, seeing but not understanding the bloodstain that now marred the front of my gown. The wound from Petre’s knife had penetrated my father’s flank, and the blood flowed out in rhythmic pumps, turning his starched white shirt so red it turned nearly black.

  Confusion erupted on all sides of me. The priest began eerie chants and benedictions, warding off evil from the cathedral. My mother shrieked moving her chair forward next to me on the floor beside my father. My father’s words were raspy and soft.

  “I couldn’t do it to you, my girl. I couldn’t lose you like this,” he gasped.

  And then I felt the cold but now familiar grip of Petre’s hand, horse-biting the back of my neck.

  He spat commands toward the priest. “Finish it. Marry us, now!”

  The priest looked scared but he returned to the Latin, then the vows. As my father lay dying on the floor, our marriage was being sealed.

  From my right, a door flew open. Petre released his grip and I glanced behind me, expecting to see guests fleeing the nave. But instead, there stood Vasile himself, with his father at his side, a look of thunder on his face, and Daniel from the mansion just a step behind them. There was blood on Vasile’s clothes, but I couldn’t tell if it was his own or someone else’s.

  Vasile was at a dead run toward his brother. The priest was once again stunned into silence.

  “Finish it!” Petre screamed toward the clergyman, brandishing his knife in his direction but Vasile stopped him cold with a knockout-punch straight to the front of Petre’s face.

  In the strange slowness of the moment, I watched one of Petre’s front teeth skitter across the cathedral floor, and then Petre went down, laying unconscious on the tombs of the ancient kings of Praque below.

  Vasile reached me just as my father was losing consciousness.

  “We’ve got to get you out of here,” Vasile said, his voice hoarse and breathless.

  In the first instant I saw him, my heart melted. But now, I felt it turn to solid stone. Clutching my father close to my chest as my mother called out for a doctor, for help, for anyone, anyone at all, I shook my head at Vasile.

  It was all too much. I just wanted a simple life. Life with Petre, Vasile or any of these Greengallows would always
lie on a precipice of evil. Violence and all the things I did not want.

  None of this was right. The price was too high.

  “It’s your fault as much as anybody’s.,” I said, cradling my dad close.

  A crowd gathered, getting too close in their efforts to see what was going on. I felt boots shove me, hands grab me and then the pinch of something sharp on the back of my neck.

  “Ow.” I yelped, looking up to see what had stuck me but I was surrounded by so many people, I wasn’t sure what had happened.

  A handful of my cousins stepped in to move everyone aside, most of whom I remembered as hardly more than scrawny young boys, but who had now grown into strapping, strong young men. With the crowd cleared, they scooped up my father between them, carrying him out in their arms, rushing him down the aisle. They looked like his pallbearers more than his rescuers as they hurried out the door.

  I heard my aunt’s voice, speaking to my mother about a surgeon, one town over. And hurry. We must hurry. Hurry, Valeria. Hurry.

  Vasile and I stood there at the altar, him holding me by my shoulders.

  “You’re not thinking clearly,” he said to me, gripping me tight. “I’m not the enemy. I love you. I would never let anything happen to you.”

  You’re not thinking clearly. Lies. All lies.

  This was the first time, since the first second I’d laid eyes on him, that I wasn’t looking at the world through the bleary mist of passion. My thinking was crystal clear and I knew exactly what I had to do. I shook off his grip and pushed him away, throwing my bouquet at Petre’s limp body on the floor. I shook my head and raised my hand to stop him from saying anything else.

  “You’re wrong! For the first time since this all began I am thinking clearly. I wish my family had never had the misfortune of meeting any of you. I wish the damned Greengallows had never existed! And you, Vasile, you’re the worst of the whole God-damned lot, because somehow you made me care about you, and I’ll never forgive you for that.”

  The look in his eyes—the rejection, the surprise, the sadness—made me feel sick to my stomach with grief. But I kept my head high and my resolve firm. I pulled his ring out from its hiding place and tossed it aside. It tinkled and clattered on the stone, coming to a stop right below a gruesome portrait of Saint John the Baptist, with his ghoulish decapitated head on a platter.