His father shifted.
"She would prefer we indulge the Westlands after the wedding."
Golden disks refracted unease. "Has she said this directly?"
Tristian sighed again. "You are free to ask her. Whereas I am needed elsewhere."
Gregor huffed, then chortled out a rough laugh. "Such as where? The sheets? Between another faceless woman's thighs? Tristian, visit the Westlands, meet all of their foreign women and see to all of their foreign needs."
There was but one foreign female he was interested in. The same foreign female he had prohibited himself from allowing into his thoughts. The female he had prayed away in the night, locked far away in a dark vault for the burning abyss of hell to consume with its white flames.
A knock pulled him from his reverie, followed by the sure sound of the door's iron knob banging against the wall. An entrance from none other than his petulant sibling, whom garnered not even a turn of his head.
"We're busy, Rhenan. Go brush your horses."
"Already done," came his brother's voice. "Though I brought one of yours back with me."
Another sigh. Did he entertain whatever game his brother played at or did he ignore?
Neither option came to fruition, for the voice he heard next chilled him down to his bones and erased all of his ability to think. The voice that should have been spiralling in an oblivion of hellfire.
"Good morning, Tristian."
He bolted from his seat as though the chair had somehow caught its flames and whirled around to see for himself the face he was so certain he would never have to see again.
For a long moment, he stared in unveiled surprise, a surprise which soon festered and broke apart into unconcealed lust. It was as though he had never condemned her from his thoughts. As though she had never left this castle. His private chamber.
"Princess Astrid," he murmured, calm passing through his tone. "You've forgotten how to speak properly in as little as two moons?"
A dash of panic washed over those pale pools before she settled and appeared the picture of perfect daintiness. "A lot has changed since then and I thought we were familiar."
"Familiar is not equal."
The apprehension returned and her small form stiffened. "I-I know that. I know, but... it's important. This is important."
"What's he brought here?" his father asked, squinting across the room. "A horse he said?"
"Close, Father," Rhenan said on a smirk, making his way into the room. "But I've heard some call her Astrid." His brother fell into a seat beside their father and went as far as to sling an arm around the man. "The Misseldon girl who attended last season's festival. She's come back because she had so much fun."
Tristian ignored the idiot, commanding his body to cool, his muscles to relax. A lot had changed, she said, but she was still as beautiful and volatile as he remembered.
"Why have you come here, Astrid?" He looked her over again. "And why did your family not send notice?"
The questions elicited a gasp so sharp she resembled one gasping for as much breath as they could. "M-might I have some water?"
He frowned deeply, having completely overlooked the minute details, though was now reminded of her and her brother's brief time in their land, how frequently the servants shadowed them with carafes of cooled water.
Even now her hands trembled and scratched at her pale skirt, reaching for the pouch she kept slung around her body. She grasped the leather between her fingers, clutching to it as though it would soothe her anxiety. If anything, it seemed to encourage it.
"I have heard p-people ask for drinks for c-courage."
Just as he remembered her, speaking strange verses with an angelic tongue, even if afflicted with a stammer he couldn't recall from before.
He snapped two fingers in disgust and servants seemed to materialise from thin air. "Why has she not yet been offered a drink?"
The two women took turns glancing at one another, then to the princess, but Tristian was impartial to their excuse, but eager to send them on their way and uncover the reason behind the long voyage.
When the women disappeared, he motioned to the chair he had accommodated prior. "Please, sit."
She nodded and took small steps, though he wondered whether her dainty legs were capable of taking larger ones, towards the offered seat. The girl seemed to handle herself with greater fragility than before, as if a slight bump would send her into a state of grave injury.
"Thank you." She tilted her head up to him and stared briefly, with eyes that seemed to open and consume the soul. Then a smile broke, sweet and certainly genuine. "I have missed you, but that will not be a problem any more."
More peculiar verses, but at least she was stammering no longer.
The servants arrived with their pitcher and glasses, though were shooed almost instantly when the princess had a glass in her hand.
The three men watched the girl drink her fill in silence, something in her words troubling Tristian, so that when she was finished, he asked, "Why will it no longer be a problem?"
But then he had the horrible suspicion he knew.
Their mother, Queen Petra, had followed through on her word to wed this female to his brother. Had followed through and failed to consult him for she knew what it would do to him. Do to them both.
The girl seemed ready to spill the meaning though her lips remained parted as she froze like the ice creature she was. A finger was held up to him, urging him to wait, before she poured and gulped down one last glass of water. For courage, she'd said.
The audacity alone sent him to silence.
And then, "I'm pregnant."
The silence never did let up. No, it thickened into a hulking entity, so much so that another person may as well have entered the room.
Then his father asked, "What business is it of ours what's inside you? Son, were those Misseldons always so arrogant as to think we would care?"
But Tristian could only stand there and stare with lips parted, leaving it to Rhenan to assume he was the son their father referred to.
"When?" his brother asked.
"I will ask the questions," Tristian snapped behind him, then turned a glare on the blue gaze before him. "When?"
She had sunk into the chair like some misbehaved child. "I don't... W-what do you mean?"
"When did you discover your condition?" he grated down at her. This was the absolute last revelation he had been expecting this evening from this girl. The last thing he wished to hear—especially when a breath away from his wedding to another female. A holy female. A well-bred female of the Sirista whose faith ran devoutly through her blood whereas this female before him was nothing but sin, beauty, ruin.
And your friend.
Anger washed the memory away.
"I stopped..." She attempted to lower her voice, but nothing emerged. A quick clearing of her throat was required and her voice continued to reach the ears of the room's male occupants. "I did not get my bleed for I always bleed on the full moon, but no longer. Then I knew straight away." Hurried words and to top it all off she had not even the grace to blush.
Tristian swallowed and watched her, unsure what was to be done.
Behind him, his father was...chuckling softly, wrapping his large marble ring against the surface of the display table. "But why should we care about your misfortune? Does Thellemere need us to donate roses or a wetnurse?"
She blinked as though she was confounded at his father's jovality, or perhaps his words. "No, Your Grace. It's Tristian's baby."
That stopped the laughter almost immediately.
Tristian could feel his father's murderous stare on his back, could envision how large those golden eyes had become, how that ring likely hovered mid-tap over the table as the man trembled in disbelief.
Tristian shifted and dared a glance behind him.
Disgust mingled with disbelief, the king was utterly taken aback. "Tristian."
"Father."
"Tristian!" The male rose
, quivering, and stabbed a finger at the princess. "That little girl cannot possibly exceed sixteen years."
"Fifteen," Rhenan sang.
Their father stuttered unintelligibly, gaze whipping between his son and the princess. It appeared, but for a moment, the man would lose consciousness. Instead he took the moment to wear down his horror and incredulity, and Tristian saw immediately when the true concern permeated.
"Constance."
Tristian bared his teeth slightly. "I'm to set sail and explore foreign women, remember?"
"This is no time for mockery! You placed a Hanson child in a female of delicate age." She hadn't spoken delicately when he'd fucked her; beside the point, surely. "And this is no whore you've found on the side of the reckless path you tend to travel. She is a princess, Tristian, a princess!"
"This does not impinge on the union between myself and Constance. It will go on—"
His father flung one of the tiny floating boats at him. "A princess, Tristian!"
As if he could forget it. He dared a glance at the girl while watching for another precariously slung item.
The girl was staring at her hands which had resumed fiddling with that godforsaken pouch. "I-I," she began as she slid her gaze up to meet his own. "I, we, Tristian, we are having a baby. Do you want to touch?"
He glanced at her belly and felt a horrendous slew of repulsion, though could not determine why just yet. "No," he said loftily.
"It has to be done," his father was saying.
But Tristian was still staring at her clothed stomach, understanding now why she carried herself so delicately. "Did you not think to imbibe a cure before you let it grow this far?"
"It's a baby! Not an illness!"
Smiling manically up at him, eyes wide and twinkling, she clutched at either side of the mound that was set to grow grotesquely huge. "Our baby!"
Now it was he who found a sudden need for water, yet his feet remained rooted, his throat closing.
Our baby.
He had to force in his next breath, though it sooner became caught around abjection and his rebuking of the entire ordeal. The deed was done. What could be his destruction was nurturing and growing inside her as he stood there. His stomach contents congealed, a sour taste spreading over his tongue.
They had to get rid of it. Get rid of her.
He turned to his father. "Surely you know what has to be done."
The king came to his feet and gave a small, curt nod as he looked into Tristian's eyes with a most serious, set expression. "It appears you must marry her."
~ ASTRID ~
Astrid watched as the prince's face took on that of unparalleled petrification. Shadows haunting the gold scorch of his gaze as King Gregor spoke the words she had longed to hear since the moment her brother had told her of her duty in this wretchedly warm land.
It was an order from the king himself, which was confirmation enough that the union was to go ahead. The doubt, the hesitation, the fretting... it had all come to this. Success.
She could not help the smile that spread across her face, though simultaneously did not relish the prince's shock. With caution she came to her feet with the intention of offering Tristian, her fiance, soon-to-be husband, a gentle wave of comfort. Her hand, which now shook with the aftershock of surprise more so than fear, petted lightly at his forearm.
"All will be well. We will be a family now. You, me, and our little one. He's right here." Her hand slid down his arm to encourage his wrist forward, to urge his fingers to at least brush against her stomach where their baby rested and grew.
He recoiled from her with a further look of terror, as though horns had sprouted from either side of her head. "You will not touch me, female."
She took a step back. No, this was not how it was meant to go. He was supposed to be shocked or surprised, which of course she would soothe and reassure him through, then happy. Utterly elated. Not disgusted or angry.
"But, but, but... the baby!"
He would love their child, she was sure of it. The gods would make him a better parent than her own had been. He would be a loved father more so than a feared one. "Let me touch you, please. At least let us embrace." They had done more than that because the plan demanded it of her. "We made love before and enjoyed it. We are to be husband and wife."
"I fucked you before and enjoyed it."
"Tristian," the prince's brother warned. "Have some decency for the little one's ears."
It had not occurred to her that her baby could hear yet, but she clasped her hands around her middle all the same. Little ones did not need to hear such vulgar words.
"It should not have ears! She should not be here!" The male whirled around to his father and insisted at once, "This cannot go on. I am to be wed to Constance, and our union is to further strengthen our bonds with the Sirista. We are a holy family. A sanctified symbol in which the people depend."
"You were the one to commit this unholy deed, son," the king spoke. "What do you think Thellemere will do should we turn her away?"
"It is quite evident she means nothing to them. Look at what she arrived in."
"It is not something I will condone. You will wed this girl."
"Father—"
"My decision is final."
"Your decision is blasphemy! As of late, all of them have been senseless and destructive. The people are laughing at you, Father. They speak of you behind your back at every turn and my marrying this ice witch will do nothing more than condemn me to a similar fate."
Her hands curled into fists and she shook her head. Witch? She was a good girl, not a witch. Witches were evil, gnarled creatures, not good girls. Not future good wives and future good mothers.
If she continued to state assumptions, determinations, then surely they would have to come true. "I am your fiance, not a witch! I am having your baby, too, and your father said you have to marry me. We are going to be a lovely little family."
Tristian was before her in a heartbeat, snarling. "You. Will be. Quiet."
She fell back into the chair, the cushioned back hitting her with an unmistakable thud. For a moment she feared she had harmed the child, but her hands remained clasped around her middle, and she prayed it would absorb the shock of her harsh landing.
It did not stop the tears though.
She thought she had been good. She thought she had been strong. She had not cried since yesterday evening.
"Our baby—"
The lash came quick and firmly across her cheek, and Prince Tristian raised his hand, appearing ready to do so a second time before his brother was suddenly there, shoving him back.
She screamed, not from the sharp sting, but the shock of it all. It was not supposed to be like this! He was supposed to be kind. Had her father been right all along?
But those gold eyes were pinned with fury at her, even as his daggered tone was towards his brother. "What will you do, brother? Harm the crown prince? Leave her without a husband?"
"Tristian," his father growled. "You go too far. That female does not belong to you."
"That conniving heathen carries what belongs to me. She too belongs to me. Your decision is final after all, is it not, Father?"
There was a hesitant pause, but then the male said, "Then perhaps you should go tell your mother the good news."
The fury was stumped out instantly. Stun took reign.
The manner in which he stared past his brother, who stood offensively against him, was a world apart from the gentle, molten gaze he had gifted her with upon their first meeting. Something dark and wrong had taken away the prince she had known, leaving behind a cruel husk who shared his name.
"Where were you prior to your arrival here in this room?"
She stared at his feet, for even those limbs that could do her so much damage were not nearly as frightening as his golden glare. "In a corridor. Some servants hurried me in." Her voice was heavy with the burden of a clogged nose, though her fear and the residual ache from his strike did little to
help.
"Was it hot?" he asked in a strangely departed voice. "In this corridor, was it hot?"
"Very."
"Uncomfortable on your winterborn skin?"
"Yes."
"Then you will return there and wait for me."
"Tristian," Rhenan bit out.
She had not expected him to care. Not after his horrid words and his horrid slap. A'zur, her darling, he would have escorted her somewhere cool and comfortable. His day's work would be to attend to her comforts and needs, so her bother was minimal. It was how a husband should behave.
"Father," the prince said in a tone that was entirely derisive. "This girl. This girl right here, I am to marry her. She will be mine, yes? Is mine—mine to do as I please?"
The king... the king took up an interest with what appeared to be little models of boats and a tangible map of recreated topography. The king nodded. "Y-yes, of course," the man said and his voice was faded, his eyes strangely bleary, as though he couldn't quite recall what had just been done to her. "As you please, Tristian. And Rhenan, do not pick on your older brother."
Pick on?
My brother is no prize to be sought, Prince Rhenan had once told her.
Now he was the one she shot a pleading look, for out of all the men in the room, he appeared to care more for her and the baby. The uncle. Not the father nor the grandfather, though the king had been so kind and sensible in consenting to the union. The union that had already caused her pain. The union with a man she was sure did not care for her as he had pretended to.
"Please, please..." She found her strength waning as her head fell forward. Slumping, slouching, barely ladylike but she could not remain perfect and poised when everything was so terrible. And perfect.
Terrible and perfect. It made not an ounce of sense.
"Please..."
"Father, Father," Tristian went on in that same derisive way, and she found she did not find his voice as appealing as she had once thought. "Rhenan is being disobedient again. He wants attention again and is imposing on my demands, just like a child. And I cannot delay my demands, for I am to sail to the Westlands soon, and to do that, I must get small matters out of the way. Small matters like the princess. Whom I have said will wait in the corridor."
Bonds: A Cursed Six novel (The Cursed Six Book 1) Page 28