by Jill Myles
The prince stood and walked over to her until he was so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek. His dark eyes bored into her amber ones. “The priests say there is a connection between us, so know this: I can own you, and I will. The Goddess has made her decision. It is done.”
And, by Kasla, as she stood there, pinned in his gaze, she could feel him. She knew his emotions, despite his blank face. The controlled rage. The deep restlessness. The despair at being trapped. But what came through strongest of all was the cold, resigned certitude that Seri would bend to his will, whether she wanted to or not.
After only a few hours of restless sleep, Seri awoke in an unfamiliar room. She squinted against the light that streamed in through the leaded glass windows, her head pounding. She pressed her palms to her temples, trying to remember how she’d gotten here. She recalled bursting out crying and begging the priests to let her leave. When that hadn’t worked, she’d tried to run to the door, struggling and fighting as they held her back until she was exhausted. Then, they’d plied her with thick, sweet wine until she’d been too drunk to complain.
Vaguely, she remembered a maid putting her in a white lace chemise and guiding her to a canopy bed that was arguably as large as the room she shared with Josdi. Underneath her was a real feather mattress and a feathered pillow for her head. For a moment, she almost expected to find one of Josdi’s silly feather pillows.
Josdi. Father.
Rilen.
Seri sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, intent on finding her clothing and getting out of this gods-damned castle when the door swung open.
“I see you’re awake, my lady.”
A woman stood in the doorway, dressed in gray servants’ robes, a pleasant smile on her face. Seri couldn’t be sure, but she thought it was the same woman who’d put her to bed the night before. She set down a tray of fresh breads upon one of the tables and gestured for Seri to sit. “Break your fast, my lady, and then we can begin our day.”
My lady? Wary, Seri glanced at the doors. Wooden doors, not tapestries. She could make out a guardsman through the open doorway. Damn the gods, she was now important enough to warrant guards and wooden doors.
She moved to the seat stiffly and picked up a sugared biscuit, weighing her options. Once the servingwoman left, she could escape. She’d make for the root cellar Rilen had told her about and run for the Vidari farms on the outskirts of the city. She’d have to leave behind her personal altar. Her dresses. Her money. It would hurt, but she’d make the sacrifice.
Even though her stomach felt like a rock, she ate one biscuit, then another, waiting for the maid to leave. But instead, she puttered around the room, straightening the blue silk coverlet and fluffing the pillows. She pulled on a cord in the corner of the room, humming, then opened the window.
Seri cleared her throat. “Is there something you need from me?”
“From you?” The woman looked surprised at Seri’s question. “Why, no, my lady. The other maids are on their way. Once you’ve taken your bath, we’ll get you dressed in one of the gowns that Prince Graeme has sent for you. Then we must get you fitted for the official Betrothal gown; the ceremony is only a few days away. Then you must have your midday feast with Mistress Anneve to go over your schedule for the rest of the week—”
Seri paused mid-bite into her fourth biscuit. How could she escape if she couldn’t get a moment alone? “I don’t want to do any of that.”
The woman stared at her. “But, my lady,” she said, then stopped when the door opened. Servants trooped in, one carrying buckets of steaming hot water and towels while another carried a beaten copper tub on her back. “Won’t you bathe and dress properly first, at least?”
Seri watched as the servants filled the copper tub, sensing an opportunity. “Fine. I will bathe and then call for you when I finish.”
The woman’s lips thinned into an unhappy line. “My lady, I have orders from the vizier not to leave you alone. If you wish me personally to leave, someone else will have to enter the room.”
So she was a prisoner after all. Nostrils flaring with irritation, she shook her head. “I’ll bathe.”
Seri had never had a hot bath before, and despite her foul mood, the experience was a relaxing one. The maid scrubbed the sticky gold powder from her body, gently washed Seri’s hair, then wrapped her in a fluffy white towel. But afterward, Seri found herself staring in dismay at an array of Athonite clothing she was expected to dress in.
She hadn’t paid much attention to Lady Mila’s clothing, her mind assessing it as “foreign” and leaving it at that. But now this serving woman was determined to dress her in layer after layer of clothing. First came a thin, gauzy gown made out of a soft fabric. Next was a pair of puffy short pants to cover her privates. Idiot Athonites. As if covering your body with layers hid what was truly underneath. Then came a stiff contraption that looked like a small saddle.
This is a torture not to be borne, Seri thought to herself as the woman laced her into it.
“Stand straight,” the woman said, and that was all the warning that Seri got. In the next moment, the laces tightened and the breath was sucked from Seri’s lungs. She groaned in protest and tried to jerk away, but the woman continued to lace the cage around her body, tighter and tighter as Seri struggled to catch her breath.
“What is this thing?” She gasped.
“A corset. It will keep your waist small beneath your dress.”
Seri sucked in a shallow breath—not as easy as it once was. “Is this truly necessary?”
The woman made no response other than a satisfied grunt, finishing the laces with one final jerk. “Now for the dress,” she said and tossed the thick swath of blue silk over Seri’s head.
After yanking the gown down and smoothing out the hips, the woman finally released Seri with a cluck. “It’ll do. I’m afraid you’re quite a bit taller than the previous owner of this dress, but it’ll have to work until your new garments are made.” She eyed Seri’s form critically. “Indecent, though, the amount of ankle it shows.”
Seri glanced down, then shrugged. The layers of the dress brushed against her ankles, which seemed plenty decent to her. She was more concerned with the chokingly high neckline and the corset, which restricted her breathing and made her breasts rather prominent.
It was miserable. She felt swathed in blankets, not dressed in elegant finery. Each layer reminded her of just how trapped she was. But she wasn’t the only one who was trapped.
She thought of the prince’s sullen face, of how unhappy he’d looked on the dais. He’d put on a show of strength in front of the priests, but she’d felt him and his anger. Perhaps, if she could speak to him in private, away from his robed advisers, he’d agree to let her leave—with her things and her money.
“Can I go now?” She couldn’t help the impatience in her voice—if she had to stand here another moment to be poked and prodded into what Athonites considered “acceptable attire,” she was going to scream.
“Your hair,” the woman grimaced. “It’s wet. You’ll ruin the look if you leave it down. Wait for it to dry and then we’ll style it.”
A long moment passed as Seri glared silently at the servant. Finally, the woman sighed and relented, twisting Seri’s wet hair up in a thick braid and knotting it at the back of her head. “Very well,” she said, holding up a mirror so Seri could see the result. “You’re suitable.”
Seri frowned at her reflection. She looked like a stranger—an Athonite noblewoman. An enemy. “Let me see the prince now,” Seri demanded, turning away from the mirror.
The servant shook her head. “The prince is not available. You may speak with Mistress Anneve. Or the vizier, if you insist.”
“I want to see the prince—or Lady Mila,” she added. “She still needs to pay me.”
“You cannot see the prince,” the woman snapped. “You
will have to settle for his vizier. I am told Lady Mila has retired to her apartments and will see no one.”
No doubt pouting over her defeat, Seri thought. “Fine,” she said, clasping her hands together and trying to look patient. “I’ll wait here and concentrate on trying to breathe.”
The servant gave an exasperated sigh and turned on her heel, exiting the room in a swirl of gray skirts.
Seri hid a smile at the woman’s departure. Kasla be praised. She went to the doorway, her new, pointy shoes slapping on the marble tiles. Ugh. She couldn’t bend over thanks to the corset, so she lifted her foot and shook off the left shoe, then the right, and continued on barefoot.
The guard was still outside the door. Just one, though. Seri bit her lip and pretended to look upset. “Oh dear. Do you know where my servant went?”
The man looked at her with a frown, his gaze flicking to her bulging cleavage. “I believe she will be back soon, my lady.”
“I need her right away,” Seri said. When that didn’t work, she wrapped her arm around her stomach. “I feel . . . ill. Can you please go get her?” She leaned against the door heavily, trying to look weak.
The man wavered, then nodded, and hurried down the hall to find the woman.
Seri watched his back for a few moments, and then took off down the opposite hall, determined to find the prince.
“I wonder how the wild blood tastes in comparison to Lady Aynee’s?” Lord Tedrov drawled, raising his glass of wine. He swirled it thoughtfully and looked over at Graeme. “Have you sampled her yet, your grace?”
The sly question had been phrased and rephrased countless times over the past day, though most were a bit more polite than Tedrov’s. Tedrov only got away with it because he was a childhood friend of Graeme’s and used to being bold in his presence.
For annum after untold annum, he’d shared wine with Lord Tedrov, his brother Nevren, and the twenty other members of the Blood who had gathered. There was Laranar, who was newer to court, and Jenar, who spoke little yet knew everything that went on in court circles. There were cousins and neighbors and wealthy landowners. These men were his companions and his friends.
Or they would have been, if a prince of the Blood had friends.
They all sat around the banquet table drinking water or wine. Neither would soothe their thirst; it was simply for the act of wetting their throats until they could retire and drink from their mistresses in private. Candles flickered high overhead, and a few maidservants in gray moved at the edges of the shadowy room, refilling drinks. Occasionally, a man would reach out and grab a maid by the waist, pulling her into his lap and entreating that she perhaps join him in an alcove later for a quick sip from the neck. They’d giggle and either say yes, or no.
They rarely said no. Not to the Blood.
Graeme poured himself a goblet of water, supposing he should finally answer Tedrov’s question and put an end to the speculation. “The girl will remain untouched until our marriage. The Goddess is prickly as it is. The last thing I should want is for her to remove her favor after granting it.”
With that, he raised his glass to the heavens in a wry salute to the Goddess.
A swell of chuckles rippled down the table, and suddenly it felt like his father’s court. Graeme hated that, hated sitting around and talking of useless things with his brethren, but it was a necessary evil. The men were rattled—and jealous—at the appearance of Graeme’s mystical and unsuitable Eterna, and he needed to hear their thoughts. Better to have it spoken to his face than whispered behind his back. There would be no surprises while he was in residence, no secrets hissed behind closed doors.
“Well, after you do touch her, you shall have to tell us what an Eterna tastes like,” Nevren said, leaning in. “If she tastes sweeter.”
“If she doesn’t, we shall all be very disappointed,” said Laranar. He twisted a ring on one of his fingers. “After all, why torture us with a curse if the Goddess has no intent of lifting it?”
“Who can speak for the Goddess?” Tedrov said. “I, for one, am jealous. Wild thing or not, you have an Eterna. Every man of the Blood at this table would love to be in your position.”
“Thanks to your Eterna, we might all be one day,” Laranar said. “You will have daughters, and they will be Eternae, if the legends are true. Just think: No more cravings. No more court women who’ve been sampled by a hundred mouths. No placing your bite over another’s mark.” His eyes glowed with a possessive hunger.
Graeme gave him a pointed look. “Keep away from my daughters,” he mock-growled, and the room filled with laughter. He was glad the courtiers at least were in high spirits. It was one thing to have an Eterna. It was another to see her in reality and realize she was little more than a wild girl who loathed him. He hadn’t wanted this, hadn’t want her, a wild Vidari girl. And despite their bold words, the court had been shocked. Aynee had wept.
And now his own men were parceling out his daughters long before they were born.
Graeme’s fingers tightened on his goblet as the conversation droned on around him, lost in thought. His father would have to be notified of this new predicament. He’d given Graeme leave to marry once this last ceremony was done, but neither of them had truly expected him to find his Eterna. That it was a poor Vidari goosegirl instead of one of the court ladies furthered the problem.
Still, the Goddess wanted what the Goddess wanted.
“Does this mean you’ll be putting aside Lady Aynee?” Nevren asked. “I have yet to drink from that sweet throat.”
Impudent fool. He hadn’t even waited for Graeme’s marriage to move in on his mistress. He supposed he should have been angrier, but it just made him weary. “Lady Aynee may do as she pleases. I have never directed her.” He wasn’t even jealous. Maybe a new lover would stop Aynee’s tears and the soft, wounded looks she sent to Graeme whenever she saw him. As if this was all his decision.
Just then, a loud bang sounded at the door, as if a body had slammed into the heavy wood. Graeme and the other nobles looked up as the doors opened, and in rushed his new Betrothed, her hair wet and spilling around her shoulders in an undone braid. Her feet were bare and she held her gown indecently at her knees. Her breasts heaved against her tightly corseted dress and the pale blue of the gown made her skin seem even more sunbrowned than before. She looked around, startled, and then her gaze landed on Graeme.
A chill rippled through him at the moment of connection, and he felt something deep in his chest, just like he had last night when he looked into her eyes. Unbidden, his teeth lengthened, and he clenched his jaw to keep from hissing with his need to drink.
“I seem to have interrupted,” she began, and then glanced at the door.
Immediately, a guard shoved his way in behind her. He halted as well when he realized what he was interrupting. He bent at the waist in a deep, albeit shaky, bow. “A thousand pardons, good sirs. Prince, I did not realize you were in here.” His gaze shot to Seri, and he grabbed her arm. “I found her wandering the halls, but I will escort her back to her chambers—”
Graeme raised a hand. “You are not to place a finger on a royal Betrothed.”
The guard dropped the girl’s arm as if he were scalded.
She looked equally surprised. Then, she stepped forward, shooting a defiant look at Graeme. Her chin lifted. “The servants are forcing me to remain in my quarters. Did you post the guards there?”
“I did not,” Graeme said. “I shall speak with the vizier about your servants. You are not to be a prisoner in your own home.” He shot a look at the guardsman. “Are we clear?”
“I—I understand, your grace,” the guard stammered.
Seri hesitated, her hands still clenched in the fabric of her skirts. Her jaw worked soundlessly.
“Does the lady wish to stay?” He lifted his wineglass.
Seri considered for a moment, and then gave a
sharp nod, a determined look on her face. “We need to talk.” She glanced at the others in the room, clearly uncomfortable, and then lifted her chin higher.
Graeme couldn’t decide if he was amused or irritated by her pride. He gestured at the seat beside him, and Lord Tedrov quickly vacated it. “Do join us.”
She moved to the head of the table and sat in the chair that the prince held out for her with a graceless thump. A servant rushed forward with a new wineglass and poured her a drink.
“I trust that you slept well last night?” Graeme asked, his fingers moving on the stem of the goblet. He had to keep from staring at her and trying to figure out what it was that the Goddess had seen in her. There would be time enough for that later.
She glanced over at him, her expression wary. “Well enough for a prisoner.”
“You are not a prisoner. You are part of our court now. It is a rare privilege you have been granted,” he chided with a flash of frustration at her childishness.
“Privilege?” She snorted, tugging at the high collar of her dress.
Heat shot through him at that small motion. Suddenly, urgently, he wanted to reach across the table, grasp her by her waist and pull her against him, baring her neck for his bite. He shook his head and dug his fingernails into his thighs, breathing hard. That would not do. He was not attracted to this creature. It was simply the Goddess and a new version of her curse, a new torment for him.
“Most would think so. Is there something we could do to make your stay more comfortable?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m so lucky to be chosen, aren’t I?” She took a sip of the wine then gave him a challenging stare. “If I am to stay, I want to pick my own servants.”
“Name them, and you shall have them,” he said, taking a deep drink of water and struggling for control. He didn’t want her, not really. It had to be the connection the priests spoke of.
“Kiane,” she said, leaning back as a servant set a plate of sweet breads in front of her. “And Idalla from the kitchens. They’ve been kind to me.”