by Jill Myles
Her hands squeezed the younger girl’s once more. “Also, tell him… tell him to visit me if he can? Tell him I am lonely.” Tears threatened in her voice. “Tell him I am frightened and I need to see him.”
The maidservant gave her a concerned look. “My lady? But you are recently married? Should I send for Prince Graeme—”
“No.” She’d said too much. Now the little maid would question her message. Seri forced a light smile to her face. “It is not true, of course. Just a small lie to ensure that he visits me.”
Kiane’s cheeks flushed with understanding. “Of course. You are quite clever, Princesse. I will find him and tell him all that you have told me. When should I leave? At daylight?”
Seri looked to the door. “Go now,” she said, releasing the girl’s hands. “He will still see you after dark.”
The maidservant looked frightened at the prospect of heading to the Vidari village after dark, but she nodded. “I will do as you ask, mistress.”
“Thank you.” She smiled at Kiane. “You do not know how much this means to me.” The praise made the girl flush with pleasure, and she curtsied, picking up her long skirts and heading out of the room just as Idalla and Vya returned, arms laden. Idalla gave Kiane a questioning look as the girl left but said nothing.
Once Vya had helped Seri dress, her bruised neck covered by one of the high Athoni collars, Seri sat down to eat. Vya sat nearby, sewing a hem, and Idalla fussed with Seri’s hair as she ate, brushing the thick blond locks and pulling them back into an ornate jeweled clasp.
“Tell me what you know about the Blood, Idalla,” Seri said between bites.
Idalla looked startled at Seri’s request, then uneasy. “The Blood? What is it you wish to know?”
I want to know everything about this terrible curse so I may escape it, she wanted to say, but that would be too revealing. She didn’t want the maidservant to suspect anything was amiss between herself and Graeme. “Tell me about the prince. How he is different from other men.”
“Well,” began the maidservant, the strokes of the brush through Seri’s hair slowing down. “To begin, I know that his father is a very old man.”
“How old?”
“My mother says that her grandmother served him when she was a young girl, so at least as old as all that.” She paused, then continued. “Prince Graeme was born before my time, so he is at least thirty years old, but the Blood do not age like you and I. I’ve heard stories that they can live for hundreds of years.”
Seri mulled that over, toying with the sweetened crust of one of the sticky buns. “I see.”
“Prince Graeme has always been a good boy, though.” Idalla’s smile carried through her voice even though Seri could not see her face. “I remember when he was younger and nothing but all long limbs and black hair. His mother doted on him—all the ladies at court did. Always so kind, that one. So courteous. I suppose that’s why I never understood why his father was so unkind to him.”
“Oh?” Seri tried to keep her voice casual. “Does the king not care for him?”
There was a long pause, and she felt Idalla’s hands tremble. “I did not mean to imply that, Princesse. I just… I remember seeing the two princes together. You should see Prince Velair. Such a handsome one, just like the king. He’s quick to speak, that one, and cares for nothing but war and fighting, just like his father.” She shook her head. “He was always bullying Prince Graeme, even when they were boys. He was a quiet one, our prince. Always thought before he spoke, and always went out of his way to come to the best decision that did not mean bloodshed. His brother would go in swinging first, and ask questions later, but not Prince Graeme.”
“I suppose I am lucky the gods did not see fit to marry me to Prince Velair,” Seri murmured, but she knew she lied even to herself. She could have killed that man, a man who destroyed without a thought. It was Graeme’s quiet thoughtfulness that undid her.
“He’s got a lot of his mother in him,” Idalla said. “Perhaps that is why the king…” She stopped, then patted Seri’s shoulder. “I’m done with your hair, milady.”
“The king what?” Seri twisted in the ornate chair to look into Idalla’s face. “The king what? Hates him?”
But the maid had gone pale. “I’ve said too much already, my lady. Forgive me.” She smiled brightly. “You’ve married a good man, though. He will treat you like the highest of ladies. The gods have chosen well for you.”
She said nothing to that. Instead, she looked around the room, watching as Vya took her few dresses and began to fold them neatly into the ornate, feminine trunks that seemed out of place in the prince’s masculine room. “So I am to stay here from now on?” she asked.
Idalla nodded. “You will share a bed with the prince. Your room will be made ready for visiting dignitaries. We will get everything from your room and bring it here if you desire.”
“That is quite all right,” Seri said, thinking of the dagger tucked between her mattresses. “There is something I should wish to retrieve myself.”
A short time later, she carried the red banner in her arms, the chilly length of cloth carefully folded in her arms. Safely in the folds of the fabric, the dagger nestled, hidden.
Seri would use it at dawn as they prepared for bed.
~~* * * ~~
The evening passed endlessly slow for Seri. Graeme had been closeted with a few councilors for some unknown reason, and that left Seri alone with the court as day two of the celebrations continued. She sat at the front of the room in her stiff gown, in the uncomfortable throne on the dais all by herself, a spectacle. People whispered behind their hands as they watched her, and her every move was scrutinized. Once, she yawned and the entire court burst into knowing titters.
The Athonites, she noticed, did not seem to be a very active court. The nobles spent their time dancing or playing silly parlor games that Seri had seen Vidari children play when they were young, but never adults. Then again, she did not blame them. The evening was long and there was nothing to do but watch other people. She hated life as a courtier. The thought of spending the rest of her days in this lonely ballroom with nothing but a bunch of simpering, backstabbing Athonites filled her with despair, and she plucked at the embroidery on her sleeve, trying not to cry.
“My lady,” a voice whispered at her side. Seri glanced over and noticed Graeme’s personal servant, Viktor. He had the pale skin of the Athonites, but his hair was a bright, flaming red and not the dark black that Graeme’s was. He had a sweet smile and seemed to be good-natured. She liked him.
He smiled back at her. “Prince Graeme awaits you, my lady. In his chambers.”
Seri’s hands dropped to her lap and a wave of shame struck her. So he did not even bother to come and see her out here or save her from these vicious fools who pranced around the room? Instead, he retreated and sent for her? Anger made her cheeks flush. “How very kind of him to send for me,” she drawled, anger making her voice hard.
Viktor looked surprised at her anger. “Did you wish to stay for a few more hours, my lady? I can let the prince know—”
“No,” she amended hastily, rising in a swirl of thick, long skirts. “I don’t wish to stay.” She ignored the people as the entire room bent to a knee, acknowledging the princesse’s departure.
She followed Viktor out of the stifling chamber and into the cool, dark halls of Vidara Castle, past bowing courtiers and servants alike, through the endless maze of passages until they were back at Prince Graeme’s chambers. Viktor opened the door for her and bowed but did not enter. “Good evening to you, my lady.”
When she stepped into the room, he closed the door behind her. The room was little more than shadows. The curtains were drawn, closing out all moonlight in anticipation of the rising sun, and a single light flickered next to the bed. Graeme’s form was hunched over as he sat on the edge of the bed, and she could see his shoulders rise and fall with the effort of his breathing. As if drawn by the bond that controlled them, Seri
stepped forward, her skirts swishing and rustling in the darkness, the sound over-loud.
As she approached, Seri realized it was not a candle that provided the light in the room, but the blaze of Graeme’s aura. He pulsed and flickered with intensity, and her own burst in response, lighting the air around them.
Graeme looked up as she approached, and she halted at the intense look in his gray eyes. Sweat gleamed off his forehead and his normally perfect hair was mussed, clinging to his scalp in damp tendrils. The collar of his starchy shirt was opened, revealing the skin underneath, and she had to fight the urge to go to him and touch him. It wasn’t her that wanted to do so after all, she told herself. It was the gods making her do it.
He looked displeased to see her; the beautiful lines of his mouth thinned and then he glanced away, not looking at her. “Why are you here?”
Uncertain, Seri looked back at the door. “Your man… he said you were asking for me?”
Graeme ran a hand down his face, then shook his head. “Viktor presumes too much, though he does it in my best interest. You do not have to stay. I will see you shortly.” His words were curt, dismissive.
She hesitated, torn. He’d given her the out she so desperately wanted—for she did want nothing more than to run away—but his flaring aura called to her, and the clear distress he was in made her hesitate. She took a step forward, putting her hand to his shoulder. “What ails you?”
He turned to face her, a swift, sharp gesture made all the more horrific by the baring of teeth he showed her. Instead of the normal straight, white teeth, two of them had lengthened to sharp points. “You, my lady, are what ails me.”
Seri flinched at the sight of his teeth and took a step backward, her hand going to her throat. “Me?” His teeth were enormous, terrifying. Memories of last night shot through her, and fear assaulted her. He would hurt her with those. Had they been that long last night?
His aura pulsed; hers flickered in response. He looked away, facing the shadows. “It would seem that… this betrothal affects my kind in a rather severe fashion. Give me time and it will pass.” His voice was strained. If it was possible, his aura flared brighter.
She hesitated, torn. He seemed distracted, lost. The dagger still lay under her pillow. She could lure him to bed—Oh gods above—and do the terrible deed then. Part of her felt a surge of tender pity, but she shoved it out of the way.
She was alone in this task that she must do for her people.
Resolved, she placed a hand on his shoulder, forced herself to stroke down his arm. “Do you… shall we…?” She couldn’t quite force herself to state it so blandly. Her throat closed up.
Graeme turned to look at her at that, his expression unreadable. “I do not frighten you?”
She nodded. “You do.” The quiet statement hung between them. She let her words falter, and she reached behind her back for the long row of buttons that went up her gown.
His eyes followed that motion, burning intensely. He stood and came toward her, pulling her into his arms and beginning to unbutton the ones she could not reach. She could feel his body quiver and tremble against hers, and she forced herself not to look him in the eye; she put her cheek on his shoulder and stared hard at the pillow on her side of the bed.
Graeme’s fingers brushed against her chemise, and the heavy length of gown sagged against her shoulders. His hands slid into the unbuttoned length as if desperate to feel her skin through all the cloth. “You do not wear a corset,” he murmured against her hair. She didn’t respond, simply closed her eyes and allowed him to peel away each layer, trying not to be distracted by the whirlwind of sensations that ripped through her with every soft touch.
And then she was in nothing but her chemise, and his long fingers worked at the high collar buttons of that, revealing her skin inch by inch. He panted hard against her, and she found her own breath had quickened to match his.
Her chemise slipped to the floor and he lifted her in his arms, carried her the short distance to the bed, and gently laid her there. Seri’s hair spread over the pillow and her body tensed, remembering the terrible dagger underneath. She felt that if he looked at her, he would know what was going through her mind, know what she planned. A shiver tore through her body.
“I frighten you,” the prince said quietly, his heavy weight sliding next to her on the bed.
She shook her head and opened her eyes. She didn’t smile, for she knew he’d not trust that, but she offered him her hand instead. “It’s all right,” she said, her voice hoarse with emotion. For some odd reason, she didn’t want him to think that she was terrified of him.
But then his hot, hard body covered her own and she had a hard time thinking again. The faint smell of sweat clung to him but it wasn’t unpleasant, just sharp, and she inhaled the scent as she wrapped her arms around his neck, ignoring the guilt at enjoying his embrace.
He took his time with her body, touching and kissing every inch of her he could find, until she was moving and panting and writhing along with him, though she didn’t want to and her mind protested. Her hips lifted suggestively against his when he did not move fast enough, but now that she lay in his arms, he seemed determine to seduce her away from her fear, and it frustrated her even as his touch sent shudders through her body.
But then his hands locked around her hips, and her legs parted in anticipation, and she lifted them and wrapped them around his hips, and she felt the core of his body nudge against her hot one and then he ripped into her body with that hot, hard part of him that seemed so foreign, and it felt so good that a sigh escaped her despite herself, and her fingers dug into his back. He thrust into her body, roughly, once, twice, and she met him with each hard movement, even though her limbs quivered and his body slammed on top of hers. Over and over, he thrust into her, the force of his body sliding them across the bed and shoving her head up against the ornate, carved headboard, and she put her hands up to brace herself.
Her fingers brushed against the dagger, and it was like a splash of cold water through her body, and she knew she had to do this, even though he drove into her body with the sweetest of sensations, and his lips tugged at the peak of her breast, and her soft cries echoed in the room. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt, and when he drove into her again, she closed her eyes and arched her back to fool him.
“Ah, Seri,” he groaned against her flesh, and it startled her that he would say her name in his passion. They were always silent except for the soft cries and gasps that escaped them, and she had wondered if he thought of Lady Aynee as he held her close.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered and plunged the dagger into his side.
Chapter Nine
She’d never stabbed anyone before. Her experiences with knives were limited to butchering a calf for meat and never anything more than that. She wasn’t a warrior.
Still, she knew as soon as the dagger sank into his skin that she’d done it wrong. Perhaps it was the angle, or perhaps the blade itself was dull, or she didn’t have enough strength in her arm, but the dagger didn’t sink in as much as she wanted and instead was ripped out of her hand when Graeme’s body jerked against hers.
And immediately, she knew it was a mistake. She wanted to take it back, to stop time and change her mind, but it was too late.
In the next moment, he rolled off her, and the world fell into confusion. The hot smell of blood filled the room, and as she watched, his aura flickered and then faded. Her heart nearly shattered in her chest at the sight.
Her own heart stopped. Oh god, she’d killed her betrothed. You fool, she told herself. You horrible, horrible fool. You’ve killed him and he was nothing but kind to you.
“Graeme?” she whispered into the darkness.
He cursed, the most beautiful and most awful sound she’d ever heard. In the next moment, she heard him cross the room, and she slid out of bed to follow, heedless of her nakedness.
Across the room, a sliver of light was revealed as Graeme opened the door on th
e far side of the room. “Get Viktor,” he said, his voice angry and strident. “Now. Tell him to bring his kit.”
The guard spoke assent and the door slammed shut again, and Seri was enveloped in darkness once more. She scarcely dared to breathe and stared into the shadows of the room, waiting for Graeme to approach again. Would he kill her for what she had done?
But nothing happened. It was silent in the massive chamber, and the minutes ticked past with agonizing slowness. A knock came at the door. “Enter,” said Graeme, his voice cool as always.
Viktor entered the room, carrying a lantern in one hand and a bag over his shoulder with the other. He lit another lantern with his, the room falling into dim light and revealing the scene to Seri’s eyes from where she stood, huddled next to the bed, a sheet draped over her body.
Graeme sat across the room in a chair, his wadded shirt dark as it pressed against his wound. He gestured impatiently for Viktor to approach.
The manservant didn’t glance at Seri. He came to the prince and dropped to a knee. “How may I serve, my prince?”
“I am wounded. I need you to sew the wound.”
Nothing more was said. No reference to her was made, though she saw Viktor stiffen a bit with surprise, but he hid it well.
They sat in silence as Viktor worked on the prince. A pungent herbal salve was rubbed into the wound—to stop the bleeding and numb the area, Viktor explained—and then he began to sew the wound. “You’re lucky, my lord,” Viktor said, his voice easy. “The wound is not a deep one. Whatever it was that hurt you has deflected off your rib.”
“I am quite lucky,” Graeme said, glancing over at Seri.
Despair shot through her, and she ducked her head in shame. She hadn’t even been able to stab him correctly, and she knew why. She hadn’t wanted to. Not really. Whatever it was that bound them together in this bizarre betrothal had taken over her mind, and she was obsessed with him. She couldn’t do it. Her mind might be focused on one thing, but her body had not followed through.