Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy

by Amy Miles

After a week passes, I begin to fear for Fane’s safety. His disappearance from the castle has gone unacknowledged by all except for myself. Vladimir has made no mention of his delay, nor has he given me any reason to question his involvement in this matter either. My husband seems rather indifferent on the matter.

  Since I spoke my damning vow beside the grave of Vladimir’s former wives, I have discovered new depths to misery. My husband no longer beats upon me as he did before, though with each night that passes, I feel a pain far more profound winding its way into my soul. Willingly giving myself to Vladimir has made me feel withered and fragile.

  His touch is softer, his time spent in my bed lengthened, as he takes his time to search each curve of my body. It is getting hard to hold back the tears. His embrace sickens me, though I know I had no other choice. If I am to survive and perhaps seek a way to escape, I must be able to fight.

  I only pray that someday my actions will no longer be weighted with self-loathing.

  Night draws near as I stand before the window. Will Fane return on this night? Surely he cannot linger much longer. Already winter has begun to show signs of waning. Spring bulbs have begun to bud on the trees. The air fills with the sweet scent of flowers ready to burst to life.

  I fear the spring, for with it comes the hunt, and I have yet to prepare.

  In the confines of my room, I have begun to survey the grounds with a far more critical eye. I search for dips in the valleys and crevices among the rocks. It is a little thing, though it is something.

  I try to prepare myself mentally for what lies ahead in only a few short weeks. Time passes as quickly as water through my fingers. I am terrified of my fate.

  My shoulders slump as I press my face against the chill of the stone beside my window. My eyes grow heavy from lack of rest. Months of little sleep have begun to wear on me. As my eyelids begin to droop, I spy a lantern in the dark. I jerk upright, blinking rapidly to be sure my vision is clear.

  Fane!

  I cannot catch his scent yet, though I know it must be him. The rest of my brethren have begun to feast in the great hall below. Several new guests have arrived from the east. Vladimir will be distracted with their tales long into the night.

  My heart rate rises as I watch the lantern in the woods flicker in and out. The horse is traveling far too swiftly for a normal rider. Between the gusts of wind, I can hear its hooves pounding the ground. It must be him!

  Gathering my skirts about me, I rise from my seat. I nearly laugh at the feel of a smile gracing my lips. It feels unnatural to smile, to feel even the smallest bit of joy, yet I do. I had not realized before how much I have grown to desire his company.

  I glance one last time at the window and decide tonight I will willingly emerge from my room. If I move quickly, I may be able to skirt the great hall and escape detection. The desire to greet Fane at the stables pulls me away from the window.

  I turn toward the exit and come to an abrupt halt. The door to my room stands open wide. Atticus stands in the doorway, his large frame filling the space so it is hard to detect the flickering of candlelight in the sconce beyond.

  “It is rude to enter a lady’s chamber without permission.” I instinctively shift away so my back is not against the wall. I do not trust this man, nor do I have any intention of placing myself at a disadvantage. He reeks of blood. His eyes are wide, his face flushed.

  He has consumed too much, I realize as the telltale signs of blood lust become blatantly obvious to me. He sways slightly as he takes a step into my room.

  “It is equally rude to look so ravishing,” he says as he leans back against the doorframe.

  “Vladimir will take your tongue off for speaking such things to me,” I hiss as I step behind my bed.

  Atticus watches me closely. His lips part as his gaze weaves down from my lips to the rise of my chest. “He is preoccupied with other… interests at the moment. I am sure he will not even note my departure from the feast.”

  My heart thrums frantically in my chest. His smile broadens and his eyes droop slightly as he listens to my panic. He breathes in deep, savoring the scent of fear that betrays me. “I will scream.”

  “I sincerely hope so.” He closes the door behind him with a foot. “No one will hear you though. The hall is filled with merriment the likes of which even you could not interrupt. The revelry has begun early and you, my sweet, innocent child, are not expected to be in attendance. We are all alone.”

  His hands drift down the front of his coat, slowly working each golden button. I take a step back, my gaze sweeping the room in search of a weapon, though none exist. After my previous attempts to take my life, all sharp objects have been removed from my room.

  I look to the mirror on my table as my only source of hope, yet I know that he will be upon me before I ever reach it. I turn at the sound of fabric shifting and see him watching me with the hungry eyes of a mountain lion about to devour its prey. His shirt hangs open, untucked from his trousers.

  “I have waited a long time for this.” He smiles as he takes a step in my direction.

  I inch closer to the fire, praying its heat will keep him at bay, though Atticus is too far gone to give a care for a little discomfort. As he lunges for me, I dip low and grab a handful of ash from the hearth and thrust it into his eyes. He cries in outrage and swipes blindly at me.

  I throw myself onto my bed, scrambling to my knees as he clambers after me. His hand snags the hem of my dress, pulling me back as I try to slide over the far edge of the mattress.

  “Come back here, wench,” he growls as he grasps nothing more than a handful of fabric.

  I buck and writhe upon the floor, tearing at my dress with my nails to be free of his grasp. The outer layer of my skirt comes loose and sends Atticus tumbling backward. His head smacks against the wall, though it only gives me a second to flee.

  I dart for the door, fumbling with the latch with trembling hands. This cannot be happening. My only thought is to hold out long enough for Fane to arrive. Surely he will come to see me, forgoing the feast to ensure I am safe. What if he does not come?

  My terror mounts as the scent of Atticus’s lust grows bold and nauseating. He leaps upon me, clawing at me with nails sharp enough to shred the bodice of my dress. I cry out and beat my fists against his arms.

  He grunts as he fights to still my hands, trapping them in one great hand while the other grabs me by my waist and pushes me beneath him. His knees land on either side of me, pinning me in place.

  “Get your hands off me.” I thrash in his grasp. I spit into his face and watch as his eyes darken with rage. Snatching my wrists, he slams my hands into the floor with enough effort to shatter bone. My fingers throb as tears fall freely from my eyes. Tears of fear, disgust, and anger.

  Atticus shoves his knee up into my ribs to silence me. My cries turn to labored gasps as I curl in upon myself. I wheeze and blink to clear the darkness that threatens to steal away my vision.

  His hot, rancid breath washes over my face a second before he crushes his lips against mine, grinding my lip against my teeth. He muffles my screams as his free hand tears away at my skirts. Only a thin barrier now lies between us.

  Blood seeps between my lips and fuels his desire. His tongue darts over my split lip. He groans as his hands rise above my thigh. I squeeze my legs together as terror washes over me with the ferocity of a winter storm. Countless times has my innocence been stolen by Vladimir. I will not allow Atticus to do the same.

  His gaze shifts as he draws my torn skirts up to my hip. I seize the moment and slam my forehead into his temple and ram my knee right up between his legs. Atticus groans and his grip on my hands diminishes.

  Desperate to be free, I clamp my teeth down upon his arm and dig in until his blood pools in my mouth. He beats at my jaw, striking blow after blow. I glare back at him as rage sharpens my gaze.

  His cries of outrage spurn me on. I clamp down tighter. He releases my hand and slams a fist into my jaw
. It snaps open of its own volition, though the instant he is free, I grab the front of his shirt and toss him aside. He slams into the wall and rolls back to his feet, crouching low as I have seen Vladimir and Lucien do before.

  I mirror his movements, keeping my weight shifted forward. It feels the natural thing to do. Blood drips from Atticus’s arm, splattering against the woven rug. His lips peel back into a fierce snarl. He looks like a crazed man. “You whore. Look what you did to my arm.”

  A slow smile tugs at the corners of my lips. “I will do far worse if you dare touch me again.”

  “Insolent wretch!” He flies at me with greater speed than I anticipated. I barely have time to dive to the side before he is upon me, covering my back like a bear mauling its victim. I slam my elbow back into him, unsure of what area I connect with, though I am hoping it is his ribs. He grunts in pain yet does not release me.

  Keep your hands free, I admonish myself as I struggle against his grasp. I know the moment he pins me again, I may not be able to get free.

  “Help!” I scream despite Atticus’s earlier statement that we are completely alone. Has Fane arrived at the stables yet? Has he entered the castle in search of me?

  My thoughts fragment as I scramble across the floor, carrying the weight of both of us on my back. He latches his arms about my waist, tearing at the underskirt of my dress until it comes free, exposing me fully.

  Aghast at the feel of his hands upon my bare flesh, I dive toward my bedside table. I jerk my head to the side at the last second, narrowly escaping the wide wooden leg. A sickening thud overhead and the slackening of Atticus’s grasp gives me a second to breathe.

  He slumps from my back and collapses onto the floor. I crawl out from beneath him. My arms tremble as I kick him off my trapped foot. He does not move as I claw my way up the table in search of anything I can throw at him.

  “I will make you scream for that,” Atticus growls in my ear as he snatches a handful of my hair, yanking my head back so far I fear it might snap off completely. I can feel the flesh of my scalp starting to tear. My screams echo off the stone walls. Blindly, I grasp the edge of my hand mirror and bring it down atop his head.

  Blood splatters me, seeming to explode from his face. A wide gash appears over his eye. Others open along his cheeks, nose, and chin. A rain of glass falls about my feet as I claw at him to release my hair. He shoves my face into the edge of the table and I slump to the ground.

  The room spins before me and darkness rushes in to steal away the pain. I feel my body thrown back to the floor, though I am removed from it all. I can hear fabric ripping, feel his hands shredding my dress away in great chunks

  It is only when I feel him pressed against my thighs that I revive. I shriek and thrust up into him hard enough to knock him off balance. I grasp a broken shard of glass from the floor and pounce atop Atticus, giving no mind to my lack of clothing or the pains that riddle my body.

  My pulse hammers in my ears as I stare down into his bloodied eye. My lips peel back from my teeth in a snarl as I drive the shard from the mirror into his throat. Blood bubbles burst between his lips as his hands frantically paw at my hand. I lean into the shard, savoring the sound of his flesh peeling away. My arm jerks as the tip of the glass breaks off in his spinal cord.

  “Roseline?”

  A rumbling growl rises in my throat as my head whips around to find Fane standing in the doorway. His face is vacant of color, his mouth gaped in horror. Lucien stands over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed as he focuses on Atticus’s gasping breaths.

  I hear the flurry of silk and the pounding of boots. Soon my doorway is filled with the faces of Alamesia, Emeline, Amadeus, and finally Vladimir, who pushes his way to the front.

  He shoves Fane aside as he enters my room. I sink back to the floor, crouched low. Blood coats my body, warm yet surprisingly pleasant. I watch the myriad of emotions splaying across Vladimir’s face as he approaches.

  My muscles coil as I prepare to lunge for Vladimir’s throat, when I catch Fane’s gaze. His eyes are wide with warning as he shakes his head.

  Reluctantly, I sink back onto my heels, though not before I see Lucien turn his gaze upon Fane. His complexion shifts from ashen to a pale rose as Fane averts his gaze. I bark out a snarl and Lucien turns his gaze upon me. A slow smile darkens his face.

  “Look at her, brother,” he whispers. The awe in his voice sickens me as he moves past Fane to stand beside my husband. “Is she not breathtaking?”

  Vladimir nods slowly. “Indeed.”

  I force myself not to look at Fane as Vladimir approaches. My chests rises and falls as I seek to control my anger as he draws near. “Are you hurt?”

  “No,” I manage to say. I wet my lips and taste Atticus’s blood upon me. I turn to the side and spit. A sniff of disgust jerks my attention toward Alamesia. Her lip curls with haughty disapproval.

  Vladimir follows my gaze and seems to realize for the first time that we are not alone. “Leave us!”

  His fingers dip into the pool of blood expanding upon my bedroom floor. The rustle of silk and the rapid retreat of footsteps hardly register as he reaches out to touch my cheek. I tense as a low growl rumbles deep in my chest, yet I do not pull away. I am lucid enough to know that would bring his anger down upon me.

  “I will live,” I respond tersely.

  He casts his glance to the side and observes Atticus. His neck is awash with blood, his white shirt giving evidence to the growing stain. His mouth opens and closes, though no sound escapes. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Isn’t it obvious, brother?” Lucien calls from behind, his tone dripping with boredom. “Atticus tired of your decree.”

  Vladimir hisses at Lucien and the man falls silent, though I can see defiance in his eyes when I look up at him. My husband turns back to face me. “Is this true?”

  I nod, unable to trust myself to speak again. Vladimir’s face darkens to match the deep velvet of his coat. He turns to face Lucien and Fane. “No one is to touch my wife. Is that understood?”

  A murmur of assent ripples between them, though only Fane seems to be in rapt agreement of Vladimir’s command. “If I hear of anything like this again, I will begin hanging every man in this castle. Heed my words, for I am in no jesting mood.”

  Lucien raises his hands to examine his nails. “It is time for the feast, Vladimir. You have guests to attend to.”

  “I will leave them to your care,” he responds. Lucien nods in agreement and exits my room.

  Fane turns to follow, though Vladimir calls him back. “You let this happen.”

  Vladimir stares down at me with such intensity that I fear I might flinch and betray myself. A trembling has already begun in my hands and arms. I know it will soon spread to the rest of my body. I have killed a man.

  I look down at Atticus, knowing his life could be spared if Vladimir wills it. Judging by the rage simmering within his eyes, I dare say Atticus’s chances are grim. A part of me is oddly grateful for this retribution.

  “My apologies, my lord.” Fane dips his head low. “I only just returned.”

  “That is not acceptable.” Vladimir reaches out a hand to me. I hesitate for a second too long, and I see the storm clouds brewing in his face. I rise up and take his hand, letting him help me to my feet.

  Vladimir turns us around to face Fane. I struggle to meet his unreadable gaze. He stares into my eyes rather than anything revealed below. How many times must I be laid bare to this man before he will show me dishonor? “She is your responsibility now. If anything like this happens again, it will be your head on a pike at the castle gates.”

  TWENTY-SIX