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“Of course. I suppose this was written in the stars.” My voice is full of sarcasm, but then I recall the threads of destiny. No, whatever this is, it has nothing to do with my visions, with my kindred soul.
“Things are only written once we write them. Then there’s no choice but to accept what is.” His voice is slow, solemn, perhaps pained?
I don’t suppose he’s trying to evoke pity, is he? He who has committed horrific atrocities, such as… “Did you attack Lord Stratson’s estate?” I blurt.
He looks at me and frowns. “I don’t keep track of human lords, and much less attack them.”
It sounds convincing, but it could be a lie. Wait a minute. Can he even lie? He looks human but he’s a full-blooded fae.
I know the question is stupid, but it leaves my mouth before I call it back. “Can you lie?”
“That’s a question without a satisfactory answer, wife.” His mocking tone is back.
“You could say yes. That would be an answer.”
“Well, my answer’s no.”
He stares at me with a mocking smirk, knowing I don’t have an answer to my question, then extends his arms on the back of the seat behind him. My heart flutters for a moment, as I’m reminded of my dreams, when I’m nested in the space between his arm and his chest, enveloped in a wonderful feeling of love and safety.
Not his arms. It’s not the same person. I need to remember that, so those visions don’t muddle my mind.
Marlak’s observing me, eyes narrowed, visibly displeased with something. I notice that his eyes look like they have a thin layer of black ink, but it’s not ink. It’s his dark, thick eyelashes that give that impression. For some reason they look beautiful and menacing at the same time. And I shouldn’t be noticing his eyes.
“Wife,” he says slowly. “You will be free—within certain constraints, of course.” Like being a prisoner. I know. He continues, “And I’ll do my best to provide and protect you, but do not play with me. Do not mock me. Are your powers impressive? Absolutely. Do they affect me? Not at all. So don’t waste them.”
Powers? Oh, right. He thinks I’m some kind of seductress. I try to imagine myself in a dress with a low cut, and it just looks ridiculous. Then again, that strategy doesn’t work for everyone. What would work for Marlak? Probably nothing. Covering myself in treasure, maybe, as if he didn’t have more than enough.
“I don’t have any powers.”
“I know you don’t. Not any that will affect me, at least, and I’d really rather you didn’t make a fool of yourself.” He leans over again, and the only reason his face is not close to me anymore is because I lean as far back as I can, even if it’s a position that conveys fear. I don’t care.
“Understand, Astra.” His voice is slow and careful. “I don’t think you’re alluring, I don’t think you’re charming, I don’t think you’re attractive. Your pathetic attempts at seducing me are laughable. Your crude attempts at trying to elicit a physical response are not only pitiful, they’re vulgar and tasteless. I suggest you stop them.”
Great. Now I’m feeling angry and humiliated, and it’s so hard to hold back my tears when I’m feeling like that. My only chance to keep them in check is by fighting back, even if nothing comes to mind but immature words.
“Oh, look who’s talking. One would think you’re prince charming. You’re overcooked, husband.” I can also make a mockery of that. “They forgot to turn you on the spit.”
He laughs. “Oh, wife, you’re so creative with your insults. You must think I don’t have a mirror, but I do. I know very well that I’m ugly, disfigured, scarred.” Those words are utterly ridiculous, but I’m not going to tell him that.
He leans forward even more. “I know very well that I’m repulsive. I know what I am. I know what I look like. What you don’t know is that I can be a monster both on the outside and on the inside.”
For a second, I don’t have a reply. I don’t know what to say. Angry tears are threatening to burst through, but I won’t let them. I won’t let them.
“Oh, look at him. So manly and so threatening. Are you trying to compensate for something? Is it your itsy-bitsy weenie?” I know. I know I’m arguing like a ten-year-old, but it’s either that or crying, and I’m not going to let him see me cry.
He leans back and laughs. “But you know exactly how tiny it is, don’t you? You pretended to like it just enough.”
Oh. He means… Oh. I can still recall holding it. No, no, no. It was a dream. My dream—and I have to erase it from my mind.
Keeping my face blank and even a little surprised, I say, “You’re insane.”
“Yes. I’m the one who’s insane. I’m the one who plants dreams in other people’s heads.”
“You have your ring.” I glance at his hand, but don’t spot the Shadow Ring. “Usually. No magic can reach you. If that magic even existed. You’re making excuses for your depraved fantasies.”
He nods. “I’m glad you’re aware they’re depraved. And I don’t think you understand how the Shadow Ring works.”
“Perhaps you’d like to enlighten me?”
