And if it hadn’t been her — if it hadn’t beenhim— Gwyn might have almost appreciated the cleverness, and the insight, behind such a plan. Her father’s new law was utterly and horribly foul, and deserved drastic measures to abate it. Her father should have expected drastic measures. Gods,Gwynshould have expected drastic measures. She should have taken one look at that smooth, lying orc bastard, and known exactly what he was about.
“Stupid,” she choked at her ceiling, digging her palms into her still-wet eyes. “Stupid. So damnedstupid.”
She finally shoved herself out of bed, staggering toward the kitchen — but then realized, far too late, that the orc’s chamomile compress had fallen away. And in its place, there was a sudden surge of liquid heat, pouring thick and pungent down her bare thighs. Reeking of orc, ofhim, and Gwyn silently and vehemently cursed herself as she waited for it to end, her eyes scrunched shut, her hands in painful fists.
And once it was mostly done, she stumbled awkwardly across the room, snatched for a piece of candlewood, and drove it deep into her forearm. Spurting out a hot stream of blood, its pain streaking straight through her shouting thoughts, flooding over the anger and the shame and the gods-damnedmisery.
And as always, it was enough. Enough for Gwyn to numbly light her lamp, grab for some rags, and clean up first herself, and then the floor. And then she mixed up another dose of silphium, grimacing as she swallowed its bitterness, and finally, blankly turned her attention to the white flower lying innocuously on the table. The orc’s rose.
It must have fallen there while they’d been — well. But roses had many restorative properties, and Gwyn still didn’t recognize this variety, and it would likely propagate if she attempted it. So with a heavy sigh, she once again sat down at her table, and set to work.
She didn’t return to bed until the sun had started to rise, but thankfully she was exhausted enough that her eyes instantly closed, her thoughts twisting off into the distance. Curling into visions of a sharp-toothed grin, fluttering black lashes, a musky scent of green…
No, she told herself, as she slipped into sleep.No. Stupid. Never again…
Bang-bang-bang.
Gwyn immediately jerked back to wakefulness, her sweaty hands clutching at the bed, her heart pummelling against her chest. Bright mid-morning sunlight was streaming through the window, her head felt like someone had bludgeoned it, and surely this couldn’t be the orc again, surely —
Bang-bang-bang.
“Gwyn!” hollered a voice — a deep, devastatingly familiar voice. “I know you’re in there. Open up!”
Godsdamnit. Gwyn’s cursed heart skipped a beat, a ragged groan escaping her throat — but she was already scrambling out of bed, and clutching for her dressing-gown. Making sure to drag the sleeve down over her still-raw forearm, and then tying the sash painfully tight as she lurched toward the door.
“Gwyn!” the voice shouted again, alarmingly close, and Gwyn fumbled for the latch, thrusting aside the wooden slide. Which had somehow been closed again, curse that orc bastard, and Gwyn’s stomach clutched as she yanked the door open, and stared at the sight standing behind it.
It was Roy. Royal Lindsay, her betrothed, in the flesh. Tall and handsome and rakishly disheveled, wearing mud-spattered riding clothes, and flashing Gwyn his broad, breathtaking grin as he strode past her into the room, and shut the door behind him.
Gwyn stared at him for a hurtling, frozen moment, while her traitorous heart careened back into a gallop again, and an icy chill streaked up her spine. Roy was here, inVarrahan. What in the ever-lovinghell, how could this week possibly get any worse —
“Why,” she bit out, with creditable steadiness, “are youhere, Roy.”
Roy’s eyes flicked down Gwyn’s front and back up again, narrowing on her face. “What, I can’t pay a visit to my own betrothed?” he said lightly, stepping closer — and before Gwyn could move, he’d bent down to press a warm, familiar kiss to her cheek. “How’ve you been holding up, my fair Gwynevere? Missed me?”
Gwyn belatedly jerked backwards, crossing her arms over the front of her dressing-gown. “I’ve been busy,” she said, voice flat. “Very,verybusy.”
Roy’s eyes were sweeping across the room, passing over Gwyn’s masses of lush plants in favour of lingering on the admittedly ancient-looking stove, and the slightly crumbling masonry of the fireplace. “I can see that,” he said, his voice still light, though his eyes settling back on Gwyn’s face had darkened, looking troubled, or perhaps even concerned. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week, love. Everything all right?”
Gwyn’s throat convulsively constricted, but she twitched a sharp nod, and tightened her arms over her chest. This was how it always went with Roy, how she’d been roped back into his clutches again and again. He would smile at her, disarm her with his easy kindness, his care, hisregard. And then, once she’d devolved into a gasping mess in his arms, the knife-blade would appear, and skewer her in the heart with agonizing, deadly precision.
Just like with a certain orc last night,her scattered thoughts unhelpfully pointed out, as Roy’s forehead furrowed, and he came a step closer. “You sure, Gwyn?” he asked. “You haven’t had any trouble with the orcs, have you?”
Gwyn’s throat convulsed again, and she wildly shook her head, hard enough to whip her hair into her face. “No trouble at all,” she replied. “I’ve been perfectly fine. I’m only a bit tired from all the work to get settled, that’s all.”
But she was speaking too fast, her voice high-pitched, and of course Roy caught that, the worry again darkening his lovely eyes. “Then why don’t we go rest up for a while?” he said, cocking his head toward where Gwyn’s messy bed was just visible through the bedroom door. “And you can tell me all about it?”
And for the first time in months, or perhaps years, there wasn’t even the slightest trace of hunger in Gwyn’s belly. Not even a twitch of temptation, or longing, or regret. Because instead, her flailing, still-addled brain was full of that cursed orc. The ease of his tall body, the brush of his tongue, the hot sticky scent of what he’d left inside her, which was currently seeping steadily down her thigh…
“No,” she snapped, maybe at Roy, or the orc, or both. “Look, I told you last time, Roy, and the time before that. I’m finished with this. With us. For good.”
Roy’s brows rose, and that was surely a hint of a smile on his mouth, amused and indulgent. “You’re really working to punish me with all this, aren’t you, Gwyn?” he asked, with infuriating calm. “What is it you want from me, then? A good grovel? A glut of expensive gifts? Or maybe I spend the rest of the morning making good use of my mouth?”
His teasing smile ticked up further, matching the meaningful heat in his eyes — but again, there was no responding spark in Gwyn’s belly, none of the familiar dragging weakness. No, because there was only the damned orc again, kneeling on the floor before her, his long lashes fluttering, while his slick, shameless tongue drank her from the inside out…
Gwyn briefly squeezed her eyes shut, and rubbed at her aching temples. “It’s not about punishing you, Roy,” she replied thickly. “Or gaining compensation from you, or whatever. We’re just not good together, and we never have been. And that’s never going to change.”
Roy’s head tilted, his smile slightly fading. “Nice try, Gwyn, but we both know that’s rubbish,” he said, flatter than before. “We’ve known each other all our lives. Weunderstandeach other. And, even after all these years, we’re still damn good in bed together. Aren’t we?”
