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Reshva’s face rose from the dark. Black hair braided over one shoulder, mouth set in a thin line of disapproval, long fingers clutching a fallen blossom from Estarin’s wide boughs.
And…
Crimson.
Eyes as red as freshly spilled human blood stared back at her.
Deep within Elarian’s heart, a nameless horror clawed its way to the surface. She felt herself gathering her spit, pursing her lips, and hurling a sticky glob of saliva at Lucan’s face.
He lithely stepped out of the way, a smirk curling one side of his lips.
“As I expected.”
Lucan turned to face the court, now murmuring amongst themselves. They were silenced at his attention.
“If that is how you wish to play this game, Elarian, then so be it.”
Before Elarian could take another breath, the shadows holding her hostage warped and twisted around her trembling form. They threaded themselves through her thin raiment and tore the silks away with ease. Gray pooled at her feet; she looked down, unable to hide the relief washing over her as the cool air and shadows licked at her skin.
How many different ways could she blaspheme Melistra’s Grace in this dread castle?
How many times would she discover some hidden, shameful part of herself already waiting to crave it?
Stripped once again in front of the court, Elarian took a step toward Lucan. He jerked hard on the golden chain between them, forcing her to stumble, hands splayed wide as she caught herself on the cold marble floor. Instant relief from the fires churning through her body stole even the flame of her rage.
“Down, pet,” he growled. “You still need to learn your place, it seems.”
Elarian tilted her chin up, trying to find her words beneath the competing delirium consuming her mind. She could only stare at Lucan and wonder how such a man could continue to defy her every expectation. When she did not reply, Lucan continued walking.
Each dragging knee and dirtied palm over the marble floors both cooled her raging blood and flamed the sacrilegious warmth pooling in her belly.
At first, the court spoke in hushed murmurs as Lucan and his prize walked toward the dais, but by the time they reached the end, the conversations had resumed their usual cadence. Through the blur of her fever, the strange thrill she felt at prostrating herself naked at Lucan’s feet, and her shame, words drifted toward her only to dissolve again.
Trade routes.
Territorial disputes.
Names of noble houses decimated by her Blades.
Castle Brythaeg.
Taxes.
If she were a better assassin and not victim to her bloodbound curse, she might have remembered this for future missions. Instead, she only focused on the floor beneath her gaze and the way Lucan slowed his gait as she crawled behind him on hands and knees.
Only when they reached the dais did he let her stand. By the time she ascended the steps, reality blurred together into distant shapes and colors. She knelt beside the Blooded Prince, naked and consumed by her fading starin.
The court hummed on around Elarian, who could only hold her head up as the inferno inside rose once more.
The throne room emptied slowly.
One lord lingered to flatter Lucan. Another bowed too deeply and fell to the floor—drunk off of bloodwine, do doubt—before hurrying away. Somewhere farther down the corridor, shouts erupted as a pair of courtiers argued over the rest of their night’s entertainment. On the floor beside them, a thrall slumped against the floor, eyes wide and glassy.
Elarian scarcely saw any of it.
The chain linking her to Lucan dragged softly across the polished stone as she followed behind him. Her legs felt carved from lead. Each step sent another wave of heat rolling through her blood, though the cool marble beneath her bare feet soothed it enough that she could continue walking without collapsing.
No words passed between them.
