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He shook his head. “Maybe he wanted you to be older. Not everyone believes someone is mature enough or ready enough to marry at seventeen or eighteen—”
“Or nineteen? Twenty? Everyone is pretty much married or on their way to being married by nineteen,” I stated.
“Tavius isn’t married. Neither is Princess Ezmeria. Or me,” he pointed out.
“Tavius isn’t married because Princess Kayleigh got sick and he’s too lazy to ascend the throne and have, you know, responsibilities beyond being a drunken, lecherous pig. So, he’s going to delay marriage for as long as possible. And Ezra has other plans. You…” I frowned. “Why aren’t you married?”
Sir Holland shrugged. “Just haven’t felt like doing it.” He watched me for a moment. “I think he will come for you,” he said. “That’s why I still train with you. I haven’t given up hope, Princess.”
I barked out a laugh. “Don’t call me that.”
“Call you what?”
“Princess,” I muttered. “I’m not a Princess.”
“Really?” Crossing his arms, he returned to his normal stance when he wasn’t either attempting to knock me on my ass or wound me with all kinds of sharp, stabby things. “Then what are you?”
What am I?
I looked down at my hands. That was a good question. I may be a Royal by blood, but I had only been recognized as such three times in my life. I certainly wasn’t treated as one. My whole life had been focused on me becoming a… “An assassin?”
“A warrior,” he corrected.
“Bait?”
His expression was as bland as the leftover bread I’d managed to grab that morning from the kitchen. “You are not bait. You are a trap.”
And maybe I had become nothing more than a flesh-and-blood weapon.
What else could I be? What layers exist under that? I wondered as I toyed with the blindfold dangling around my throat. There was no time for hobbies or entertainment. No skill set developed beyond handling a dagger or a bow and how to live with grace. I considered no one a close confidant—not even Ezra or Sir Holland. Growing up, I had only been allowed a nursemaid. Not even a lady’s maid out of fear they would have some sort of terrible influence on me. Not that I needed a companion at all times. But the company would’ve been nice. All that I had that didn’t involve this was my lake, and I wasn’t sure if that really counted for anything since it was, well…a lake.
I blew out an aggravated breath. I didn’t like to think about this—any of this. I didn’t like to think at all, to be honest. Because when I did, it made me feel like I was a real person. And when I couldn’t stop the thoughts from coming, I dwelled on that small seedling of relief I’d felt when the Primal had rejected me. Then I drowned in that shame and selfishness. Those times, I made use of the sleeping drafts the Healers had brewed for my mother. Once, while Sir Holland had been dealing with something related to the Royal Guard and Ezra had been in the country visiting a friend, I’d slept for nearly two days. No one had even checked on me. And when I awakened, I had stared at the vial, thinking it would be all too easy to drink it all. My palms became clammy like they did any time I thought about that, and I wiped them on my tights. I didn’t like to think about that day either—about how that vial had become a different type of ghost than the ones that haunted the Dark Elms, refusing to enter the Shadowlands.
“Come,” Sir Holland said, pulling me from my thoughts. “Put the blindfold back on and continue until you hit the target.”
Sighing, I reached for the cloth and tugged it back up. Sir Holland retied the binding so it stayed in place. I allowed my world to turn dark because what else did I have to do? Where did I have to be?
He turned me to the dummy, and then I sensed him step back. As I firmed my grip, I thought about what he’d said. A warrior. He could be right, but I was also one more thing.
A martyr.
Because whether the Primal came for me, regardless of if I succeeded if he did, the end result would be the same.
I wouldn’t survive.
Feeling a dull headache coming on, I entered the narrow stairwell after finishing with Sir Holland. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the darkness as I navigated the sometimes-slippery steps to the floor below. Crossing to Wayfair’s east wing, that hall was far dimmer. I walked to the last, little room at the end of the quiet hall. The door was ajar, and I pressed it open.
Candlelight flickered from a table by the narrow bed, casting a soft glow across the small form on the mattress. I tiptoed into the room and made my way to the stool beside the bed. I winced as the wood creaked under my weight, but the form on the bed didn’t stir.
