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8
I expect the prince to abandon me after that Quiet, to leave me in my room, unbothered and uncared for. Instead, when I return to my room, it is only an hour that passes before Hilda comes with some salves from the butler’s store.
The prince ordered that my injuries be treated.
Hilda holds me first. I weep into her shoulder like a child with a wound. It isn’t until my sobs deflate to shivering sounds that she turns on the salves and balms to smear over all of my wounds—the bruise on my cheek, the cut on my lip, the gash on my palm, the marks all over my neck. He ordered to have them all healed, and I loathe him for it.
I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.
I simmer in that despair for the rest of the Quiet, long after Hilda leaves me to be alone. I stay wrapped up in my sheets on the firm bed all of the coming Warmth and Breeze.
I sense the shift of time as the First Wind comes. There’s a bite to the air, one that reminds me of the Chill back home. So I know that soon, I’ll be expected in the Hall for dinner.
The thought of sharing a meal with him sickens me to my churning stomach. I won’t do it, I can’t do it.
I bury my face into my thin pillow, as though doing that will let me sink into the feathers and disappear.
Last Quiet’s dress still clings to my clammy body. It’s ruined from the prince’s attack on me, stained with my blood, torn from the dagger’s strike. I know I need to peel it off and somehow muster the strength to wash—and make it to the Hall for dinner. But I just can’t.
The bed has its hooks in me.
I close my eyes and drift off, dreaming of the farmhouse, of Jasper trying to drown me, of my mother comforting me, and then I stir awake, roll over, weep, then fall asleep again.
It’s a cycle that I’m trapped in.
At some point, dinner time comes and I’m roused from my broken sleep.
Weight on the foot of the bed shifts me, and I roll onto my side.
Peering out of swollen eyes, I expect to see Terry or Hilda sitting at my feet, ready to comfort me, perhaps bring me a meal. But I’m jolted upright with a bolt of fright the moment my gaze lands on the prince.
He sits on the end of the bed, his hands clasped between his spread legs, and his back curved.
Dark tendrils falling over his downcast face, he has his head bowed and watches the pressure of his thumbs on his hands. “You earned something from me I was never prepared to give to anyone.”
I shift on the bed, slipping back until my spine presses against the wall. Sweaty hands grip onto the sheets, twisting them. A frown pinches the middle of my brow at his words.
Then the harsh, painful kiss flashes in my mind and my heart sinks.
Is he confessing to something here? That the kiss meant more than rage in the heat of the moment?
I didn't give much thought to it after he threw me to the ground. I dismissed the kiss as something fuelled by hatred and fury, nothing more.
But maybe I was wrong and he really was kissing me, releasing all that pent-up affection he has for me.
Maybe I’ve been reading him wrongly all this time.
The prince turns to look at me, his glass-blue eyes polished clean of any emotion. It’s his face that betrays him, the turned-down corner of his grimly set mouth, the low hang of his long lashes.
He runs his gaze over me, lingering over my neck and cheek for moments too long. “No matter what happens between us,” he says, “you will obey your duties. I expected you in the Hall for our meal.”
My jaw tightens. I look down at my brought-up knees.
“This time, I will turn a cheek to your disobedience. You will come with me now to the Hall, eat with me, and come to my bedchamber.”
My face twists as I turn away from him.
That’s the last thing I want.
