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9
For many Quiets to come, the prince avoids taking pleasure from my body. The hunger is there, buried in the way he grips my waist and runs his thumb over my flesh and grazes his lips over mine, or delves his tongue into my mouth.
Yet, he restrains himself from throwing me onto the bed and ravishing me, like I know he’s tempted to do.
Still, I’m in his bedchambers at the break of every Quiet, and he doesn’t dismiss me. I end up sleeping in his bed and, each time, he holds me just that bit tighter. I’ve almost gotten used to it, too. And that’s a dangerous thing.
See, it’s this that fucks with my head.
One moment, he’s trying to cut me up or kill me, the next he’s holding and kissing me. His hot-and-cold temperament, his kill-me-kiss-me moods.
This Breeze, I swim in the lake with Terry, whose duties are suspended for the time being. The prince is readying himself for some celebration at the Court this First Wind, so there will be no meal service in the Hall later.
So we have the rest of the time off until tomorrow.
Terry splashes water at me.
I duck under the surface to avoid its spray.
I get soaked-through anyway, but that’s all part of the fun, isn’t it?
Until Daein comes down the pathway to the shore and, when I force myself back up to the surface, I spot him watching me. He wears a faint frown on his face, his head tilted to the side.
Slowly, a small smile dances on his lips. “You have had your fun. Now come with me.”
I throw a bewildered look at Terry, but it’s no use. She is staring down at her warped reflection in the gentle ripples.
Sighing, I trudge out of the lake, water pouring down from my soaked hair. I wring it out before I slip on my flimsy dress.
The prince runs me over—slowly—with his hungry gaze, and I wonder how long his restraint will last. Then he turns his back on me and leads the way back into the castle.
Sopping wet, I follow him, my sandals hooked onto my limp fingers. I shadow him all the way up the tower to my bedroom, where there’s something out of place that I notice immediately.
A box perched on the foot of my bed.
I wander over to it.
The prince follows to the partition, then leans against it.
I throw a back look at him before I lift the lid. Flower petals lift up from the box, deep and pale blues, some glittering. I smile as I watch them dance back down to a resting stop.
Fishing my hands into the petals, my fingertips graze over some hard, rocky material. A frown twists my mouth as I grip and pull out the gift. I lift it up higher and higher until I have to step back from the bed and let it drape. It’s a dress—but not just any dress, like the many I have in my closet, or the fabrics waiting for me to sew them later.
This one is spectacular.
Stunned, I drink it all in, from the creamy crystallised corset-bodice, down to the tulle-layered skirt that puffs out over the floor. I cut my gaze down to the hemline, where those sparkling crystals are sewn.
The dress is still beige—well, more cream-toned than anything—so the statement hits me after the beauty of the dress does. An expensive dress, made just for me, but the colour is still the mark of a slave.
With a sigh, I drop the dress back into the box and roll my jaw. What’s a slave who’s also a lover? A mere whore, and that’s what I feel like this dress is telling me.
I turn my narrowed eyes on him, though they still simmer with fear.
Arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles, he leans against the partition and smiles at me. “There is something about your petulance that is pleasing to me.”
My face crumples and I turn my cheek to him. Eyeing the dress, I ask, “What’s it for?”
“The Royal Court,” he answers, pushing from the partition. He comes up behind me, his hand reaching for the nape of my neck. “There is a celebration of my sister’s birthday.” He brushes aside my wet curls, stroking his fingers over my pricking flesh. “We leave at the break of the Warmth.”
