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“No. Well, yes, technically, but I was only gone for a few minutes and—”
Draven waved a hand to silence her, wearing an expression of indifference. “I’ve heard enough.”
Orianne slammed her mouth shut, and the color drained from her face. “Please, Lord Draven, it won’t happen again.”
“You are correct.” He stood, and Orianne visibly flinched. His expression turned from indifferent to wintry. “Do you know what happens to those who can’t follow orders? Who thinks it’s only a few minutes and leaves their post?”
“No, Lord Draven,” Orianne said.
“Do you, Charlotte?”
She shook her head, reluctant to answer. She’d read several accounts of Draven’s historic cruelty. He did not simply punish a person. He made an example of them, the kind that involved stakes and slow agony. The kind of horror that was recorded in history books. The kind of horror she had feared for Miles.
“You already know. Say it,” Draven ordered.
“You send them to the dungeon,” she answered.
He nodded. “Nasty places. Cold. No natural light and the solar lights haven’t worked for at least twenty years. I understand there are rats.” He circled Orianne as he spoke. Her complexion resembled snow at this point, her color completely gone.
White as a ghost.
Charlotte had read that turn of phrase so many times and never seen it in actuality. It was horrible witnessing another being haunted by Charlotte’s selfish actions.
“Remind me where you come from,” Draven said.”
“A farmstead—” Orianne replied.
“Nowhere,” he said, speaking over her. “You came to me from nowhere, half-starved and desperate. I took you in. I fed you. Clothed you. Sheltered you.” He paused, waiting for her response.
“Yes, Lord Draven.”
“In exchange for my generosity, I expect you to perform your duties. Were my instructions unclear?”
“No, Lord Draven.”
“Too complex?”
“No, Lord Draven.”
“Then I don’t know how you misunderstood a fairly simple and direct order. Guard Lady Charlotte. I could not make your orders any clearer.”
Charlotte couldn’t take it. She slammed her hand on the table, rattling the coffee cup and saucer. “Stop! Please, just stop. It wasn’t Orianne’s fault. It was mine.”
Draven turned his attention to her. Earlier that evening he had been angry with her but that was nothing compared to the bone-chilling coldness in his eyes. In the firelight, he glowed red. “Do tell, sweetness.”
“I, umm, wanted to snoop,” she said, her mouth suddenly dry. “You caught me in here, so you know that’s true. In the greenhouse, I convinced Orianne to help a young man she’s sweet on—”
Orianne made a strangled, mortified sound but otherwise kept her mouth shut.
Charlotte continued, “And I swore I’d remain in the greenhouse while she helped him take a cart to the kitchens. It was my fault.”
“You lied, sweetness.”
“I did.”
He strode toward her. She shrank into the back of the chair as he planted his hands on the arms and leaned down. He bared his fangs. She turned her face away, unable to look. He huffed and pushed away.
“Well,” he announced, “I think we all learned something. You, my sweet bride, are an insufferable snoop and will lie to get what you want. A pretty face will distract Private Orianne from her duties.”
