*Maddy*
Reginald's hold on me is tight as he leads me up the wide steps leading to the front door of King Isaac’s home. I feel like I’m about to be sick, but I swallow past the painful lump in my throat and force myself to put on a brave face.
There are only two reasons why I’m here. Either Ella told him what happened, and in that case, I have no idea why the king would involve himself, or Reginald and the king have made a deal.
In any case, my fate is no longer in my hands. But then, it really never has been. I should have known from the very beginning that I wouldn’t be able to escape. In the best of circumstances, I’m simply being passed from one man to another, and I have no guarantees King Isaac is better than Reginald in any way.
The door opens with a whoosh that sends a wave of warm, dry air over my face. My hair flies over my shoulders, left loose and falling down my back in thick waves that coil into curls at the ends. I’m not in a gown this time, thankfully. Brown slacks are secured at my too-thin waist by a thick leather belt, obviously made for a man. A white, long sleeve shirt completes the ensemble, but the sleeves are too long, and I had to roll them up several times. I’m dressed like a man, and that causes a prickle of ease to ripple over my skin. Why the casualness now, and not before?
What has changed?
A fellow I don’t recognize is standing before us, dressed in the garb of the royal guards I’ve seen around the castle and in the village. He’s an older man, and his uniform is decorated with symbols I don’t understand, but it makes him look important. He looks Reginald over with a cold eye, but my attention is caught by the shadowy figures moving through the front garden.
More guards, all of them cloaked in darkness, are heading for the gate.
We’d come by car, and Reginald, who normally parks far away from the front gate to keep his driver and vehicle hidden, had pulled right up to the gate with several of his men traveling with us this time.
Something is happening. I can sense the tension in the air and feel little sparks of electricity fluttering over my skin. Reginald seems oblivious, his eyes shining like coins in the clear, crisp moonlight.
We’re ushered inside without a word.
Reginald marches behind what I believe to be a Commander of the King’s Royal Army. The older man turns to glance at me over his shoulder and I find him suddenly familiar now that the warm, golden overhead light illuminates his features. He looks a lot like King Isaac’s Beta, Cassian. Father and son, perhaps?
He turns away from me and continues, turning sharply into a large parlor of sorts, a roaring fireplace made of stone taking up almost the entirety of the far wall. King Isaac stands with his back to us. His eyes are set on a beautiful portrait over the fireplace. Alpha King Maddox and his mate, Luna Queen Isla. King Maddox is dressed in his formal pack regalia, his hand resting on the queen’s Isla’s shoulder. An exquisite crown of diamonds, sapphires, and moonstones sits atop her head, her golden curls falling over her trim shoulders.
I wonder who painted it with such care and skill.
The door slams and locks shut behind us, and I’m torn from my musings in an instant, my eyes flickering to meet King Isaac’s expressionless gaze.
“Sit down,” he commands, turning to face us. He has a crystal glass of whiskey in his hand.
Reginald finally catches on to the fact something is amiss. Idiot. He looks toward me like I can do anything to help him, but I keep my eyes on King Isaac, letting my withdrawn expression harden into something cold and bitter that reflects his own.
King Isaac’s eyes flash, a whisper of a smile tugging on the corner of his lips before his gaze drops from mine, and he seats himself in a high back chair resting his wrists lightly on the arms.
Reginald steps forward, taking a seat across from him, but I don’t sit. I stay near the door, my body partially cast in shadow.
This isn’t about me. Well, maybe a little. Maybe I am the catalyst to the plot I can sense in the king’s expression.
This is a trap, but I am not the mouse he seeks.
“The Alpha King of Celestoria responded to my inquiry,” the king says, twirling his glass. The firelight catches the whiskey behind the crystal, setting aflame with shimmer of gold and amber. “I’ll take her.”
He’s speaking my language. I can understand every single word, and the mischief behind it. Reginald is stiff as a rod as he sits at the edge of his seat, his jaw clenched.
“And the promise of payment still stands, I assume?” Reginald’s hands clutch the armrests, his knuckles white, and his tone clipped.
“A quarter million for the princess, despite the circumstances of her birth from a Breeder, seemed… offensive,” Isaac replies with a wry smile. “The king will have five-hundred thousand for her.”
Reginald swallows hard, throat bobbing with surprise. “That is very generous, my King.”
“Yes.” King Isaac stands, smiling down at Reginald as he extends his hand. Reginald, buzzing with surprise and excitement that he’d just sold me to the king, jumps to his feet.
I know better. I catch the gleam in King Isaac’s eyes. He knows. He knows Reginald is not who he says he is. He knows I’m not a princess of an Alpha King in a far away land. He knows the truth.
Fear blooms deep in my chest. I step back, away from the men, so my back is against the wall. I wish I could just go through it, dissolve into the wallpaper and disappear.
He’ll kill Reginald, of that I’m sure. That man is too consumed by greed to see the trap laid out before him in the guise of a brokered deal, a simple handshake.
And what about me? What happens now?
“He’ll be very pleased. He’ll send his army right away to assist with the impending war.”
“I know,” King Isaac grins, but something malicious flashes behind his eyes. “They’re already on their way. I sent the payment last night.”
Reginald goes still and silent. A hush drifts over the room. I can feel Reginald’s sudden panic, which is only made stronger when he says with a hint of surprise, “But I am the king’s man. I was to see to the delivery of the payment you promised.”
“You’ll have what’s due for your services.”
King Isaac grabs Reginald’s wrist, yanking violently and sending the whiskey glass toppling to the ground. I stifle a whimper as the door to the parlor opens, and several guards come in, some of them a little worse for wear as if they’ve been fighting, and recently. I can smell damp earth on their clothes as they pass me–rain, moss, and pine–all the scents now mingling with birch fire and the whiskey now spilled and staining the carpet.
“Reginald, the rogue. I never thought we’d have a chance to meet,” King Isaac grins, letting him go long enough for the guards to reach them. “You’ve been tormenting my kingdom for decades, but that comes to an end tonight.”
“You owe me if you keep the girl!” Reginald spits, practically foaming at the mouth.
“I owe you nothing but a long, drawn out death.”
The guards drag Reginald away, kicking and screaming. The older man, the commander, steps toward King Isaac and whispers discreetly into his ear.
But the king is looking right at me, his icy blue eyes fixed on mine with an intense gaze that has me going slightly weak in the knees. Fear cripples me, but I continue to stand, pressed tight against the wall.
What now? What now? What now?
I’ve done nothing wrong, but how can I possibly explain that to him?
Isaac nods, saying something in his own language before the commander leaves and shuts the door behind him.
I’m alone with the king.
He picks up the crystal glass he dropped and turns it over in his hands as he watches me. I wait. I won’t grovel at his feet. I refuse to beg him for mercy because I have done nothing wrong.
He runs his tongue over his lower lip as he watches me. Then, he shrugs, turning from me and walking to a wet bar on the far side of the room.
“Would you like a drink?” in my language
“No,” I reply without hesitation, the word drifting away on a breath as quickly as it had come.
He doesn’t even look my way as he pours another dram, drains it, and walks toward me, finally closing the distance between us. He examines me with a careful eye that has me wanting to cower away from him. It’s like he’s looking into my very soul. Looking for something.
“I can’t shift, if that’s what you’re wondering,” I hiss, unable to stop my words from being ice cold and clipped.
“I know. I can’t sense a wolf in you. Why is that?” He tilts his head, his eyes sharp on mine.
“I don’t know. It’s been years. I don’t feel it anymore.” What else could I say without telling him everything? That I am an orphan, devastated still by the death of loving parents? That I haven’t had a real meal in years, and that I’ve been kept locked away, kept like a slave, cold and hungry and miserably sad?
That any piece of the wolf tied to my soul has been beaten from me time and time again?
His eyes darken as if he senses the truth. He reaches for my arm. I flinch away, and he hesitates for a moment before trying again.
His fingertips through the longsleeve of my shirt are warm against the permanent chill that racks my bones. I draw in my breath while he pushes my cuffed sleeve up to my elbow with ease, and stops to look down at my bruised and scarred skin.
He must be disgusted by what he sees. Skin and bones, deep welts and unsightly purple and green bruises. I close my eyes so I can’t see the look of pity on his face.
I’m ashamed. Once, long ago, I had a fire to me that my parents forged and encouraged. I never picked fights, but I sure as hell ended them. I defended the underdogs. I was vocal when something was wrong. I didn’t ever cower or bow down to bullies.
That girl had been ripped from me, and now I am only a shell. Empty and lost. Too exhausted to cope any longer, and too far gone to even think about clawing my way to the surface.
It feels like being buried alive, honestly, over the course of several years. A slow, tortuous affair where I slowly drowned.
I nearly jump out of my skin when I feel Isaac’s hand on my face. I open my eyes wide and try to step away from him, but he has me pinned against the wall. His gaze is on my neck, on the red bruising there left behind from the day before when I’d been taken from the market, and Ella had witnessed it.
He cages me in, his elbow resting on the wall near my head as he leans down to inspect the marks on my neck, and the fading yellow bruises from a black eye I’m still healing from.
The scent of leather and bergamot fill my senses. His touch–distant and examinary, yet so incredibly intimate–sets my skin on fire, but I stifle it and bury the sensation deep, deep down.
His eyes flick to mine and hold me there. It’s hard to breathe, let alone think. I’m lost in those wells of deep blue. I notice little flakes of silver, a few pinches of gold, like his eyes were forged by something ancient and holy.
“You’re going to stay here now,” he says before pulling away. It isn’t a question. It’s a command. Cold and hard, it leaves no room for argument.
He tears his eyes from mine and walks away, his hand clenching and relaxing several times before he opens the door, and disappears.
I let out a breath and slowly drop to the floor, my back dragging down the wall.
Alone in his parlor. Alone, it feels, in this castle. Is this my dungeon now, or the start of something new, something better?
Either way, I’m wholly and utterly under his spell.
Again.