Chapter Sixteen
I wake early to pack my things, only to find almost everything has been packed away during the night. My comb and pretty hair ornaments remain out, as well as my wardrobe book. I open it eagerly to decide on a dress for my court debut.
I’ve settled on a few options when the memory of last night intrudes. Will my Guardian be cross with me? I used his name when he’s told me not to, and names are powerful to the fae. I can’t even use the excuse that I was insensate with pleasure—although I was—because he’s trained me better than that. Even in my most passionate throes, I would not forget myself that way, and he knows it.
If he is angry, there isn’t anything I can do now. I hum to myself as I turn the pages and settle on a dress that fits his instructions, exactly. The night-blue velvet appears on my body like ink the moment I press the pin through the parchment. Its long sleeves nearly sweep the ground, and wide panniers give the skirt a shape that no one could consider revealing, but the low scoop of the neck and the under-bust corset beneath expose the tops of my breasts and a hint of rosy nipple.
Winking diamonds and glittering gold set a field of stars across the night sky of fabric. I look myself over in the mirror, quite pleased with my selection, and with Sarta’s handiwork.
“Stunning.”
I turn at Luthian’s voice. If he is angry with me, he doesn’t show it. He beams with pride.
Suddenly, ridiculously bashful, I flush and look down at the dress. “I wasn’t certain of the coloring, but—”
“Nonsense. You’d look beautiful in any color.” He tilts his head. “Your hair... I think...”
With a wave of his hand, my copper ringlets are braided in a crown about my head, with a few tendrils loose to brush my shoulders.
“We don’t wish to reveal too much,” he reminds me. “Come to him like this, and the king will be driven wild. He’ll want to see all this magnificence undone.”
“Thank you, Guardian.” The name is strange on my tongue, after last night.
There is a shift in his eyes, the fastest flash of silver, gone almost before it began.
He was watching. He heard.
I glance to the fireplace, the scorch marks that stain the white stone and the ceiling. Was that his anger, or...
The thought of him watching me, stroking himself, tormented by my pleas sends a shiver through me.
Frowning, he puts his hands on my shoulders. “There is no need for nerves. You’re ready.”
“Yes, Guardian.” Thank all of my mother’s old gods that he interpreted it as a shiver of fear. Perhaps we’ll talk about last night, and the night Firo left, but today I must keep my wits about me. This is the future. I can’t linger in the past.
Luthian tilts my chin up with the side of a crooked finger. “There. Hold your head like this. Don’t deign to make eye contact with them. Enter the court as if you are fae royalty because you will soon be. Don’t slouch. Don’t let your face give away your fear. And do whatever is asked of you.”
“Yes, Guardian.” And so, it’s time to embark on the next step, the one that will ultimately lead to Thrace’s undoing. “I’m ready.”
He steps back, and I note that we’ve selected similar colors for our arrival. The embroidery on his dark blue brocade coat is silver where mine is gold, however. His midnight hair is bound at his nape, and rings of silver and sapphire adorn every finger.
He catches me staring at them. “You’re right. You need...”
Rings appear on my own fingers, and something at my throat. I check the mirror to see a slender silver cord, tight but not uncomfortable, banding my neck.
It’s a chain. It drapes down my back and coils around Luthian’s fist.
“There.” Finally satisfied, Luthian offers his hand. I place mine delicately upon it.
I merely blink, and my bedroom has vanished. We’re surrounded by faeries, in a room with opulent gold columns and gleaming white marble on the floor. Overhead, a sky-painted ceiling is adorned with real clouds that move on a breeze, stirring the loose curls at my temples.
But as beautiful as the architecture is, it doesn’t compare to the gorgeous sea of fae around us. There is skin of pale milk, like mine, as well as russet and black as deep as Luthian’s hair. A rainbow of varying intensity colors others, deep ruby, pale violet petal, leaf green and vibrant orange. Their wings are bat-like, dragonfly, daisywing, collections of flowers, delicate spiderwebs sparkling with dew. I spy lace, like Sarta’s wings, but also a set of huge buttons, a pair of book pages, a sideways hourglass with silver sand constantly flowing. Every pair flutters with excitement; antennae twitch and spark.
And though I am dizzy with the sights before me, I do not allow my wonder to show. I keep my chin lifted, gaze straight ahead, face as still as that of a haughty corpse.
There is no disguising the beat of my pulse in the hollow of my throat, or the jerk of my bodice with the rhythm of my heart. The place is a wonder of glitter and gowns and finery.
And nudity. I notice several faeries wearing nothing at all, and I know my cheeks blush.
I walk beside Luthian as if we own the room, but it is beneath us. I sense as we pass that not all are pleased to see him. Fierce whispers mingle with the curious murmurs as the crowd parts.
“Luthian of Mithrax!” a voice roars, and the assembly splits into a loose formation of rows on either side of a long, grassy carpet.
At the end of it is a dais, and upon that dais is a throne, and upon that throne is an enraged faery.
Luthian stops. So do I. He bows from the waist, straightens, and nudges my hand. I find my wits and sink into a curtsey.
“Your Majesty,” Luthian begins. “It’s so good to—”
Spears of curling smoke ring us at the height of Luthian’s neck, their barbed points aimed straight and true.
“You were banished five hundred winters ago,” the king shouts.
He is a handsome king. Perhaps due to my mortality, I imagined he would look like a very old human. He’s broad-shouldered, well-muscled, and when he rises to approach us, I note the defined strength of his thighs beneath his leather breeches. I imagined he would have a crown upon his head, being a king, but he simply has a mop of amber-tinged brown curls pushed back carelessly from his square-jawed face.
He stops before us, not sparing me a glance. But his eyes never leave Luthian’s. “How dare you disobey me.”
“I’ve come to make amends, my most gracious king.” Luthian nudges me forward, but I have no desire to step directly into a barbed spear that will split my forehead. My gaze cuts sharply to him.
“Do you believe I’ve forgotten, in so short a time, the havoc you visited upon this court?” the king seethes.
So short a time? And then, my mind sticks on five hundred years. Was that the truth?
“You were born for it.”
I’ll pass out. I’ll faint and fall on the spears and that will be the end of both of us.
“I’ve reflected on my actions,” Luthian says. “I owe you an apology, Arcus.”
The king’s sun-kissed skin goes pale with fury at the sound of his own name.
I trust Luthian. He would not have led me into a trap he could not devise a way out of.
If he dies here, do I still get my wishes?
“I’m deeply sorry,” Luthian goes on. “Not just for my betrayal of you, but my betrayal of the late queen. My actions were vile. Disgusting. Not in the way this court usually celebrates.”
There’s a titter of laughter through the otherwise sepulcher-silent crowd.
The king notices me then. First, a glance from the corner of his eye. Then he doubles back for a longer look. “Who is this?”
“My bride,” Luthian says.
This is not a part of the ruse that he’s discussed with me, but I’ve promised to play along, and it’s the only way I’ll survive.
“Your bride.” The king sneers. “A human.”
“They don’t last very long, I’m afraid,” Luthian says, feigning disappointment. “But you know what they say about them.”
“Everyone in this court knows well what is said about them.” But the king takes a deep breath through his nose, as if trying to recover control that he’s lost. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had one, though.”
“My bride has several sisters—”
I wonder at that. Now that I suspect the motive behind my birth, I suppose he could have fulfilled many such wishes.
The king waves his hand, brushing the smoke spears into nothingness. He holds my gaze for a long moment. There are no stars in his, but they gleam like a fold of mahogany silk as he snatches my wrist and turns away. I stumble after him as he drags me toward the dais. Should I fight him? Should I go obediently? Everything moves so quickly. I cast a look back at Luthian and see his stricken face, a hand reaching out toward me as if to pull me back.
“No. I think I’ll amuse myself with this one,” the king says, crushing my wrist in his grip until I cry out with pain.
“Your Majesty—” Luthian begins to protest, but King Arcus is striding up the dais, to his throne.
He means to take me before the entire court.
To humiliate Luthian.
I have to suppress a smug smile. My Guardian is devious. He’s planned this all along. I’m almost giddy with how quickly the king has fallen for our ruse.
Arcus grabs the back of my head, sinking his hands into my bound hair and jerking hard. His tongue paints a hot swipe up my neck. “You’ve never had a king before, have you? You are permitted, and commanded, to answer me.”
I think quickly. His roughness implies he enjoys inflicting pain. His anger implies he wants me to fear him. I force myself to tremble, my voice to quiver. “N-no, Your Majesty.”
“I hope your husband has prepared you for our ways, or this will be a nasty surprise, indeed.” Arcus chuckles, and I whimper. Across the room, Luthian stands still, his expression stricken, his eyes holding mine.
I almost believe he’s truly despairing. To anyone who doesn’t know our plans, he would appear to be.
Arcus laughs cruelly and pulls me to stand with my back pressed to his chest. His grip on my hair tightens, bringing tears to my eyes that will add a nice touch of authenticity to the scene. He uses his other hand to jerk down the front of my dress, exposing my breasts. He sucks in a mockingly appreciative breath as I squeeze my eyes shut.
“I see how you were tempted away from your kind, Luthian.” Arcus palms my breast roughly, and there’s a murmur of appreciation from the courtiers, who watch my humiliation with rapt attention.
Another tug rends the front of my dress entirely. He could merely wave a hand to undress me, so this violence is intentional. I lean into the role I’m playing and sob, try to cover myself.
He slaps my hands away. “No, no. Your husband will learn a lesson today. Hold her.”
He shoves me forward. Pins scatter from my hair as he tears his hand free. For a moment, it seems I’ll plummet from the dais, but something catches me.
Sylphs made of cloud grab my wrists. I struggle against them and find they’re surprisingly strong. I note that, should it ever come up again.
The king unlaces his breeches and frees himself. His shaft is long and thick, and I widen my eyes at the sight of it, as if terrified.
Size is a point of pride for creatures who have cocks. Luthian impressed that upon me during one of our etiquette lessons. In the case of King Arcus, I don’t have to do much pretending to be impressed. I hope my shiver of anticipation is interpreted as fear. I make my face a mask of horror and struggle once more.
Arcus seats himself on the throne and motions to the sylphs. They push me forward, the toes of my slippers barely skimming the floor, as I try to scrabble away. With every renewed struggle, the desire darkening Arcus’s gaze intensifies. He’s so consumed with his lust for revenge against Luthian, he can’t see through my ruse. All the better for me.
“Strip her.” Arcus orders.
The Sylphs tear my gown away, rip the panniers and corset with claws of air like knives. I try to cover myself again, and sob openly.
The king holds his cock at the base. “Bring her.”
“No!” I cry frantically. “No, Your Majesty, please!”
I scream, kicking my legs as the sylphs turn me to face the court.
They’re enraptured. Every faery watches, some of them languidly touching each other or themselves, unable to tear their eyes away from the spectacle before them.
I remember my first night with Luthian, standing on the stage and touching myself while an audience of fae watched me.
Did Luthian know this would happen? Was he preparing me for it?
More sylphs materialize to hold my legs, to bend them into position as all four lower me onto Arcus’s lap. The tip of his cock brushes my center and I renew my futile fight.
“She’s wet already,” Arcus announces, and the court laughs.
“Please, please!” I chant, false tears streaming down my face.
There is no mercy at the Court of Pleasure and Torment.
That’s the word that will seal this moment. The plea that will intoxicate him, make him crave me. “Your Majesty, I beg of you! Mercy!”
He grabs my hips and brings me down upon him, filling me in one brutal thrust.