Chapter Seven
I step through the silver and black portal and enter directly into the king’s throne room.
From beside me, Klytis whispers, “Good luck,” before stepping backward, vanishing into the swirling silver.
Gray subtly brushes a comforting hand across the small of my back. I glance at him, and he nods. I blow out a quiet sigh through tightened lips, and then, together, we strut forward.
Immediately, I glimpse Sterling standing to King Alastair’s right. He waits patiently with his hands folded in front of him, his face carefully neutral—though I can spot the lecture and worry streaking through his eyes. One glance at Gray, and I know he sees it, too.
The king watches us with a narrowed gaze, perched haughtily on his throne. “Oh?” he coos, ice snaking over his words. “What’s this? I have summoned one but received two.” Eyes remaining glued to us, he chides, “Sterling, why does your son stand before me?”
Sterling releases a measured breath. “I have no idea, Your Majesty. As you have said, you summoned one but have instead received two.”
Oh…
Sterling’s pissed.
So rarely have I seen Sterling mad. He’s always said that the moment you lose your temper, you lose the battle. And though his temper remains in check, there’s a terrifyingly silent fury in his eyes—though no one could probably spot it but Gray and I .
“Hm,” King Alastair hums. He locks his eyes on me, pinning me with his cold gaze. “Where were you?”
I take a few steps forward, attempting to put distance between Gray and me. When he insisted on coming—a foolish decision—I quickly recognized he was not going to be talked out of it. So the least I can do is make sure the king keeps his attention on me, and only me.
I walk until I am at the foot of the dais, a small knot twisting in my stomach as I realize Gray will have to see me like this.
Has he ever seen me acting out my role, playing the part assigned to me ever-so-dutifully? I can’t remember…I don’t think he has. Sterling always tried to keep him away from the king’s parties—away from his court.
Still…
He certainly will see the degradation now.
“I was at the temple ruins, My King. I offer you my humblest apologies; I did not know you planned to entertain tonight.”
He glares at me. “I don’t remember letting my little birdie out of her cage, so how is it she flew away?”
I take another careful step up the dais, lowering my gaze and altering my voice to his liking. “You are right, My King. I should not have been so bold. How can I show you my remorse for making you wait?”
His lip curls. “Remorse is for the weak,” he spits.
Another step up. Then another. I kneel at his feet and slowly glide my hands from his ankle up his calf, lifting my eyes with caution.
“Of course, My King.” Once my hands reach his thighs, I slowly rise from my knees, letting my fingers linger on the inside of his legs.
I pull my hands back and fold them in front of me, bowing my head.
“I will do whatever I can to satisfy you.”
I dangle the bait and pray to the gods, hoping it’ll be me on my knees stripped bare in his private chambers instead of me on my knees stripped bare in this throne room.
But sometimes the gods do not listen, and prayers are nothing more than hollow wishes.
I glance up just in time to see the king’s lips curl into a sharp, taunting smirk. “Guards,” he practically sings. “Prepare the chains.” His eyes hover back to me. “Strip,” he commands.
I clench my teeth so forcefully, I fear they may crack and shatter—much like my pride. “Your Majesty,” I plead, my voice already shaking.
His eyes flare, and mine go wide at the recognition of my slip. “I–I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“—Do not address me as anything other than what I’ve instructed. I am your what ?”
My bottom lip begins to quiver, and a deep loathing reawakens within me. “King. You are my king.”
“And what has your king instructed, my little toy?”
I have to suck in my cheeks to keep my lip from quivering further. “To strip. My king has commanded that I strip.”
“So then strip you shall.”
He says it with such finality, I don’t dare utter a response.
Instead, I swallow against the overwhelming dryness in my throat, release a trembling breath, and I slowly peel away the clothes from my body.
When I’m fully bare, my cheeks flush with heat.
Not from desire, nor fear, nor even bashfulness from being nude—it’s from the humiliation of knowing that a pair of mossy gold eyes is watching, witnessing things I never wanted him to bear witness to.
Please don’t think less of me. Please don’t think less of me. Please don’t think less of me.
The king drinks me in like a thirsty traveler gulps water from a fresh spring. And then he smiles contentedly—satisfied—before he tsks softly. “You know I hate to do this to you, pet. But I am nothing if not a man of order and strict discipline.”
Lies.
He rather gets off on inflicting pain. I’ve seen the evidence— felt the evidence—on numerous occasions.
He angles his head, his eyes holding mine. “Shackle her,” he demands without breaking his gaze.
As the guards step up the dais to restrain me, Sterling’s voice cuts in. “Perhaps it is best if I take the boy and offer you privacy as you impart your judgment.”
From over his shoulder, the king growls back, “You will stay right where you are. The boy, too. She was your ward after all. Bear witness to her disobedience.”
Sterling inclines his head in submission. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
The guards grip my arms and tug me backward, and I despise the small whimper that escapes my lips. I despise even more that Gray heard it, because it results in him losing his rational thought.
“Wait,” he shouts, his voice echoing off the marble walls. “Let her go.”
King Alastair waves a dismissive hand. “Restrain him.”
Guards surround Gray and yank his arms back, holding him steady. From the corner of my eye, I glimpse him thrash and buck against their hold.
Please , I want to say to him. Don’t fight .
But I know if I address him, it’ll only make it worse.
“ Stop! ” Gray shouts, still jerking. “Please…it was my fault. Not Lyra’s.”
As my wrists and ankles are being locked in chains that lick my skin in a frigid kiss of promised pain, my body now outstretched like a star, I catch it when King Alastair slides his eyes to Gray, finally addressing him.
“If you do not cease speaking, I will have you gagged and whipped next. I will deal with your presence once I am done punishing my blood-sworn servant.”
Gray’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t speak further. Though, he does attempt to wrench himself free of the guards. They just tighten their hold on him in response.
Now bound in chains, my front side bared to the king so he can watch my face twist with pain, I grit my teeth in anticipation for what’s to come.
“Count your lashings aloud for me, pet. You will be given fifteen with the Shredder so that you will remember yourself and your duties to me.”
I always want to roll my eyes when the king uses one of those gods-awful names he’s given to his whips. The Shredder, both fortunately and unfortunately, is one that has never been used on me before.
King Alastair flicks his eyes to the guard now holding the glass-laced whip. “You may proceed.”
Every time my clothes have been stripped from my body and the tip of a whip has bitten into my skin, my mind attempts to protect what remains of my withered heart by disassociating—by detaching my human elements.
I am not a person with dignity; I am a blood-sworn servant to a king.
It is the kindness my mind offers me to get through these encounters.
Yet this time, my mind doesn’t do that, incapable of shutting off, circulating on high alert instead.
I am keenly aware of every inch of my exposed body.
I absorb every chiding word, feel every sneer—see every demoralizing detail.
And for the first time, I want to bury my face in shame. I want to wrap my body in a dense cloak and hide from the humiliation, from the guilt and the embarrassment, as questions of my self-worth scribble across my skin in bolded script.
I never wanted Gray to see this. I never wanted him to be privy to my treatment from the king. Knowing and seeing are two very different things, and now that he’s seen, will he ever be able to look at me the same? Please don’t think less of me.
The first kiss of pain slices diagonally across my back. Tears prick in my eyes, but I’m not sure if they are the result of the searing pain I feel on the outside of my body, or from the jagged pain on the inside.
Numbly, I do as the king instructed, and I count. “One.”
The next strike of the glass-laced whip kisses the back of my thighs. My body buckles, but the chains keep me upright. I grit my teeth, my face twisting.
I always somehow forget the way a whip’s touch exists like a phantom limb; the feeling still very much on my skin—fresh and hot—long after the cords have receded.
“Two,” I grate, my voice rough and dead.
On the third strike, a cry of pain echoes in my mouth. The glass wedges into the skin at my nape, the whip dragging its teeth over my shoulder, caressing my collarbone, shredding my body—hence its silly name. The room starts to spin, and everything grows fuzzy.
Something snaps—no, clicks —inside me, and a surge of pain invades my veins.
And I don’t realize how muffled the world has become until one sharp sound tears through the imaginary cotton in my ears.
Gray’s voice.
“Please,” he begs, thrashing to break free from the guards. “ Please. Listen to me. Listen to what I have to say.”
When my eyes finally manage to lift from the ground, I find King Alastair studying Gray—appraising him with a measured gaze. After a long moment, the king releases an exasperated sigh. “Out of respect for your father and your bloodline, I will hear you. Now speak before I change my mind.”