Chapter 9 #2
I come to an abrupt stop before her as I suppress a sigh of relief. This moment is merely a small hiccup in her resolve, in a world that makes her feel utterly powerless. It’s a familiar feeling—helplessness.
I live with its poison.
So, I offer her control. “Why not?”
She is the queen. Strong or little—she is the powerful one. Right now, with me, she should know I am to be commanded.
“I like your hair,” she responds, her voice soft yet resolute.
I step forward again. We are impossibly close—the tension between us is tight, and I wish to snap it with my bare hands.
“It gets in the way.” I look down at her, eyes soft, tone a mix of teasing and truth.
“I am your queen, and I say no. Plait it. Like the warriors did in the old-world.”
A smile threatens to break free, but I stifle it. “As you wish, my queen.” My gaze drifts to the fruit platter, an aggressive array of colours. There are too many choices for her. I’ll have to have words with the kitchen—again. “Will you eat for me, little queen?”
Her big eyes gaze up at me, and I take a moment to freeze time. It always moves too quickly in her presence, but I can slow it down by taking in each detail.
My queen.
Tuscany.
Standing before me, she is a masterpiece—her honey-coloured hair cascading like liquid gold down her torso, her skin a warm hue, her eyes reflecting the same rich tones.
I watch her chest rise and fall, her shallow breaths shuddering. I am too close—dangerously so.
No woman could be more forbidden than this little queen before me.
As I move to collect her night shawl, I can’t shake the overwhelming desire to hold her in my arms. But my heart and duty weigh heavier than my selfish needs.
Unbreakable.
I retrieve the long Aquilla Cat fur jacket and approach her. I hold out my battle-worn hand, and without touching her, guide my queen to her chair. Pulling it out with the reverence she deserves, I wait for her to accept.
A soft sigh escapes her lips before she sits. “My Eagle—”
“Rome,” I say. Her Eagle. “I will get him for you. Try a piece without him.”
“I can’t.”
As I reach her bedside, my eyes fall on the fluffy toy eagle she named after her older brother. I pick it up, feeling its softness in my rough palm. Softness she needs.
Returning to her side, I offer it to her. She reaches for the fluffy toy instantly, placing it on her lap, then stares at the plate before her, a battlefield of choices.
I hold her gaze, my heart aching. I don’t ache for the men I murder and torture in the name of Rome of The Strait, but for her… I ache. “One piece, my queen.”
Her eyes flit over the platter, overwhelmed by the options—each one laden with emotions and expectations.
Fuck it—I can’t take it anymore. Sitting down, I grip the sides of her chair, pulling her closer until her knees brush against my shins.
Her eyes widen.
I stare at her, serious.
“Just one piece,” I whisper, a plea floating between us. Stabbing a small wedge of banana, I then offer her the fork.
She drags in a breath and accepts the silver implement. She stares at the morsel. Slowly, she places it between her lips. I hold my composure as she chews and chews, her mouth contorting as if the small bite were made of gristle.
Finally, she swallows.
“Good girl. Such a good girl,” I murmur, my voice thick.
Her gaze meets mine, and I feel the raw wave of helplessness and despair crashing from her. Tonight, I’ll allow myself to be this close, just this once. I’ll ensure she wakes up tomorrow with the readiness needed to leave her home—her asylum.
I want to do more, but all I have for her is understanding and patience—and protection. “Another?”
Her honey-coloured eyes drop to the eagle, fingers tracing its feathers, a small comfort in a world that has betrayed her.
“I’m not hungry,” she mutters to the toy, her voice a fragile thing.
Rage toward the people who did this to her boils inside me. I curl my fingers into fists, then stretch them out, forcing myself to remain calm.
“Have a few more,” I say, needing her to eat more. “And I’ll brush your hair.”
Her eyes lift to mine, a flicker of hope igniting. “Will you?”
“I will, my queen.” My obsession with her seeps through.
Inappropriate as it is. I shouldn’t touch her, yet my hands have been her shield and solace for years.
Intimacy with the queen is forbidden for any man, most of all a Guardian old enough to be her father, but it's a line my soul has roared to cross too many times.
She is not to be touched, not to bear children—vows taken when she was only a child. When she went to her bedroom a girl, wailed into the dark, and walked from it a queen with a broken heart.
I think back to that fateful night too often, the memory etched in my mind.
I sat while she wailed.
I still hear her cries in my nightmares.
Now, I must watch this young woman regress into the ten-year-old girl who closed her door one night, trusting the world, and lost her innocence.
Lost her sunshine.
I know the depth of her pain. Her father’s betrayal—Turin of The Strait—was the final nail in her fragile psyche. Fuck—the first man to break her young heart was her own father. How does a girl ever truly recover from such betrayal?
Rising to my feet, I stride across the room, retrieving her hairbrush, the tiny object feeling like a doll’s in my large hands. She once told me this act wouldn’t be seen as affection between a man and a woman since hair has no sensation…
I disagree.
It is affection.
“Yes,” I say as she slides her chair back in front of the small table, her eyes flicking to her food. “Would you like that?”
“I think so,” she replies, uncertainty lacing her words. Touch frightens her. I know this about my little queen.
With a deep breath, I gather her hair from her shoulders, pulling it back to cascade like a golden river down her slender frame. I brush through her silken tresses, the soft bristles raking the surface.
She stiffens.
I freeze, brush held mid-stroke. “Did I hurt you?” My voice comes out raspier than I intended. I clear my throat. She is very slim, too slim, and I am unaware of my own strength at times.
“No,” she whispers, the word strong. To give it further weight, she spears a prong into a strawberry and pops it into her mouth.
Fuck.
As I continue to brush, the scent of her hair and skin envelops me—oranges, the vibrant essence of the tonics she is forced to use. My fingers occasionally touch the silky strands as I brush, and I shuffle my feet apart, my entire fucking body booming with awareness.
I clench my teeth. Duty should be my only anchor, yet I crave so much more. By being alone with her, I am feeding a beast that can’t ever be free.
She leans back into each stroke, her trust in me clear in the way she relaxes.
“Another piece, my queen,” I urge, my voice deep and forcefully stoic.
She stabs a small blueberry and places it in her mouth, each rotation of her jaw, each chew, seems unbearable.
Fuck. I hate this for her.
“It’s just us,” I reassure her, hoping that privacy will coax her to eat more, to allow herself.
“I have eyes,” she retorts, her verbal punch both sharp and playful.
I chuckle, a fleeting moment of levity. The truth is, I don’t really know why she doesn’t eat.
I suspect it’s about control—something she clings to fiercely.
So many rights have been stripped from her.
They dictate her bathing rituals and force her into treatments to maintain flawless youth.
Despite being twenty-eight, she appears no older than twenty, save for the truth etched in her golden irises, swirling with experience, knowledge, and an unbearable pain that no one should carry at such a young age.
Pain I cannot heal.
No one can.
For a moment, I lose time brushing her hair until she whispers, “I feel better now. Strong. You can leave. Please, send in my ladies. I have to pack.”
And like so many nights before this, after I find her in her own mind—she will forget the details of this regression.
Or shut it out.
Shut me out.
It’s for the best.