Chapter 10 #3
“Enough!” I scream. “Llwyn is supposed to be better than this! We’re healers, not torturers!” In mere seconds, a knight grabs me by the waist, pulling me back. My limbs flail, punching, kicking, scratching at copper armor—to no effect.
The king rights himself and leans forward, inches from my face.
“Llwyn only survives because I do whatever it takes to protect it.” Then he turns and attacks the Wolf, like a man possessed.
He grunts with each blow, landing punch after punch into the Wolf’s face until it’s bruised and bloodied, like a slab of meat.
My body flinches with each hit. Bile rises in the back of my throat and I’m not sure I’ll keep the tears of fury at bay much longer.
“Release him,” my father orders, finally. The Wolf drops to the ground like a limp sack of grain. My father continues to kick his motionless body where it lies curled up on the cold, filthy ground.
“Stop!” My voice shakes. “What good does it do to beat an unconscious man?” I grit my teeth in rage.
There are smears of blood on Father’s hands and chin.
“It does me a great deal of good, Daughter. He will continue to feel my wrath for days.” He shrugs.
“Weeks, perhaps.” His eyes grow dark. “Unless someone disobeys my orders again and heals him.” His voice sounds like a threat.
Or maybe it’s another one of his tests. Either way, I can’t stand to watch him beat this man anymore, enemy or not.
I can’t stand to bear witness to my father’s cruelty again and again.
I was safer on the borderlands, among the war-wounded and the corpse wolves.
“Let’s go,” Father says. He nods and the guards release me. My arms ache from the ghosts of their fingers on my skin.
Most of his guards follow him out the door, but Hunter hesitates, watching me as I kneel on the filthy ground. I make sure the Wolf is still breathing. He is, but it’s labored and shallow. In less than a day, he’s on death’s door again. And that’s my fault.
“I said, go.” My father’s voice is low.
There’s nothing I can do for the Wolf now.
I can’t heal him with my father standing nearby.
He’ll kill him if I intervene. I remember the bread roll from the kitchens in my pocket.
My voluminous skirts block it from sight as I tuck it close to the Wolf’s chest. I doubt he’ll be able to eat when he regains consciousness—if he regains it at all—but this is the best I can do.
“My patience is growing thin,” Father warns.
Hunter steps forward and holds out a hand to help me up from the ground.
I’m glad to see it’s shaking, though his face is brave.
I take it. He gives my hand a gentle squeeze before releasing me.
He positions himself between me and the king as we walk toward the exit of the kennels. The Wolf’s door slams closed behind us.
My limbs feel heavy when we reach the fresh air outside. It’s all I can do to stay standing on trembling knees.
Father leads us into the nearby gardens.
Nobles avoid our eyes as we pass, and I know why.
We bear the unmistakable marks of people involved in intrigue.
My skirts are filthy from the kennel floors and my father’s knuckles are bloody, his sleeves still rolled up to his elbows.
Father doesn’t seem worried about the gossipmongers.
No one would dare question a bloodied king.
Father halts near the fading hydrangea bushes. He gives Hunter a pointed look. “Leave us.”
Hunter hesitates, then nods. He watches me warily as he retreats toward the stables. The three other knights follow, their shadows stretching long in the fading light.
Father turns to me, haloed in the setting sun. “I do not trust that man in the cell. And it’s not because we found him sneaking around my rooms like a thief.” He squints at me, his eyes dark and calculating. “Do you know why I don’t trust him, dear daughter?”
I permit one sharp shake of my head.
“I do not trust him, because I do not trust you.”
“I swear, I don’t know him.” My voice is quiet, lost behind the choking rage.
“Let us both hope that’s true,” he says. “Now run along, Little Fox. I believe your beloved is waiting for you.”
I turn to retreat, relief spreading through me like ice through my veins.
“Actually, one more thing,” he calls me back.
I pause mid-step, my hands clenching into fists at my sides.
My father clucks like a mother hen. “A deceitful heir should be careful, lest she lose her throne.” He turns from me, then pauses.
Almost thoughtfully, he adds, “Or even her life. One cannot be too careful with these dangerous games. Best to wed and live a happy, domestic life. Wouldn’t you agree? ” He raises an eyebrow at me.
I grit my teeth and nod.
“Good girl,” he says, like he speaks to his foxhounds when they cower at his approach. “An obedient daughter is a rewarded daughter. Remember that next time you try to deceive me.” He leaves me among the dying autumn flowers.
When he is out of sight, my knees crumble and I fall to the ground. I do my best to stifle the gut-wrenching scream into my filthy gowns. Angry tears blur the world around me. Not even the brilliant orange sunset along the horizon can distract me from the darkness growing in my heart.