Chapter 22
Florian
Like every time I’m in trouble, my father’s voice takes over, telling me it’s all my own fault.
Stupendously unhelpful, but I can’t help it.
It crowds out all rational thought. Irresponsible, irrational, lazy.
Wastrel. Loser. At my lowest points, I wonder if he’s right.
What even is my life? Hiding out in a dive restaurant in a city far from home, sneaking looks through the grimy window to see if the stagecoach is here to save me from my crazed boss.
The coach should’ve been here twenty minutes ago.
The driver is probably drunk or skiving somewhere, not caring that his tardiness could get me fucking murdered.
I’m prone to drama, but I’m not exaggerating this time.
If my boss somehow manages to crawl out of that hole and track me down, I’m a dead man.
After humiliating him like that? I’ll be lucky if he kills me quickly.
My shoulders are hunched with fear and my nails are bitten down to the quick.
This feeling is way too familiar. Hunted, vulnerable, terrified.
My fingers sneak beneath my shirt, finding scars on torso.
Also my own fault. You don’t mess with the loan sharks of Rhennes.
Now it’s time to run again, leave another town where I failed in my duty.
My father’s right. Loser, wastrel. Slut.
The last one is painfully relevant here.
If I wasn’t such a slut I never would’ve offered myself to Grimes in that bet, even for one night.
I remember the way my father would look at me when I crept back into the house after a long night. The curl of his lip.
I take a sip of the coffee that I bought with my last few coins, still peering out of the window constantly, making the other customers nervous.
Technically I’m a criminal now on top of everything else.
Absconding from my “master” Grimes is a serious crime.
But none of that will matter if I can just get back to civilization.
I can leave him behind forever. The ridiculous cloaks, the contempt in his dark eyes, the scary-strong physique that he’s only ever used to threaten me.
Except for when he let me grind against his iron muscles and take my pleasure from him as though he was an all you can eat buffet. That was weird.
The restaurant door swings open. A hooded figure comes in.
My blood runs cold. Stupid phrase that I never believed in, until now.
I’m too frozen to even think of ducking below the table.
Terror has me in its clutches like an animal in a trap.
Much like the trap my boss somehow managed to escape.
The experience hasn’t improved his mood.
The vibes radiating from him are so dark it feels like a thundercloud has entered the restaurant.
A literal hush falls over the room as he looks around, scanning the room with one fiery glance.
He sees me. My hands go cold. Apparently that’s a real thing, too. He strides over to me.
“Get up,” he says.
Should I refuse? Make a scene? Act like he’s a kidnapper?
My mind flies through options, discounts them.
I’m his indentured servant. He has the paperwork.
Judge Draved knows all about it. Grimes could report me to the authorities, even arrange that town square whipping he mentioned before.
He looks angry enough to go through with it. Not in the fun, kinky way. In earnest.
“Get up,” he says again.
I spring into delayed motion, trying to placate him with obedience.
My bags fall from my trembling fingers as I try to gather them.
Grimes takes over, grabbing almost everything in his huge, capable hands.
I grab the last few things and follow him to the door, feeling like I’m walking into a noose.
If I thought he hated me before, it was only the pre-show.
Now he shows me what depths of hatred he can reach.
His dark robe flaps behind him as he strides down the street.
His scowl seems to cut a scar through his face.
People part for us, the sidewalk emptying in the face of Grimes’ rage—and this is a rough city.
They avoid my eyes especially, though they must be able to sense I’m in trouble.
In Galbrava, might makes right, and Grimes is much mightier looking than me.
He doesn’t even look at me as we walk down the street.
Nor does he speak. I can’t handle the silence. It’s choking me.
“So… you got out of the trap okay,” I say weakly, like I was rooting for that. Stupid.
No answer. His repressed anger gets heavier, taking on an almost physical presence.
We walk through the main town square and pass by the guards’ station, and then the courthouse.
Grimes doesn’t break step for either of them.
He isn’t planning to involve the authorities.
Possibly not a good sign for me. He might have a bigger plan for me when we get home.
My knees are shaking so hard they’re practically knocking together.
He must be able to sense my terror. He must think I’m so pathetic.
Loser, wastrel, slut. My sluttiness has saved my ass a few times in the past, but it won’t help here.
He’d lose his shit even more if I tried to sugar-talk my way out of this one.
Tears pool behind my eyes. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold them back.
He stays silent all the way from the city center to the outskirts.
All the way along the dirt road that leads to his house. It’s the longest walk of my life.
We go inside.
“Upstairs,” he says.
He follows me. Gestures for me to go into my bedroom.
Brandishes the key at me. There’s no point in begging for mercy this time.
He throws me one last disgusted look and leaves me, locking the door behind him.
I’m alone. Trapped. My breath gets short.
I sit on the bed, hands clenching. Try to relax them, but it’s no good.
They feel numb, pieces of wood. I’m back in my childhood bedroom.
My father locks the door. I’ll be allowed downstairs when he’s good and ready.
It could be next morning, or a couple of days.
The servants would bring me food if he allowed it.
When I got out again, my father would look at me just like Grimes does. Like he hated me.
You ruin everything.
You shame this family.
Grimes and my father’s words merge into a hateful poem.
Why is it so fucking hot in Galbrava? Even with the window thrown open, the air in the room doesn’t stir.
There are a couple of dead flies on the windowsill.
I stare at them for who knows how long. I can’t jump out.
I’d break my leg. There’s nothing to climb down.
My vision starts to blur. I can’t feel my body.
Can’t breathe. My chest is a vise. It’s my shirt; it’s too tight.
I claw my way out, throw it away. The heat is still stifling.
Need to escape. Can’t. I curl into a ball on top of the bed. The world falls away.
**
When I wake up I have no idea where I am. My face is scrunched into dark fabric. I’m still shirtless. I try to move, and get nowhere. Strong, gentle arms clamp me in place.
“Shhh, it’s okay.” Grimes’ voice, so gentle. It must be a dream. “You don’t have to run.”
I shift my weight and realize I’m sitting in his lap. He’s cradling me like I’m a wounded animal. It feels so nice. I cuddle closer, twisting my hands in his cloak. He strokes my hair. Strokes my hair. Got to be a dream.
“Shhh,” he says again.
I open my eyes. The kitchen looks very real. And my arm is itchy. I’m never usually itchy in dreams.
Shit. Am I awake?
Everything rushes back to me: the restaurant, being dragged home, being locked in my room.
Did Grimes come upstairs and catch me freaking out?
I don’t even remember him coming into my room again.
Was I already asleep? He must’ve carried me downstairs.
I rub my eyes, which I’m just realizing are soaked with tears.
Shame and embarrassment creep in, stealing my cozy calm.
He saw me cry, saw me defeated by being locked in a room.
I feel like a seashell lying on the beach, picked clean by gulls and scoured by the winds and tides. Utterly flayed and exposed.
“I didn’t take your shirt off,” he says. “You did that.”
“Yeah. I know.”
I can just about remember that. I try to rub my shamefully tearstained face and clamber off his lap at the same time, almost falling in the process. But he catches me and clamps me tight.
“Don’t run,” he says. “Stay.”
It sounds like an order, but his tone is soft.
Being held like this doesn’t make me panic like being locked up.
Because I’m not alone. Very much not alone.
He’s got me entwined into his body, closer than we’ve ever been.
I smell soap, a scent of sun-kissed skin.
The scent of someone who works outside all the time, fresh and healthy and masculine.
I’m too embarrassed to look up into his eyes.
I just keep holding the front of his cloak, anchoring myself to the strength of his body.
“So what happened up there?” he says softly.
“I hate being locked up.” My voice sounds shaky and weak, but I have to explain. “My father used to lock me up. Sometimes for days.”
“Why?” he says.
“To stop me sneaking out to parties mostly. And because he thought I might run away from home.”
“He was worried about your safety?”
“Hardly. He’s a control freak. I’m his son, therefore his possession.” Shit. Now my nose is running too. “Can I have a tissue?”