Chapter Seventeen
S EVENTEEN
I didn’t dare imagine where Silas was going to take me, but soon I’m back in my bedchamber. My quarters… and yet not my quarters.
Silas yanked the sheets from the bed and threw the bookcase into the hall.
He dumped my clothing with it and hauled out the rugs.
He smashed the lamps and ordered the water shut off.
He does all this himself, not in a rage, but with a cold deliberation that’s far more terrifying as he destroys every shred of comfort I might find in this room.
When it’s done, he turns to me. “Be glad I’m letting you stay up here. Disobey me again, and you’ll find out where we put wolves who cross their Alpha.”
It takes every ounce of restraint not to demand to know how I’d crossed him. How I’d disobeyed him.
I willingly came to Trevelyan. I didn’t try to escape. I’d resisted when he said I was going to marry Bishop, but I’d never outright refused.
Also, he may be my father, but he is not my Alpha.
I say none of this, because I’m not a fool. My cheek still throbs from his blow, my tailbone throbs from my fall, and my ankle throbs, too, from twisting as I’d fallen. That had been a mere slap. Defy him now, and I could only imagine what he might do.
Soon I’m alone in my barren room, seething. I’m furious with my father and Bishop, but even more than that, I’m furious with myself for buying the false goods they sold me. The firm but indulgent father. His reserved but considerate heir. I should have…
Should have what? Fought back and been locked in here two days ago, before I could learn anything about the Pack and what I faced? Before I knew that the attack on my house had been a performance?
Should I have tried to escape, knowing it would be as pointless as fighting?
I feel like the worst stereotype of a gothic heroine, one hand to her forehead as she weeps, “Whatever shall I do?” Yet, in the end, I know I made the right choice because I made the choice that has kept me alive.
I won’t waste more time blaming myself. I knew all along that Bishop was my ally only in our shared interest—avoiding a forced marriage.
Was that a lie, too? Does Bishop want a lycan mate to bear his sons?
No. He looked me in the eye and promised that would never happen, and I believe him. He never said he was going to stop my would-be kidnappers. That’s what he implied, but he only said he’d resolve this and set me free.
So how did he plan to—
A thought hits, one that snatches the breath from my lungs.
Is he planning…?
No, he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t dare.
Wouldn’t he?
I stash the idea away unexplored. If I think about it too much, I might decide I can still hope for freedom.
Bishop betrayed me. Whatever his plan, I can’t rely on him again.
Hours pass, and the pain fades from my cheek, my tailbone, my ankle. While I’ve always recovered quickly, it isn’t ever miraculous and sudden healing. I could use a healing spell, but I don’t want to waste the power. All those spots still ache; the sensation is only drowned out by another: hunger.
I had breakfast at eight, and now it must be midafternoon, and I’m starving. When I’m hungry, it’s like imps have invaded my stomach, stabbing me with hot pokers each time I dare to let my mind wander.
What are you doing, lollygagging and daydreaming when you’re about to die of starvation!
Yes, die of starvation five hours after eating a breakfast large enough for two grown men. Yet when I grumble, my stomach grumbles louder, and when my door clicks open, the smell of food wafting in, I leap from the bed, forgetting my resolve to stay composed.
The woman is a stranger, but I light up when I see the food-heaped plate in her hand. Then I see who’s with her—Henry’s son.
Harry stands behind the woman, smirking in a way that’s the mirror of his father and sets my blood surging. That’s when I get a better look at the woman, forcing my gaze above that delicious food. She’s about my age, slender, with a face that’d be pretty if it wasn’t twisted in a sneer.
“Eager for your lunch, m’lady?” Her gaze travels over me. “Looks as if you could stand to miss a few. Maybe a few dozen.”
Harry snickers.
“I appreciate that you’ve brought—” I begin.
“Oh, now you speak to me? Now you’re nice to me? Couldn’t even bother saying hello before.”
If I’ve seen this maid, it was only during the great hall meals, when she didn’t come near my table.
Bishop made it clear he didn’t want me speaking to any staff he didn’t assign to my care.
Seeing the look in her eyes—resentment teetering on hatred—I understand Bishop’s point…
and that it won’t do me any good to defend myself.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That was unforgivable—”
“Oh, shut your trap. You might turn Marjorie’s head with your pretty words.
” She imitates my upper-crust accent. “Look at me, all fancy and proper.” Then she sneers again, returning to her own broad Cockney.
“You’re trash, miss. A cowardly witch. But you’ll learn that soon enough. I suppose you’d like your lunch now?”
“Please.”
She holds it out, and then spits on it. I blink in shock, and she turns to Henry’s son and lifts it, and he does the same with a disgusting stream of spittle.
“There, properly seasoned,” she says. “Do you still want it?”
My traitorous stomach growls, but I force myself to step back. “No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” She smirks, turns on her heel, and heads for the door. Halfway there, Henry’s son reaches to squeeze her arse, and she laughs and then they’re gone.
I’ve spent hours arguing with my stomach.
I’m not starving. What I feel is just hunger, and I force myself to think of all the people who never get enough to eat.
I’m spoiled. I’d never say that maid is right and I could stand to skip meals, but I really should practice skipping them so that I’m accustomed to hunger pangs.
But it’s more than ordinary pangs. The hunger is all-consuming, and that isn’t just me being peckish—it’s my werewolf side, as I realize now. I can’t even think through my situation with those imps slamming their pokers into my stomach. I try to sleep, but I can’t do that either.
I should have taken the plate. Scraped off the top and eaten the rest. But if one thing outweighs my hunger, it’s my pride.
Besides, no one will let me starve. My body is too valuable for that.
I can rage at being considered nothing more than a prize womb, but that has its advantages. My father might slap me, but he won’t do anything that could affect my ability to bear his heirs.
Didn’t he claim that his own lack of offspring was due to an injury?
That strikes me as an excuse. Men who struggle to sire children often feel it impugns their manhood, and for a werewolf, that would go tenfold.
So he told himself—and others—that it’s the result of a noble injury.
But that means he won’t inflict permanent damage on me, and he won’t let me starve.
I’m his only child. My womb is the only one that can bear him a blood heir.
When the scent of food comes again, I stay where I am, lying on the bare mattress, my eyes closed as if sleeping. With the lamps smashed, my room is pitch black, but I don’t waste the energy for a light spell, even now.
Don’t leap up. Don’t let them see how eager I am.
Of course, that’d be easier if the smell of dinner didn’t make my traitorous stomach growl so loud it echoes through the nearly empty room. Then, as the door opens, I catch the scent of vanilla and anise a heartbeat before a voice says, “Cordelia,” and my eyes fly open.
I don’t look Bishop’s way. I stare at the ceiling as I collect myself, my stomach no longer the only traitorous part of my body.
My heart picks up speed, a giddiness spinning through my brain before it remembers that this isn’t the Bishop who shared brandy and laughter with me yesterday in the field.
This is the real Bishop. The one who betrayed me.
I push up from the bed and turn hooded eyes on him.
He stands there, his face impassive. Behind him, the door remains open.
“I’m told you didn’t eat your lunch,” Bishop says. “If you’re planning some sort of hunger strike, I’d suggest you act like an adult, not a petulant child.”
Rage explodes, the world bursting red with it. But rather than forcing it back, I let it wash over me.
This is the real Bishop.
Remember that.
He looks for a place to set the plate, but there isn’t anything left except the bed, with its bare mattress. Does his cheek twitch? Is that anger flitting over his face? I don’t know, and I don’t care.
“You have an hour to eat this,” he says. “The plate had better be empty when someone returns to fetch it. Otherwise, you’ll learn that we don’t suffer spoiled children here.”
He holds the plate out. I rise, stalk across the room, and snatch it. He keeps his grip and growls, “Look at me, Cordelia.”
I settle my gaze on his chin and tug the plate, but he doesn’t relinquish his grasp.
“My eyes. Look me in the eyes.”
I grit my teeth and slowly lift my gaze. As I do, I realize Bishop isn’t alone. Henry stands behind him, his beefy arms folded as he watches us.
I defiantly meet Bishop’s gaze and blink. His eyes are as soft as I’ve ever seen them, pleading with me.
Pleading with me to ignore what he’s saying.
I said I can tell when he’s lying, and he wants to remind me of that.
Look at my eyes. Whatever I’m saying, it’s a lie.
His gaze even slants toward Henry, in case I’m too dense to understand his meaning.
I can’t speak openly.
Am I supposed to exhale in relief, my heart fluttering, my eyes filling with grateful tears?
Oh, Bishop, I knew you didn’t betray me.
Except you did.
“I told you to be careful,” he says with the same feigned chill in his voice. “You weren’t supposed to wander without an escort. Julius put you in Silas’s waiting room, and you should have stayed there. Whatever has happened, it’s your own fault. Don’t expect me to get you out of this.”
I say nothing. His eyes continue to plead so hard it would be comical if I weren’t furious.
“I understand that you heard I coordinated the attack on your home,” he says. “That wouldn’t have been necessary if you had come along with me earlier that day.”
Now I can’t resist speaking. “Henrietta infiltrated herself into my friend’s family a month earlier. You didn’t launch your plan that day.”
“No, but I gave you a way out.”
“You approached me in the street—not even giving your name—and demanded I go with you. I asked for an explanation. You refused, and my punishment was to have that witch terrorize my human friend and invade my home?”
“I won’t discuss my strategy with you, Cordelia.”
“You just did! I didn’t ask. You told me.”
His eyes wildly try to tell me that this isn’t the whole story, that he can’t say more. He even mouths “Privacy spell,” asking me to cast one, but I ignore him.
I don’t want to hear his excuses. He orchestrated the attack, and now he hopes to sell me comforting lies, so I’ll relax.
Be a good and docile prisoner. Make this easy on him.
I take the plate and march to the bed. “You’re dismissed.”
“Don’t take that tone with me. If you think that’s acceptable, you’ll have hard lessons after we have wed.”
I roll my eyes at him, and I tear into the bread with my teeth.
“I won’t be back,” he says. “Your father wanted me to come once, to convince you to eat. That is all.”
I rip another bite from the loaf, chew, and swallow.
“I think I deserve a thank-you,” he says.
I try to snap a response, but what comes out is a wordless snarl.
“I’ll leave you to your meal,” he says. “I’ll see you again when your father allows it.”
I don’t look his way. The door closes and I wolf down the meal, sating the imps in my stomach. When I get to the dessert—a jam roly-poly—I cut in… and see a scrap of paper inserted into the pastry roll.
I pull it out, unfold it, and read the three words.
I’ll fix this.
Fresh fury rips through me, and I shred that note into the tiniest of pieces. Then I sprinkle them over the rest of my meal and eat them.