Chapter 13
ARLET
Upon arriving at my room, I notice all of the lights are out and the air is cold. Strange.
Usually, in great houses, rooms are prepared for their occupants before they arrive. I would’ve imagined the fire would be lit, as would candles. A bath might’ve been drawn. Perhaps the bed would’ve been turned down.
Just as I’m about to step inside, the guard stops me.
“A moment, milady.”
He walks in first, then makes an exasperated sound.
“Get me a fucking servant,” he grumbles to his companion. “It’s dark as Doros’ asshole.”
This isn’t normal, and that has ice freezing over my skin.
The first guard nods to me, then hurries off to find someone. I stand there in the silence, feeling awkward in front of the remaining guard. He looks straight ahead, but I notice his hand firmly grips the short sword at his waist.
For a moment, everything is silent.
Then a sound comes from the other end of the hallway. I flinch and an electric shock passes through my body. Then the guard from before appears with a servant at his side.
I relax, smiling a little as they brush past me into the room. It doesn’t take more than a few minutes for them to emerge. Everything is fine. I need to calm down.
“Forgive the carelessness, Lady Arlet,” the servant says with a bow. “It won’t happen again.”
“Do not worry,” I respond, and watch as he walks away.
I enter my room shortly after, and listen as the door is closed behind me and locked.
It is quiet.
I look around, still not seeing any sign of a bath. I walk to the partition and then begin to remove my gown. It falls to the ground when another sound comes from inside the room.
I freeze, and my hands go to cover my chest. Slowly, I creep to the edge of the screen to look. No sooner than I reach the end, a hand comes around my throat from behind and begins to squeeze.
Gasping and choking, I thrash against the intruder. They don’t react. Don’t speak. I can’t even see their face.
Fucking hell, the voice in my head says.
I try to scream, to alert the guards outside, but another hand covers my mouth.
I only have one option left. One I dislike using.
Help me, I beg. Help me like you did in the forest.
For a heartbeat, there is nothing.
Then something answers.
It does not feel like a voice so much as a pressure—like a tide surging up through my bones. The world sharpens. The cold hand around my throat, the smell of sweat and leather behind me, the faint rasp of breath against my ear.
And beneath it all? A dark heat.
About time you asked, the Cursed One murmurs.
Power floods my limbs so suddenly my vision flickers. The hand at my throat tightens, but my panic is already receding, replaced by something colder. Something steadier. My fingers, which had been clawing uselessly at the attacker’s wrist, suddenly grip with terrifying strength.
The intruder seems to realize something has changed.
They grunt in surprise when I wrench their arm downward. The motion should be impossible with the position I’m in, yet their grip slips just enough for me to drag in a ragged breath.
Good, Cursed One says. I do love their fear.
My elbow snaps backward into their ribs. Hard.
The attacker curses and staggers, the hand over my mouth loosening. I twist in their grasp, driven by instinct that is not entirely my own. My hand catches their wrist again—then bends.
There is a sharp crack.
The intruder cries out, finally losing their grip around my throat.
Air rushes into my lungs. I spin, and for the first time, I see the assassin. He’s dressed in dark clothing, face wrapped in cloth, eyes wide with shock.
He reaches for the dagger at his belt.
I move first.
The strength in my body is wrong. Too fast. Too certain. My hand closes around his throat the same way his had closed around mine only moments ago.
The Cursed One’s presence coils tighter inside my chest.
Finish it.
My fingers tighten.
The attacker thrashes, trying to pry my hand away. His heels scrape against the floor as I force him backward into the wall. His dagger falls from his hand and clatters across the stone.
He tries to scream.
No sound comes.
For a moment, our eyes lock. Terror floods his gaze as they realize they cannot move me. Cannot escape.
The strength surging through my arm grows heavier, darker, like shadow thickening beneath my skin.
I squeeze.
There is another sickening crack.
The body goes limp.
Silence crashes into the room.
My breath comes in ragged bursts as I stare at the attacker slumped at my feet. My hands tremble. The strange power begins to drain away, leaving a hollow ache in its wake.
Efficient, the Cursed One remarks. I wasn’t sure if I could still take control.
I barely hear her. I wanted this. I needed it to stay alive. But the shock and sense of wrongness hang over me.
A sudden pounding at the door makes me jump.
“Lady Arlet?” a voice calls.
Before I can answer, the door bursts open.
Thorne rushes in first, a knife already drawn. His gaze sweeps the room—then drops to the body on the floor.
He stops.
For a long moment, he simply stares.
Then his eyes flick up to me, taking in my bare shoulders, the marks already forming on my throat, the trembling in my hands.
Slowly, he lowers the knife.
I watch him, wide eyed.
“He tried to kill me,” I say clumsily. My hands are beginning to tremble. My knees shake.
“Well,” he mutters.
He nudges the corpse with the toe of his boot, confirming what is already obvious. The man does not move.
I just stare in shock. I almost died.
Phantom fingers wrap around my neck. My mouth.
A few more minutes, and it would be me lying on the ground.
Thorne exhales through his nose.
“Don’t worry,” he says calmly, wiping the blade of his knife against his sleeve before sliding it back into its sheath. “I will take care of this.”
He gestures toward the bathing room.
“Go draw a bath,” he adds. “It will be done before you are.”
I don’t move.
“Arlet,” he says, this time with force. “Go bathe.”