Chapter 35 Elaina
ELAINA
The room the guard locks me in is lavish.
Sumptuous, really—like something out of a dream. Or maybe a nightmare. The moment I step over the threshold, I know exactly what this is.
A cage.
Oh, the furnishings are beautiful enough.
There’s a massive canopy bed draped in gauzy white silk, its headboard carved with the royal crest of House Drakorin—twining dragons wrought in dark wood.
A golden chaise rests beneath an arched window, though when I pull aside the filmy curtain, I see the glass has been bolted shut.
Not that I could escape from this high anyway—it must be six stories above the Royal Gardens.
Every surface glitters with opulence. Gilded sconces shaped like curling vines drip with crystal teardrops.
The rugs are plush and the scent of roses and amber lingers faintly to the air, as though someone burned incense not too long ago.
But there are no doors except the one they locked behind me, and no servant call rope. No exit and no escape.
A pretty prison is still a prison, whispers a little voice in my head.
But the Queen doesn’t leave me alone for long. I hear the turning of the lock and she sweeps in with the Court Physician trailing behind her like a hunched shadow, his arms full of vials and bundles of pungent herbs wrapped in cheesecloth.
“Put the tray down there,” she snaps, pointing to a small tea table beside the hearth.
The physician obeys quickly, but I don’t miss the tightness in his jaw. He’s not happy to be here.
She gestures to the fire.
“Brew it now. And make it strong—two spoonfuls instead of one.”
He hesitates, reaching for a delicate porcelain pot.
“Your Majesty, if I may—this blend is already potent. Another spoonful of arousal root may cause…uncontrollable effects. The Princess may lose the ability to—”
“I don’t care,” she cuts him off coldly. “Not to be indelicate, but I just want her to fuck. She’s already wasted a full moon cycle. She needs a baby in her belly now, do you understand me?”
The physician flushes a dull, mottled red, but he bows his head.
“As you command, Your Majesty.”
I stand frozen in the center of the room as he adds another heaping spoonful of deep purple powder to the pot and stirs it slowly, letting the potion inside steep until the liquid turns nearly black. The scent rises—sharp and bitter, like crushed cloves and something darker…muskier.
“What’s in that?” I manage, my voice barely a whisper.
“No questions,” the Queen snaps. “Sit.” She points to the delicate chaise lounge by the window.
I sit, because what else can I do? The tea is placed in front of me in a delicate china cup with a golden rim and an embossed dragon curling around the side. The Queen sits opposite me like a spider in her web, watching with glittering eyes.
“Well? Drink it. Every drop.”
I take a sip and gag. It’s bitter—burning. It tastes like scorched metal and spices gone rotten.
“I said all of it,” she snarls, her eyebrows coming down in a furious glare.
I force myself to swallow again…and again. Hot tears prick the corners of my eyes from the sheer intensity of the taste, but I drink every last drop until the cup is empty and my stomach turns queasy from the heat roiling inside it.
“Good.” She stands and claps her hands.
A pair of ladies-in-waiting sweep into the room carrying a gown unlike anything I’ve worn before.
If I thought the white lace honeymoon gown they forced me into was revealing…this is worse.
Much worse.
It’s a deep garnet red, cut scandalously low in the bodice so my breasts are spilling out, showing the tops of my areolas.
The corset laces up the front with black silk ribbon, pushing my cleavage up like ripe fruit on display.
The sleeves are sheer netting that clings to my arms like a second skin, ending in cuffs of black lace.
The skirt is slit up the front, showing far too much thigh—nearly to the tops of my thigh-high stockings, which they insist I wear with high-heeled satin slippers.
I am not allowed any undergarments at all so one wrong move will flash anyone watching me.
The servants finish me with shimmer powder—the kind worn only by courtesans and whores.
The whole effect is deliberately sensual—shamefully so. I feel like a courtesan, dressed for a brothel—not a princess visiting her husband in the dungeon.
“I—this isn’t—” I start to protest, but the Queen cuts me off again.
“It will do,” she says, circling me with a critical eye. “Let the sight of you entice him. Let him see what he’s missing while he rots in chains. Perhaps it will inspire him to finish the task he was given.”
“I need water,” I manage, my voice cracking. “Just to get the taste out of my mouth.”
“No.” The Queen smiles thinly. “Let the bitterness remind you of your duty, girl. Get pregnant with a royal heir, or else. This is your last chance.”
Two of her private guards appear then—both tall, both armed, both wearing the stone-faced expressions of men used to obeying orders.
They don’t speak. One of them grabs my arm, not harshly, but firmly enough that I can’t slip away.
They lead me out of the Queen’s quarters and out into the main corridor beyond.
My knees are trembling as I walk, the heels of my too-high shoes clicking on the marble floors of the Citadel’s inner halls.
It’s a long walk—too long. The gown leaves me cold and exposed—my breasts pushed up, my inner thighs bare, my neck and shoulders dusted with the shimmer powder that usually marks a woman as a whore.
I feel like a lamb being led to the slaughter. And yet, I refuse to shrink or duck my head in shame. None of how I look is my fault—I refuse to act the part the Queen so obviously wants me to play.
Nobles peek out from alcoves. Courtiers murmur behind gloved hands. Someone lets out a low, mocking laugh as I pass.
But I keep my chin high and I don’t try to cover myself. I don’t let their whispers or their leers stop me.
Let them look. Let them laugh. I don’t care—I’m doing this for him.
For Xaren.
I haven’t seen him in weeks, not since the Queen locked him up. And I keep having those dreams—terrible, twisted dreams—of his Drake dying inside him, its eyes going dark, its wings curled like shriveled leaves. I’ve woken in tears more nights than I can count.
Please let him be all right. Please let me be able to heal him—to bring him back somehow.
I didn’t get the key, but at least I know where it is now. I’ll try again.
Because I love him. And because I think…he might love me too. And for right now, my main goal is just to see him.
The dungeon door yawns ahead like a mouth lined with gray teeth, dark and hungry. The air grows colder, damper…tinged with the faint coppery tang of old blood and wet stone. Despite its ominous appearance, I approach it eagerly.
Somewhere in that darkness I know my Dark Prince is waiting for me. I just pray to the Goddess of Mercy I can help him.