Chapter 3
Azalea
I’m not sure if it’s the streaks of sunlight beaming through the poorly secured velvet curtains or the soft click of my bedroom door closing that rouses me awake, but I’m displeased either way. Mostly because the familiar scent of forget-me-not flowers wafts through the air and infiltrates my nose.
Groaning, I roll over in bed, my unruly curls falling all along my face and across my shoulders.
For a moment longer, I let myself enjoy the blissful feeling of the luxurious down and goose feather mattress.
Stretching my limbs, I listen the typical cracks and pops of my joints as I slowly rouse my body awake.
As much as I hate being trapped here, I do love this bed.
It’s big enough for me to sprawl my entire body across it and still have room.
Blowing a few rogue curls from my eyes, I turn my head and see the giant bouquet of forget-me-nots sitting on the table beside my door right where I suspected it would be.
“Right on time,” I grumble, before pushing myself up and tossing my legs over the side of the bed.
This has been a Braxton tradition for as long as I can remember being here.
I haven’t figured out what he hopes to accomplish by gifting me an unwanted bouquet of the same pale purple flowers that grow all around the stone walls of the castle, but I’ve decided that I don’t like it, which seems to be a fair assessment, given that I rarely like anything the prince does.
My eyes narrow as I seethe at the vase of flowers taking up an unwarranted amount of space in my room.
The tiny purple petals taunt me as they stay stagnant, bunched together in the glass pedestal vase.
I want to pick them up and hurl them out the window.
Seeing the small note that was tucked in between a few of the flower stems, my glare intensifies to such a magnitude that I swear if I had an ounce of magic inside of me, the entire bouquet would have caught fire.
Padding over to the flowers, a look of disdain curls my heart-shaped lips.
I pluck the note from the flowers before crumpling it in my hand.
I never bother to read what Braxton writes me, mostly because I don’t care what he has to say, but also partially because I am not anything if not petty.
Shoving the crumpled note back between the flowers, I turn my back on them, waiting for Rhoden, my handmaid, and the only person in this entire castle that helps keep me sane, to come do away with them as she always does.
Walking over to the single arched window that Braxton so graciously granted me in this room, I can tell by the mixture of sun and shadows cascading alongside the unyielding fortress I am to spend the rest of my days in that it must be late morning at the very least, and Rhoden is usually in here by now.
My brow furrows at this realization, but I quickly shrug it off.
As an almost 32-year-old woman, who prior to this, never had, nor needed, a handmaiden in her life, it wasn’t like I couldn’t get myself dressed for the day.
Still, I felt my chest deflate ever-so-slightly at the thought.
It wasn’t that I minded some time to myself.
I liked my alone time as much as the next cursed and imprisoned woman, but unfortunately, I got more than my fill of it in this practically abandoned castle.
The only occupants of the Carter Castle are me, Prince Braxton Carter, and the handful of servants that help maintain the grounds, clean the castle, and cook for us.
It didn’t take me very long to also discover that oftentimes, the servants of the castle are not particularly chatty, most likely due to their fear of what Braxton would do if he caught them not doing their work.
I look around my room, feeling a fresh wave of loneliness crash into my bones.
This tends to happen from time to time, and I swear if I didn’t know better, I would think Braxton would have the servants avoid me on purpose, so that I would at least look forward to having some form of human interaction with him.
That gives him, and the small handful of brain cells that occupy his mind, too much credit, though.
Shaking the feeling off, I grab the sage silk robe hanging off my bedpost and slip my arms into the sleeves before tightly securing it around my waist. Crossing to the other corner of the room that gets most of the sunlight from the single window, I decide that I might as well start my morning routine while I wait for Rhoden to join me.
The first thing I do every morning, after scowling at the unwanted bouquet burning a hole in my bedside table, is make my way to the beautiful oak desk in my bedchamber and begin writing a letter to my fiancé, Phillip.
I remember when I first demanded that Braxton send my letters and updates to my family as I wrote them.
He didn’t even hesitate before snagging the letter from my hand and agreeing with a non-committal shrug.
At first, it was more hope than trust that I had to rely on whether any of these letters actually got sent, but one day Phillip wrote me back, and it felt like a new light was brought back into my world.
It’s become almost compulsory, and some days I feel as though if I didn’t get all of these words out of my mind and written on paper, I might actually go insane, or at the very least, lose my grip on reality.
My fingers slide across the soft feather of the quill before my grip tightens around it, and I dunk it into the ink pot next to the paper.
The quill easily glides across the parchment I’ve unraveled as I begin writing.
I feel my eyes grow misty the longer the letter becomes.
With every word inked onto the paper, a small crack shatters what’s left of my heart.
While these letters to Phillip can be therapeutic and help me feel as though we are still connected, there’s no avoiding the pain that accompanies each word written.
Sometimes I wonder if this was why Braxton agreed to these letters.
If he somehow knew they were hurting me to the same caliber that they were healing me.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he got some kind of sick and twisted pleasure from that thought.
After signing the letter to Phillip, I paint my lips with a soft rouge color, a color I remember he always told me was his favorite, and kiss the empty spot on the paper next to my signature.
Unfurling another piece of paper, I dunk the quill back into the pot of ink to prepare to write one more letter. A letter to someone whom I haven’t written to since I was stowed away here. A letter to someone I’m having an excruciatingly hard time forgiving. My father.
Thick drops of ink fall from the tip of the quill and splatter across the paper as my fingers stall.
I’ve tried to write this letter a myriad of times, but every time feels equally as painful as the night he let Braxton take me away.
For whatever reason, I can’t seem to grasp the memory of that night with any sense of clarity.
It almost feels like a hazy dream whenever I try to recall it, and I can only assume it’s my mind’s attempt at protecting myself from the horrific truth.
More painful than thinking of that night, though, is remembering all the nights before it.
I grew up on the Northeastern Islands of Contedefes.
More specifically, I grew up on Minem Island right along Blushing Bay.
It was named that due to the pink sand beach, which reflected an almost rosy hue at the water’s edge.
My home, or more accurately what I used to call home, was beautiful.
It was easily one of the most beautiful islands a part of Contedefes.
I got to soak in the sun that would darken and freckle my olive skin, splash in the water that tasted of salt, and wander the entirety of the island to my heart’s desire with no one holding me back.
That was all before Prince Braxton Carter took me away to live here, in his castle in Contedefes’ Eastern territory.
I don’t know exactly where we are, mostly because Braxton won’t tell me, but what I do know is that there are no beaches nearby.
There is only the rare sparking of sunlight that graces the grounds, and Braxton refuses to give me any free range in actually exploring the castle grounds or its surrounding land.
Right as I’m about to get too lost in the cherished memories of a life that seems so very far away now, I hear a light wrapping on the door. Even though I’m fairly confident of who it could be, I pull my silk robe tighter around my body.
“Come in,” I call while dropping the quill down on the desk and crumpling the unwritten letter to my father in my hands.
The splotches of fresh ink spread and stain the pads of my fingers as I do this, and I already know that will act as my reminder for the rest of the day that I still couldn’t muster up the courage to forgive my father.
Rhoden pushes the door open slightly before popping her head in through the crack.
Her lush black hair curtains around her head, as her eyes dart around and scan the room.
I snort. “You know, I wouldn’t tell you to come in if I wasn’t decent.”
She shrugs before stepping into the room, her hands clutching a tray filled with an assortment of breakfast foods.
I send a silent thank you to the Sky’s Divine that Braxton usually has business to take care of in the morning, meaning I get to have a peaceful breakfast by myself.
I can’t fathom why he is so insistent on eating meals together, especially supper.
“Since you’ve demanded your wardrobe be filled with the most luxurious gowns and dresses, I never know what I’m going to walk into because you need my help to actually get into any of them.”
I purse my lips as I look at Rhoden and snatch a pastry from the tray. “You make a fair argument.”