11. Katya
11
I t’s been three days since my walk in the garden with Elsbeth and though we’ve met a few times since then, I haven’t seen either the prince or his stupidly attractive lieutenant. But tonight is the ball, which makes avoiding either of them pretty much impossible.
I honestly don’t get it. If this meeting is as urgent as the crown made it out to be, why would they host a ball first? Shouldn’t the first order of business be to discuss whatever it is the queen called us all out here for?
Leodin says it’s typical of the queen. That she’s so self-important she doesn’t even consider whether any of us have lives, but I don’t think that’s it at all. I suspect she’s doing it on purpose, making us wait for her the same way she did with the prince—to remind us of who has the power.
Leodin says I’m an idiot .
Perhaps my perceived stupidity is why he feels the need to lecture me for the tenth time about what is expected of me at the ball.
“No wine,” he says, stopping his pacing to point an accusing finger at me, before starting up again. “You’ll need to keep your wits about you. Dance, socialize, flirt and try not to be too obvious. You studied your list?”
He’s talking about the list he gave me, detailing the fae he wants me to watch. Surprisingly, our very own Duke, Berezin, is on that list. “Yes. I have their faces and names all memorized. Now, can I please call in Merida? We’re running low on time, and I’ll need at least an hour to get into that dress.” If you can call that scrap of blue satin a dress. It’s beautiful to be sure, but it has no straps or sleeves, and the bust of the corset is so small, my breasts threaten to burst right out of it every time I take a breath.
“Fine, get ready. I expect you to look your best,” he says, wagging a finger at me like I’m three. “I’ll fetch you when it’s time to go.” He’s hardly shut the door behind himself before Merida bustles in, gown in hand, to help me get ready.
Two hours later, I have been primped, painted and plucked to within an inch of my life, but I have to admit, the result is striking. My skin is like porcelain, my lips blood red and plump, almost like I’ve just been kissed. Two delicate silver combs hold the hair out of my face, leaving the rest to hang in soft waves down my back, and this dress… It’s much more revealing than I’m used to, but praise Mother Night and Father Day and all their children gods, I have never felt so beautiful. It accentuates my curves perfectly, pushing my breasts to truly monumental proportions, then nipping in at the waist and hugging my hips before flaring slightly, just above the knees .
“You look lovely,” Merida says.
“Thanks to you,” I reply, twisting in front of the mirror. Yes. I’m admiring myself. I know it’s awful and vain, but gods, I didn’t know I could look like this.
There’s a knock at the door, and Merida scampers over to open it. It’s Leodin, of course, coming to take me to the ball. He gives Merida a curt nod of approval upon seeing me, but that’s all the indication I get that he’s noticed how I look.
“You’re ready, I take it?”
“Two seconds,” I say, finger raised as I rush over to the vanity and pick up the tiny black journal I brought just for this occasion. I slip it into the hidden pocket I sewed into my skirt, along with a pencil. “Now, I’m ready.”
I take Leodin’s arm and walk with him across the hall and down the stairs. He’s wearing a lovely black tailcoat tuxedo with a red bow tie and matching vest. I can’t help but wonder what Aemon will look like in one. They’d have to make it special for him. I can’t imagine his height and obscenely broad shoulders are very common. The gods must have heard my thoughts because the moment we reach the top of the staircase to the foyer, I see Aemon, standing just outside the ballroom doors. It’s as if he was plucked straight out of my imagination. He’s painfully beautiful, like an eclipse I cannot look away from, even though it will sear a permanent Aemon shaped spot in my mind’s eye. The tuxedo was indeed made for him by the way it hugs his chest and arms, accentuating his lean but powerful build. And if I send a silent prayer to the mother that he would turn around so I can see how the trousers cup his behind, who can blame me, really? I want to press my hand to his chest, feel the muscles bunch beneath my fingertips and lower across his stomach and down— Control yourself, Katya.
I tear my gaze away and force myself to look at something else, anything but him. He’s just a pretty male with a poor disposition. Plenty of those to drool over back home. I need to push him from my mind and focus, dammit. But the heart hammering away in my chest isn’t listening and those blasted butterflies in my stomach will not stop. When did this happen? When did I become enthralled by this man? I hardly know him. My attraction is purely physical, yet the way I’m drawn to him—like there's a string tied to my sternum pulling me toward him—it feels like more. I’m obviously delusional. There is no invisible force drawing me to him, and he certainly doesn’t feel the same.
Then, stepping onto the foyer floor, our eyes meet and heat zings through my body like a gods damned wildfire, and the only thought running through my frazzled mind is mine, mine, mine . “Good evening, your highnesses,” Leodin says, and I startle when I notice Prince Troi and Princess Elsbeth standing right in front of me. He’s in his fine soldier’s uniform while Elsbeth wears a matching white silk dress with a bodice that actually covers her breasts and long sleeves. I thought I’d been made to wear this because it’s the fashion here, but now I’m thinking there was another, less appealing purpose to this dress.
I want to slap Leodin for tricking me, but I keep my frustrations to myself. I smile and curtsy and greet them both like the good little sheep I am, even as I feel Aemon’s eyes on me, burning a brand into my cheek with his gaze. Unable to help myself, I chance a look his way and sure enough, he’s watching me .
“Katya, so good to see you again,” the prince says. He gives me a warm smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners with mirth, yet all I see is the wolf in sheep’s clothing. He cups my hand between both of his, exactly the same way he did the last time we met, and I have to fight not to recoil at his touch. Again, my gaze flits to Aemon. He’s eyeing our intertwined hands the way someone might a boiled rat.
“It’s good to see you as well, sire and Princess Elsbeth, of course.” Prince Troi turns his head toward Elsbeth, and I use that tiny distraction to slip my hand out from between his before he can start kissing it again. “Lieutenant Aemon,” I say, when he steps away from his place against the wall to greet us. The curtsy I give him is smaller, but much better executed than the last. A bit of hair has fallen across his brow and my hand itches to brush it back, feel the silky strands against my skin. What would he do if I reached up right now and did it?
Too bad I’m too big a coward to try it and find out.
Aemon merely nods before turning his attention to Leodin, behind me. Leodin reaches out to shake Aemon’s hand, but Aemon ignores it, instead folding his arms across his expansive chest and glaring daggers at the other male.
Leodin’s hand slowly falls back to his side. “Is there something you wish to say, sir?”
“There are many things I could say,” he replies. “But I prefer action to words.” He looks back at me, his eyes flitting to where Merida masterfully concealed the bruise on my arm.
Oh gods, did he just threaten Leodin for me? I probably shouldn’t be so thrilled by that, but there’s no denying the warm, fuzzy feeling in my chest. I bob another curtsy and drag Leodin through the massive double doors into the ballroom. The minute we’re inside, Leodin takes me by the bicep, his grip painfully tight, and directs me toward the buffet set against the east wall. The ballroom is opulent to the extreme. The three outer walls are made up of white columns, framing arched windows that rise at least two stories above our heads. In the central windows, behind the crimson throne, a golden sun depicted in stained glass hangs in the sky, its rays extending across the windows lining the left and right walls. The columns are decorated with golden vines and flowers and cherubs so sweet, you want to bash their chubby little faces in. From the ceiling hangs something like twenty chandeliers, each as wide as my bed in Dom Duje, their crystal shards like long toothed knives daring us to step beneath them. A string quartet is set up in one corner, but has yet to start playing, while in the opposite corner, a couple of bartenders work at breakneck speed to serve the already long line of attendees looking to get blasted.
“I think the lieutenant was threatening me,” Leodin says, snapping my attention back to him.
“Do you think?” I say, playing stupid. “He just seems more the broody sort to me—pretending to always be angry, so nobody notices how sad he really is.” I pulled that response directly from my ass, but hearing it said out loud, it has the ring of truth to it.
A trumpet sounds from somewhere and two rows of soldiers in pristine white and gold uniforms, the golden sun emblazoned on their backs, march through the door and continue down the center of the room, splitting the mob of guests. Stopping just short of the dais set before the stained-glass sun, the two lines turn on their heels, facing each other. Then they take one, two, three steps backward, essentially creating a pathway. A voice booms from one of the soldiers in the front of the line. “Presenting, the Crown Prince of Solstyr, first general of Her Majesty’s Royal Army and heir to the throne of Solstyr, Prince Troi and his mate Princess Elsbeth.”
Mate? How could they be mates? Elsbeth said they weren’t even supposed to get married.
The guests clap politely as the pair step through the door, chins up in that haughty manner so common to the rich, their eyes glued to the stained-glass sun like there’s a pot of gold waiting at the end of it. Arm in arm, they make their way to the dais, separating when they reach the steps, so they’re positioned on either side of the throne, facing the crowd.
The herald starts again. “Her Majesty, the great and benevolent Diana, Queen of Solstyr.” The queen strides through the door, and I have to press my lips together to hold back my laughter. Whoever chose the queen’s attire should be shot and flayed, or flayed then shot, something as horrific and painful as the travesty currently defiling the queen’s body. Her entire dress is gold, from the corset pulled tight around her torso, to the skirt falling straight at the hips, then flaring out at the ankles. Add to that the mass of hair piled high on her head, top it off with the overly large golden crown ,and she looks like a walking candlestick.
By the mixture of expressions—ranging from shocked to amused to horrified—on the faces of the other guests, I’d say I’m not the only one to make this tragic connection.
It does make me feel a bit better about my own dress, though. The queen starts down the makeshift walkway at a much greater clip than the prince and princess before her. She climbs the couple of steps to the dais and, standing between Troi and Elsbeth, spins around, her arms outstretched. “Welcome, friends and compatriots. Tomorrow, we will continue the work of running this great nation, but tonight we dance.”
The crowd erupts into cheers, and music begins to play. The soldiers march into position against the walls, and the floor clears to make way for dancing, while guests move to the fringes to drink, eat and converse.
Leodin walks me around the ballroom, introducing me to all the fae who “matter” and making sure I take note of the lords and ladies he wants me to spy on. Thirty minutes in and Leodin’s already left me to schmooze whomever it is he has deemed schmooze-worthy, while I make a circuit of the room, ears trained for political discussions and gossip.
It doesn’t take long.
The principal magi of Casmir—Magi Lotimer or Lottiemire, something to that effect—is trying to negotiate with the queen for a better price on sythra. The principal magi of Dom Ratimer and Dom Veda haggle over the trade of spelled stones, and Duke Krom of Ajir asks anyone who will listen what their expectations are for tomorrow’s meeting. I’ll have to keep my eye on that one. I write all of this down in my journal to share with Leodin later, and feeling rather pleased with my progress, decide to reward myself with a glass of wine. I’m halfway to the bar when a wall steps in front of me.
Not a wall. Aemon. My heart leaps in my chest. Oh gods. I’m caught.
“Lieutenant Aemon. Hello,” I say, my shaking voice betraying the nerves rattling my body .
He holds out a hand, and I’m expecting him to tell me I’m under arrest and haul me away. The last thing I expect him to say is, “Lady Katya, would you honor me with a dance?”
I swallow back the lump in my throat, which may or may not be the cheese pastry I ate a few minutes ago. The thought of touching this man skin-to-skin is both exciting and terrifying, and even though some small part of me is saying to run, I agree. I slide my hand into his, expecting the soft, pampered hands of a gentleman and instead, feeling the scratch of callused fingers across my palms.
He walks me to the dance floor, his eyes never leaving mine, and I follow, held in thrall by his icy-blue gaze. He slips his other hand behind my back and pulls me against him, and we begin. Our bodies are pressed so firmly together, I can feel the muscles of his hard chest flex and stretch as he moves me across the floor with such skill even my shaking legs are able to follow along. I can’t breathe, can’t blink. All I know is this perfect moment with this beautiful man looking down at me, our bodies fitting together like the gods created us for each other.
Aemon lowers his head until we’re cheek-to-cheek, his hot breath tickling the shell of my ear.
“I know what you are, witchling.” he says.
My heart stops beating.
“What is it you’re looking for, little spy? You want to know what the queen has planned? I could tell you.”
We’re still flying across the dance floor, but my mind is frozen. Stupid, stupid. How could I be such an idiot? I actually thought he was watching me because he was attracted to me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, the tremor in my voice clearly audible .
He smiles then, actually smiles, revealing straight white teeth and a dimple in his right cheek. He’s so handsome, and it’s making it hard to think, to process his words and come up with an intelligent response. Even now, knowing he might arrest me at any moment, my attraction to him is undeniable.
“Don’t play stupid, witchling. It doesn’t suit you.” He removes his hand from my back and tenderly cups my cheek, then runs it along my jaw, fingers dipping into my long tresses. Without warning, he closes his fist around my hair and jerks my head back. He leans over me, his face so close I can taste his breath—tart like wine. And even as my mind is screaming “danger,” my traitorous body yearns for him. My nipples harden into tight beads, my drawers flood with arousal and my core aches.
I open my mouth to speak but can’t seem to find my voice.
The music stops and so does our dancing, but Aemon has yet to let me go. I’m like a rabbit caught in his snare, immobilized by fear, too terrified to even attempt escape.
“You’re not keeping all the pretty girls to yourself, are you brother?” It’s Prince Troi. His voice breaks the spell, and Aemon releases my hair and takes a step back.
“Not at all,” he says, placing my hand in Troi’s. “Enjoy your evening, Katya.” He makes a quick bow, then strides off, leaving me with the prince. Troi slips his arm around my back and tugs me against him, much like the way Aemon did, but whereas, Aemon felt like a piece of me fitting into place, the prince feels… wrong somehow. He gives me that charming smile and starts across the floor, his moves just as graceful as Aemon’s.
“I’m sorry about that,” he says. “Aemon can be a little intense at times. ”
That’s an understatement. “So did you come here to save me?” I ask, surprised at the steadiness of my voice.
He chuckles. “Yes. Elsbeth sent me. She was afraid if someone didn’t intervene, Aemon might eat you alive right here in front of the gods and all our guests. Not that I would blame him.”
Wait. Does he know too? Is this some game the two of them concocted to frighten me? “No?” I manage to ask.
“A woman as beautiful as you can make it difficult for men to suppress their baser instincts.”
Baser instincts? Does he mean the instinct to rip my head off and mount it on his wall?
Troi must read the confusion on my face because he leans in and whispers, “To possess you.” Then he pulls back again and gives me another smile, this one more sinister, as his hand runs up my side, stopping at my breast, his thumb making circles over the spot where my nipple presses against the bodice of my dress. Nausea tugs at my belly and my corset suddenly feels too tight. I’m trapped. I can’t shove him away the way I would any other man, and he knows it. Bastard.
I carry on, a smile on my face the way Leodin told me, even when he hooks a finger over the neckline of my dress and runs it across the top of my breast. Finally, the music ends, and I’m able to pull away from the prince. I curtsy and thank him for the dance, then hurry for the ballroom doors. I manage to keep my pace fairly normal, but the minute those doors close behind me, I bolt. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing, but my instincts are screaming at me to get out.
I need air. Fresh air. I don’t even realize I’m heading for the garden until I’m almost there. I shove through the door and into the moist night air. It’s deliciously cool against my hot skin, and I fold over at the waist, hands on thighs, breathing, breathing, breathing, breathing.
“Katya.”
I whirl around to see Aemon stalking toward me, shoulders hunched, teeth bared. I instinctively back away, tripping over a path stone and landing in a bush. The woody stems jab my back and rake long scratches across my exposed arms, but I hardly feel any pain as I tear myself free and run.
I barrel down the narrow trails, the sliver of moon in the sky doing little to light my way. I veer left, then right, seeing the breaks in the trail only moments before I have to turn. The trees and plants, so lovely in the daylight, stand like shadowy sentinels against a night-black sky. They reach for me, hands and claws and teeth tearing at my clothes and hair. My heart is a metronome, pounding at an ever-increasing pace as cool air sears my throat with every heaving breath. Pain shoots through my ankle as one of my fancy heels slips on a chunk of gravel. I bite back a yelp of pain, and limping, I push on, no thoughts except the need to escape. I don’t dare glance behind myself. Instead, I scan my surroundings, looking for somewhere to hide, but there’s nothing.
I’m almost to the back wall when I hear it: the pounding of footsteps behind me. I try to speed up, but I’m hobbled by my injured ankle.
Then he grabs me from behind, just as my foot buckles, and we both go down. The breath is knocked out of me as his much larger body crashes on top of mine. He pulls up only enough to cage me in while he turns me over to face him, then lays his body against mine again, effectively pinning me to the ground. I open my mouth to scream, but he slaps a hand over it before the first note leaves my lips.
“Dammit, Katya,” he says between heaving breaths. I twist and squirm and beat at his back with only one hand since the other is pinned between us. He grabs that wrist and lifts it up, over my head. Then, he rests his forehead against mine. “You can’t get away from me. I won't let you.” He’s holding himself up with one arm, saving me from being crushed by his full weight, but I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline or just some undeniable chemistry between the two of us, but there’s a part of me that wants that weight holding me down. There’s a part that bucks and writhes beneath him, wishing there were no clothes separating us. Gods, I must be insane.
But I’m not the only one because either he has a rather girthy pistol in his pocket, or the rock-hard bulge I feel against my thigh is his cock.
“I’m going to remove my hand,” he says, “and if you scream, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and take you to the interrogation room in the dungeon. Understand?”
That threw some much-needed cold water on my libido. Is he serious? Is he going to interrogate me? Wait, there is a dungeon?
I nod, because there isn’t much else I can do, and he slowly lifts his hand.
“Please. Please don’t hurt me,” I say as soon as his hand is gone.
His throat bobs as he swallows. “That depends on you, Katya. If I get up, you promise not to run?”
I nod.
“Say it.”
“I promise. ”
He seems to take my word for it. He leans back on his heels, legs still straddling mine. “Where’s the notebook?”
Fuck. “What notebook?” I say, trying to play stupid again, even though I know he won’t believe me.
“Don’t fuck with me.” He curls a hand around my throat. He doesn’t squeeze or even use an ounce of pressure, but the threat is clear. I grab his wrist with both hands, but he might as well be a stone battlement for all that I can move him.
“My pocket,” I say.
He scans me up and down. “Where?”
I remove a hand from his wrist, lower it to my side, and pat the spot in my skirt. He pats the same spot, feeling for it, then reaches inside and pulls out the little journal. Without moving from his position, he scans the pages. “You’re almost as bad an artist as you are a spy,” he says, his eyes scanning the hastily drawn dresses I scribbled in the journal to detract from the writing running along the edge of the pages.
“They’re sketches,” I say. “It’s about the dress, not the art. Now give it back. Please.” I tack that last word on for good measure, but he ignores me.
“What is this?” he asks, pointing to the text which I wrote in an ancient hieroglyphic form of Cardemian that only a handful of scholars and I know.
“They’re doodles,” I say with way more confidence than I feel.
“Doodles?”
“Yes. Doodles.”
“What is it? Some sort of cipher.” He turns the journal upside down, as if by some trick of the light, it will suddenly be legible.
“I told you, they’re just doodles. Now, can I please get up? ”
His eyes narrow. Of course he doesn’t believe me. He’s too smart for that. “If you were just doodling, then why did you run?”
“Because I thought you were going to kill me.” That is true.
He shakes his head. “No, no, no. From the ballroom.”
Oh, right. “I wasn’t feeling well. Now please let me up.”
I start to squirm and try to shove him off of me, but he just snatches up both my wrists, somehow managing to maintain his grip on the journal while holding my hand captive. “Liar.”
This really is ridiculous. “Dammit, Aemon. What do you want?”
He stops cold, eyes widening like I’ve shocked him somehow. It only lasts a moment, though, before he’s manhandling me again. “I want the truth.”
“Fine.” I let my head fall back to the ground and stop fighting him. “The prince made me…” I don’t know why this is so hard to admit to him. I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just—I don’t know—hard to say out loud. I turn my head, so I don’t have to see his expression. “Uncomfortable,” I finally say.
Abruptly, he stands and backs away, the expression on his face inscrutable. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.” I push to my feet and pat at the layer of dirt covering my backside, even though I already know the dress is ruined. I look down and, sure enough, the satin skirt is a torn-up mess. How am I going to explain this to Leodin? He’s going to kill me. I take a steadying breath. I’ll just have to deal with that later. First thing’s first, I hold out my hand. “My journal.” He looks down at my palm. It’s bleeding and covered with scratches but doesn’t really hurt. Maybe it’s all the adrenaline running through me, and I’ll feel it more later .
Aemon closes the journal and stuffs it into his inside pocket. “No. I need to take a closer look at it first. If I don’t see anything suspicious, I’ll give it back.”
Oh wonderful. Another check on the list of things that will make Leodin furious . “Great. Wonderful. Can I please go now? As you can see, I need to get cleaned up. And I won’t be able to return to the ball now, so thank you for that.” I turn on my heel and head back the way I came, Aemon fast on my heel.
“It’s not my fault. Next time, don’t run.”
“Next time, don’t approach a woman, who’s alone in the dark, looking like a rabid animal. Hmm?” I shoot him an evil glare over my shoulder and keep walking.
“I did not look like a rabid animal.”
I harrumph loudly. “Well, as the person who actually saw your face, I would say that you are incorrect.”
“What do you want me to say? I’m sorry? Does that make you feel any better?”
I round on him, happy to be on the offensive for a change. “I don’t know. Will your pitiful excuse for an apology repair my dress or heal my wounds?” I cross my arms and tap my foot, waiting.
He shrugs and walks past me. “You shouldn’t have run.”
I growl, actually growl, I’m so angry.
He stops, turns around and smirks. “Who’s the rabid animal now?”
“Next time, I’ll remember to bite,” I say.
He laughs. LAUGHS.
And I must lose my mind or something because I run up behind him and shove him in the back. “You think this is funny?”
“Calm down. ”
“Calm down. Oh, that’s easy for you to say. You’re a man. If you leave in the middle of the ball unannounced and ruin your suit, it doesn’t matter. You don’t have a stepfather who is expecting you back and will very likely beat you bloody the next time he sees you.”
That smile drops like an anvil.
I step up to him, so close I have to crane my head to meet his eyes. “You men are all the same. You think women are only useful for fucking and cleaning up after your messes. And if we won’t do what you say, then you beat us into submission. Like you’re so tough for intimidating and abusing someone half your size.” I attempt to storm past him in a most theatrical way, but he grabs my arm, stalling my escape.
“I don’t abuse women.”
“No, you just throw them on the ground and press yourself against them without their permission.” The fact that I kind of enjoyed it doesn’t make the statement any less true. Does it?
He opens his mouth, but no words come out.
“Now, if you don’t mind.” I wrench my arm from his grip. “I have a dress I need to hide.” And this time, I make that dramatic exit, and I’ve got to admit, it feels pretty good.
The next morning, I wait in my room for Leodin to arrive, all my bluster from the night before extinguished with the first rays of sunlight slanting through my window. I am quite honestly terrified. Over the years, I learned how to manage Leodin, for the most part, though, admittedly, my pride gets in the way sometimes. Don’t speak unless spoken to, and then only give the answer he wants. Never complain. Never disagree. And if he chooses to dole out punishment, do not cry or beg because it won’t change a damn thing.
But this is completely out of my control. Gods, I never should have agreed to come with him.
A knock on my door startles me, and I leap to my feet. “H-hello?” I call out, trembling hands clasped against my chest.
“Open the door, Katya.” It’s Leodin. Of course, it’s Leodin. I start across the room. My legs are so weak I’m not sure how I remain upright, and my stomach feels like I swallowed a lead brick, but I make it. In some ways, this is the worst part: the anticipation. When you know you’re about to be beaten, but you have no other choice than to face it.
I open the door.
Leodin’s skin is ashen, and he’s got one hand propped up on the door frame, holding most, if not all, of his weight. His lips tighten for a moment at seeing me, then he lets out a long sigh. “Get your things and let’s go. The queen’s called the meeting early.”
“Did something happen?” I ask.
“No,” he answers, without turning around.
Confusion and relief swirl in my chest. He didn’t even ask me about what happened at the ball. I’d honestly expected him to come looking for me last night as soon as he noticed I was gone. I fell asleep waiting for him. When I woke up alone and unharmed, I figured he probably drank too much and would mete out punishment this morning .
I did not anticipate this. Not that I’m complaining, but what in the world could have happened to make Leodin forget about last night?