Chapter 3 Paeonia
?PAEONIA
“Paeonia,” she whispered to no response. “My name.”
The towering fae didn’t spare her a glance as he led her into his castle. She trembled, wringing her hands together to steady them. She presumed he’d be more combative—hounding her for lurking in his gardens at dusk. But he remained silent. And she found that far more hair-raising.
“I didn’t realize fae still lived amongst us,” she summoned the courage to say, though her words came out merely a whisper.
He stopped just as they reached a large set of lattice glass doors, iced over and laced with crawling vines. “No? You haven’t heard the stories of children getting lost to these woods? Succumbing to terrible fates—tragedy sprouting from nowhere and plaguing your innocent townsfolk?”
Her breathing quickened. “I thought that all an old wives’ tale,” she stuttered.
He smirked, pushing open the doors before extending a hand, encouraging her to enter. “Perhaps,” he droned.
The inside of his castle appeared far darker than the candle-lit gardens.
“Or perhaps something far more sinister lingers amongst the thickets.”
His resonant words sent a wave of dread through her. She had never been more afraid.
A few melted candles formed a soft glow over the floorboards, the only source of light besides the setting sun.
The walls crept with crystal wisteria, wilted roses breaking between the crevices of the patterned wallpaper.
The fireplace crackled lowly, teetering on extinguishing.
There was a clock in the corner, its face broken, but it still ticked by, the small sound echoing in the otherwise quiet room.
A piano sat further back between two large pillars, its keys mingled with sprouting buds.
An unknown reminiscent feeling filled her.
“I’ll show you to your room,” he said, stealing her from her appraisal.
Her room.
She swallowed the reality that she was going to have to sleep in a stranger’s home tonight, and many more nights to come. As she followed beside him, she noticed his jaw tick again like he was restraining himself. Keeping something he wanted to say to her within, careful not to let it bloom.
She ascended the creaking staircase behind him, the chandelier above dull but still glimmering with candlelight, illuminating cobwebs that danced between the metal arms. He approached a sizable, archaic door, its surface carved with an alder tree. She gritted her teeth.
“To seal our arrangement,” he hummed, “I’ll cast a mark upon your skin. The conjuration will keep you from breaking your end of the deal.”
A soft gust of wind slipped in and shifted her hair from an open window. “What about you?”
He grinned. “It will keep me from breaking it as well. Don’t worry, pet.”
She inwardly cringed at the name he called her for a second time.
He had made the bargain sound like an even trade, like they might be partners in this exchange. But his subtle phrasing made it clear he held all the power, that she was under his claws. And he taunted her with that knowledge.
“Turn around,” he demanded.
Her lips wavered. “Why?”
His irritating grin never faltered. Instead of asking her again, he forcefully grabbed her arm and spun her, his large hand easily wrapping around her bicep.
She let out a brief yelp as he held her against his chest, his body’s warmth spreading, her back on fire.
Her mouth went painfully dry, and her breathing almost halted entirely, her heart pounding so loudly in her ears, she couldn’t hear anything else.
His fingers found her hair, pushing the tendrils forward so they cascaded over her shoulders, uncovering her neck, his breath dancing across her exposed skin. She remained frozen, her eyelids absent as she stared wildly at the wall before her.
She hated being touched. Hated his fingers on her body.
Barth touching her countless times against her will slipped into her mind, but the fae stole her attention from her haunting memories when his fingers moved again, resting on the base of her neck before sliding around to her throat.
She was entirely pressed against him when he whispered, “Nervous?”
Her chest was beating monstrously loud, rising and falling in rhythm with hers. She knew she couldn’t stop him from touching her even if she tried.
“And do you consent to binding yourself to me?”
“Y-yes,” she managed in a timid lilt.
His scent wafted past her hair, straight to her nose, and she almost found it comforting.
He smelt of the woods. Like the soft aroma of sodden leaves.
The earthy musk of it so familiar to her that her mind instantly pictured one of the many moments she had laid in the fields and daydreamed at the rolling sky.
A sharp scratch against her neck, like he was dragging a knife, zapped her promptly into the present. His thumb rested on her nape, his fingers splaying down her throat as he held her steady.
“Your blood,” he said quietly, “will seal this…arrangement.” His grip against her throat held tighter, and she felt the point—the sharp blade of the knife. Still, she didn’t flinch or make a sound, simply remained excruciatingly tense.
“Easy,” she thought she heard the fae mumble, his breath fanning her neck, his voice sending a shiver down her spine.
Easy. Was he calming her down like a wild animal or insulting her yielding nature?
She yelped when something wet—his tongue—slid along the stinging sensation of whatever slash he left upon her. Before she could fully register it, he stopped.
“There,” he said, releasing her.
She stumbled forward, catching herself upright against the wall, her hand covering her neck. When she pulled her hand away, a smidgen of blood decorated her palm.
“Just a nick.” His eyes narrowed as if he was challenging her to retaliate, to curse him out. Like he enjoyed getting under her skin.
“Did it have to be my neck?”
An arm or hand would have felt less personal. Less insulting. Less demeaning.
He relaxed his stance, his pupils dilated, and he rolled his shoulders like he was uncomfortable in his clothes. Her eyes traced down to his hands, a few droplets of blood sliding over his skin and dripping onto the floorboards.
“No.”
That one definite word had her mind reeling.
She righted herself when she noticed her locket seemed to glow faintly. She held it in her hand, blinking to clear her vision, but the glow had already faded. A hallucination, she thought.
“You are to tend to the garden at dawn. You’re not permitted to leave your rooms before then.”
She refocused on him, trying to shed the fog he left behind. “If I have to use the washroom?” She tilted her head.
“There’s one attached to your room from the inside.”
Her chest locked, unable to argue or implore more, a panic attack starting to brew. “And if I’m to change my mind, will I—?”
He cut her off, shoving open the door to her room with a bang. “You’ve already signed your life away, pet. There is no turning back.”
She winced.
“Even the thought of it will cause you pain.”
Her throat tightened, and the sting in her eyes gave way to a single tear tracing down her cheek when she realized her foolish mistake. Signed her life away, sounded far worse than the one month she agreed to.
She had been so furious at Barth, so upset at the events unfolding in her life, what it looked like her future held, that she made a deal with a demon.
Accepted this strange fae’s offer to take her away from all that weighed her down.
She was acting so foolishly, like a stupid girl when she was supposed to be a woman.
She bit her lip again, and he made a low sound in his chest that sent a fright through her veins.
“In,” he commanded.
And now she was to take orders from a fae male, a creature long since thought to have abandoned the human realm.
She entered the room slowly, turning back toward him once she passed the threshold, and his hand hovered above the doorknob. He growled, “Rowan.” Then shut the door.
His name.
She collapsed where she stood, sinking to her knees, tears blurring her vision.
She turned to her bed after wallowing on the floor, the mattress draped with a purple velvet duvet, a canopy casting down, weathered and torn. It appeared that the room hadn’t been used in some time. With all the dust that lined the furniture, she wondered just how long it had been.
She explored quietly, wiping her cold cheeks periodically.
She silently gasped when she noticed two statues beside the glass doors that led to a small balcony.
Statues of women, both in simple dresses, posed as if asleep.
They were stunning, the intricate work of them so lifelike that it took a bit of her breath away.
She had never stayed in such a luxurious room, one with handcrafted statues, an ornate bed, and a balcony.
Is this how the higher class always lived?
If this was simply a guest chamber, she couldn’t imagine what Rowan’s room might entail.
She shivered, clutching her dress tighter, regretting darting out of Barth’s house without a coat now more than ever.
Her feet began to feel numb from the icy chill.
There was a fireplace situated against the wall, onyx stones streaked with the memory of flames, but no logs remained.
She bit her lip and tiptoed to the bed, curling herself under the covers, not bothering to remove her shoes.
The chill only intensified with the frozen duvet, and her teeth chattered.
She tried to sleep, tried to will herself not to overthink the events of the day, but that was proving difficult. She groaned after what felt like hours, rolling over in the bed, shivering, the new spot on the mattress icy. She worried she might not make it to dawn with how frozen she felt.
After closing her tired eyes, her body curled in a ball, willing the chill to take her, the fireplace sparked to life.