7 Imogen #3
“You must be tired,” he said, quietly.
“Yes.” The word was sweet and meek, and then Halla added quickly, in a too-bright tone, “But I don’t need to sleep just yet.”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Theodore grunted, but I barely heard it above the thudding of my own heart. “I expect you’re feeling ill.”
“The sea has been gentle,” Halla said. “Thankfully. I’m quite well.”
I cursed Lachlan for taking so long to draw Theodore out of the cabin.
When I finally forced my eyes open, I could see Theodore pulling open the drink cabinet and pouring himself a full glass of wine.
Tension seemed to coil through him as he took a deep gulp.
He’d removed his crown, and once he lowered the glass from his lips, he raked his fingers through his dark locks.
I’d thought I’d memorized the planes of his face, the timbre of his voice, for they incessantly inhabited my thoughts, but looking at him now—the slant of his strong nose, the hard angles juxtaposed with his soft mouth, the guarded way he stared, and that crease between his brows—it was as if I was seeing him for the first time.
I felt the same awe, the same terrible weightlessness that made me feel like my feet left the ground.
Halla walked toward him, and I had to stifle a sharp gasp. Her white hair hung loose and straight down her back. The white binding gown she’d worn was now gone and she stood before Theodore in a tissue-thin shift. She reached up to slip one of its straps down her shoulder.
“Halla.” Theodore cast his eyes to the floor, shook his head. “I’ll give you some privacy.”
Even through her gentle accent, Halla’s voice was as fine-edged as a good blade. “It is our wedding night.”
“It is.” His voice was austere and precise.
“And we had a pact.” Halla’s hands went to fists on her sides. “You agreed. You signed the contract.”
I watched on as if paralyzed. Halla started again on her shift, pulling one arm out of its strap to reveal a small, pert breast. A heartbeat later the shift rippled to the floor like settling mist.
The details of the scene cut through my senses like a staccato, discordant song.
Theodore taking two steps away from her, toward the bank of windows.
The pure white of Halla’s willowy limbs.
The angry dip of her brows as she followed after him.
Across her torso, etched into her skin like tally marks, were dozens and dozens of scars.
Each was about the length of my thumb, thin and uniform.
Embarrassment flashed across her face when she noticed Theodore staring at them, but she didn’t cower.
She reached for Theodore’s hand and brought it to her ribs, brushing his fingers over the old wounds.
“My mother said that you would not mind them.” She guided his hand higher still, until his fingers brushed the underside of her breast.
I felt ill.
Theodore yanked his hand away. “Did your mother give you those?”
Halla stood taller, her head tipping back regally. “Some of them. The oldest ones. But I do not wish to speak of my mother any longer—unless the mention of her will encourage you to honor our contract.”
Theodore moved like a soldier, back straight, steps sure, as he went to his armoire and pulled out a nightshirt. “Put this on.” He tossed it at Halla, whose cheeks flushed a sudden angry red.
“Please.” Halla’s fingers curled into the shirt. “I beg you to keep your word. I will be your servant. I will live as you see fit and honor you, but you must keep your word. Or so help me, I will—”
Theodore slammed his goblet onto his desk. “I know what you will do, Halla. I know you will call for my decimation. I will keep my word, but all I promised in that contract was that I would give you a child. I did not specify when.”
I sucked in a painful breath. I felt suddenly like I was falling. A screaming whine filled my ears, my chest constricted. The impact would be fateful. Every bone broken, every piece of me crushed.
I started moving, terrible as a reanimated corpse, crawling across the ledge toward the open window as a boiling burst of power started to leak through my stomach. I set a hand to the glass, when a loud knock came from the stateroom entrance.
Lachlan. I froze. Forced a deep breath.
Get Halla. Don’t kill her. Find Agatha.
Theodore said, “Dress yourself,” before I heard the creak and slam of the door.
With another steadying breath, I pushed the window open wider.
Halla had huddled herself on the settee, knees tucked into Theodore’s sleep shirt. Face buried in her hands. When the window’s hinge whined, she looked up with a yelp. She beheld me, cheeks splotchy and eyes red, and her entire body tightened with terror.
I did my best to look undaunted and menacing, despite how I’d shattered. It felt like I was breaking still, the shards of me cracking further, never to be rebuilt. It had been imprudent to cling to hope as I had, even if it had been a meager scrap.
“Hello, Halla,” I finally said, donning an unfriendly smile. “It seems congratulations are in order.”