23. Gardens
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Gardens
Isat on one of the stones surrounding the bubbling fountain that spat water from the mouth of a stone horse situated in the middle. My journal lay across my lap, opened a third of the way through. Full of the work I had put into it since Lord Draven gifted it to me.
On one hand, chronicling the plants had been a ruse to collect as many blooms as I needed, and on the other, it was oddly soothing to restart one of my favored pastimes.
My schedule had been set in motion, and almost an entire moon rotation had passed in the time Lord Draven had abandoned me.
I could not help but scoff.
Have I not learned not to be so touchy about him?
No, it had been another sennight since I had encountered the true prophet. Since then, I had not been left alone. Not that it mattered, I had yet to hear about any ball, and I struggled to beat back the doubt creeping forth.
I completed the description of the flower and its uses, or lack thereof other than used primarily for fragrance reasons, and flipped the page to place the bloom between the parchment. Once I returned to the bed, I would set a small stool on my journal to flatten it properly.
In the time I had been collecting specimens, I had seen plenty, but there were many flowers in this region I had never come across. And this was only the garden within the House of Lords.
None had yet questioned me for collecting blooms because they had no knowledge of botany. Which worked in my favor, because as useless and simple as the pretty mylk blooms were, the stems were not.
Dried, crushed, and added to the boiling liquid, it released something that clouded the mind. A small measure would stupefy. Too much would kill.
I was unsure when I would utilize it, or if I would need to, but I had collected many of the flowers and had begun to stash them beneath my bed by bringing them inside within the pages of my journal. It would work well for rendering any officer unconscious—
‘I believe you are collecting those, are you not?’ Piper’s voice filled my head. I kept my expression bland.
Swords were not the only method of battle.
‘Let me guess, you are musing to yourself about how underestimated other ways of battle are.’ She chirped and her little claws dug into my thighs as she pushed up to look at the journal in my lap.
“Since when did you fancy yourself a jester?” I muttered to her.
“Since I have been stuck in that dratted cage with vulgar-mouthed rakes flitting in and out.”
“Are you ready to return?” Egan asked, startling me from my musings. His question melded with Piper’s sentence.
Before Lord Draven departed, he had left firm orders.
Allow the Vessel access to the Gardens. This particular freedom had stunned the other feeders and forced me to dodge their questions. Now he had been gone for too long, and I had only a moon rotation until Nocturn.
“You cannot imagine how much whoring happens in the dusty place I am being kept—”
“To the heavily guarded feeder wing?” I asked Egan loudly, a small smile playing along my lips.
Egan snorted and quickly stifled it. As my personal Guard, we spent a lot of time together.
He followed me everywhere. If I left the feeder wing, he was my shadow.
Little by little he caved to my inquiries.
Well, enough that I knew he was incredibly disciplined with himself.
Other than that, there was a more pressing fact: he held a certain disdain for his father, Lord Vaner.
“So, have you given any thought to Lady Branwen’s interest?”
He was not daft, he knew she fancied him. Her reactions to him were quite sweet in all truth. She became mute when he came around.
Much to my surprise, I enjoyed the other women’s company, and I often had to remind myself not to relax too much around them. After all, as did many residing at Sycarious Court, they would turn against me in an instant, taking any advantage to gain favor.
Each one had their reasons, and they all ran in the same vein: coin, status, and, most importantly, security.
Egan cleared his throat again and shuffled on his feet, muttering nonsense under his breath. “You and your questions,” he mumbled.
‘Do you like him?’
Piper’s question shoved a pole to straighten my spine.
“I do believe it is time to go,” I announced and swept her up with one arm.
‘I get it! I get it,’ she squealed, writhing against my side. With a wince, I softened my grip. I had not done it on purpose.
“Officer Vaner,” Drusilla’s voice echoed nearby, and she rounded the hedge where it led into the circular area where the fountain was. I did not miss how Egan flinched at how she addressed him.
“Get that creature out of here.” She jerked her chin toward Piper, then focused her gaze on me. “You are needed in Lord Draven’s chamber with all haste.”
My pulse sped up. There was only one reason I would be needed there so suddenly.
The Warlord had returned.
‘Oh no.’
Piper’s soft voice was muffled in my head.
‘You do not prefer the officer . . . you fancy the monster.’
The hushed tone wrenched me back to the present, and I filled my lungs with air.
‘I see it.’
She saw nothing. Panic tightened in my throat like a growing boulder. That dratted bloom in my belly trembled, reacting to her claim. I squeezed Piper in a hug, taking in the smell of straw clinging to her fur.
‘Please be careful,’ she whispered inside my head.
“I will see you soon.” With those final words, I approached Egan and pressed her into his arms. His fingertips grazed my arm as he took her, and he inhaled deeply.
‘Is he smelling you?’ Piper mused.
I only gave her a look as I pulled away.
“Please take this to Branwen. She will place it on my bed for me,” I said, taking my journal from where I tucked it under my arm and handing it to him.
Egan nodded tightly, taking it in hand while his other arm cradled Piper gingerly. He had gotten better at holding her. He jerked his chin down, and my shoulders relaxed. I trusted him to be kind to her.
The one creature that had been around me for my entire life. Who knew me best.
She saw it.
No, but she did not understand. It was not that I fancied Lord Draven. It was about the pleasure I experienced in his arms.
Surely.
Egan disappeared around the hedge. The warmth at my breastbone faded with Piper’s absence.
Drusilla’s intense focus had not left me. She stared as if I were on display. I could never get a read on her. She did as she was ordered, always, and she was the picture of poise . . .
I supposed, as the one that had to provide Lord Draven with his every whim, she would need it.
“The carriage awaits.”
I curtsied, acknowledging her words and waiting for her to lead the way, despite knowing the turns and spirals like the back of my hand at this point. It was best that I keep that tidbit of information to myself. Posing as a helpless, inept woman would make people not look at me too closely.
I kept a few paces behind Drusilla. Her gown, cut from the richest samite, swayed around her. Every black gown she owned shared the same silhoutte—the same high collar, the same sleeves—but the weave was never the same. A stranger would think she wore one dress daily.
We wound through the maze of hedges until it spat us out.
Assuredly her chamber would need to be particularly large with how many gowns I had seen on her.
“Has Lord Draven returned?”
She slowed for a moment, then continued.
“Yes, he has, and he is in need of bathing. I offered to have one of the other feeders bathe him. Yet, he wanted you summoned.” She peered over her shoulder at me, running her eyes down my frame. I was still ruminating on her statement. “Seems like he is quite fond of this body.”
My face flushed at the pointed comment. Was I . . . pleased?
I pressed my lips into a flat line. My situation was entirely twisted. She had reminded me I was nothing more than a body to the Warlord, yet I struggled to stamp down the anticipation to see the immortal man I would betray.
He had allowed me access to the Gardens and given me a journal in his absence—all for a ‘filthy redblood’.
Saints, he muddled my thoughts—cruel one breath, generous the next.
I straightened my spine more with each step we wound through the parlors through the House of Lords, toward the Grand Hall. Officers were posted at every point.
Entering the Grand Hall sent a wave of cold air over my skin. It was always chilly in here. The clipped click of Drusilla’s heels echoed around the cavernous Hall until we reached the outside steps leading to the carriage.
I followed her on, ignoring the tentative outstretched hand waiting to hoist me up. This was the same officer who had turned from me before. He shut the carriage door, and it began to move.
Drusilla was looking at me again.
I arranged the bottom of my gown so the panels covered me more appropriately.
“I do not want you to be confused,” she began.
There was an internal battle inside her when I met her blue eyes.
“I have been in His Highness’ service for ages.
He has never cared for anything. Truly, I believe he is incapable of it.
Once the whimsy ends, he will leave you broken, and I .
. .” She made a sound. “I do not wish your final moon rotation to be in agony over a love he can never give.”
My insides roiled, and I remained silent. He had chosen me over the other feeders? If there was no capability to feel, why make the distinction? Why warn me?
She had known him much longer, but his actions did not fit together.
Her nostrils flared with her exhale. “This is my warning to you. Do not mistake me.”
I opened and closed my mouth. Instead of responding, I inclined my head.
She turned away from me, staring out the split curtains at the foliage passing.
I reeled. I was not foolish enough to believe I would make the Warlord care for me.
The carriage jerked and slowed; the horse neighed from outside. With another shudder, it stopped, and within moments, the door was opened.
“Make haste. He was not in a pleasant mood,” Lady Drusilla advised.
I left the carriage, using the handles to help me down the steps, strode past an officer, and went up the steps. The huge doors were ajar, and I slid inside, leaving the sunlight behind me as darkness engulfed the foyer.
Walking through the Citadel felt odd after being at the House of Lords for so long. Anticipation kept my pace quick. Once I reached the final landing to reach his chamber, I slowed to catch my breath.
This will go well. I would serve him, and that is all.
I entered his chamber. The leftover chain still hung where it was attached around the base of the bed frame. His bed was carefully made with a black fur blanket spread across. A pile of torn, bloody clothing lay near the entrance.
He stepped out of the bathing chamber, and I slowed.
Lord Draven rubbed the towel across the top of his head. He stilled, gaze lifting to pierce me. A few beads of liquid clung to his alabaster shoulders.
“I came to bathe you—”
My words cut off as he took hold of me, hoisting me into his arms. The move jostled a slipper off one foot. He struck his fangs into the side of my neck and fed.
I cried out, the wave of pleasure wracking through my frame. Instinctively, I lifted my legs to brace my thighs against his nude waist. His thick length prodded my bottom, but the dress limited the skin-to-skin contact.
His tongue swiped across the punctures, the wet sensation sending shivers down to my toes, and they curled.
He stepped toward his bed, and I lost the second slipper.
Saints, I missed him—his body! Not him, just his body.
He moaned against my neck. Every one of those thoughts evaporated.
“Your taste drives me mad.”