Chapter 2 #2
An audible gulp is the only defense I can muster under his icy stare. He is ever the mighty King, looming over his beastly daughter.
“She’s awake.” The King’s voice drips with authority. Not a question, but spoken as a matter of fact.
Galahand blinks at my father, and as if suddenly remembering himself, bends at the waist. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Mm.”
No thank goodness or there’s always next time. Not even a nod in my direction. Just mm.
If the room was frigid before, it’s well below freezing now. I chase away the sudden need to tuck myself beneath the thin muslin sheets with a shaky exhale.
Galahand straightens, his rigid body and stiff limbs looking woefully uncomfortable as his eyes bounce from me to Father, waiting for the rest of his king’s response. Or perhaps hoping for an early dismissal.
I don’t blame him. I’d scrub the crap out of the mountains’ polluted streams if it meant removing myself from the center of Oren Silverwood’s attention.
The King of Ruin is not an easy man to look at, with his towering form, his darkened hair and pale skin only accentuating the scars riddling his face. He’s a man who never has to ask twice.
“And she’s well enough to move around on her own.” Another statement, this one leaving even less room for reply.
Still unsure, Galahand answers, “Uh, she should be—”
“Good.” The king’s response is sharp, like the tips of the broken blades crossed at his back— a strong indicator that this is anything but good.
Galahand’s insistent thumb tapping tells me he shares my worries.
Father is not known to occupy this side of the castle, let alone pay a visit to the infirmary.
And he’s certainly never made any efforts to see me after one of my spells.
Looking after me has always been the responsibility of someone else. Someone lesser.
Yet, here he is.
I push my shoulders back and lift my chin. Just like my governess taught me.
Maybe he does care? Maybe he knows my time is running out, and wishes to make up for the time we’ve lost together while he was out searching for the dead prince’s remains. And here I am, staring like an idiot. Gah.
“Father, I—”
He stops me with a single finger raised, eyeing the bubbly blue vial on Gally’s desk before turning his cold stare on me. “You are to return to your chambers, where you will change into something…more.” He adjusts the lapels of his hunting blazer, shaking the disgust from his prominent features.
I bow my head low enough for my loose hairpins to fall free, and with them, the mess of oily black waves that cascade past my shoulders into my lap.
I suck in a sharp breath, the memory of what happened the last time I didn’t keep presentable in front of the king glaring up at me from a small scar atop my wrist.
My brother moves first, stepping to stand between the king and me. Shielding me from the heat of Father’s anger while giving me time to put myself back together.
Oh, Xander. When are you going to learn that you’re not responsible for every damsel in distress?
A long twisted scar pokes above his collar, a remnant of the last time he put himself between Father and the source of his rage. “Perhaps we reschedule tonight?” Xander offers coolly.
The king laughs, but there is no joy in the deep timbre. “Perhaps you should remember your place,” he bites.
Unfortunately, sharp teeth have never been enough to scare my brother. “Look at her, Father. She isn’t well.”
Okay, ouch.
I want to argue. To have a say in all of this.
But princess or not, I’m only a girl. And with my head bowed, it’s given me a lot of time to look at my hands.
To see that he may be right. They’ve turned a pale shade of blue.
Almost like a chill has permeated my flesh, making itself at home above the bone.
“You know who else isn’t looking too well these days?”
My ears perk up, confusion chasing away my concern as I look between them. Both my father and brother look seconds away from drawing their swords.
Xander’s fingers flex above the scabbard holding his blade. “Don’t,” he spits through clenched teeth.
Father doesn’t flinch. In fact, his wicked grin grows wider under Xander’s threat.
“I think it’s time I sent some guards to visit our little prisoner. Check on all those bruises, of which we both know there were many.” He laughs.
“See, it’s not uncommon to fool around with peasants, son—especially the pretty ones. But falling for them? Planning a future with them?” Father tsks, his lip curling in disgust as I realize who he’s referring to.
Suddenly, I know exactly who this prisoner is.
The handmaiden that was training to take over for Peony. Someone I had wanted to befriend. I thought Father had killed her. She was part of the reason I lost my desk and all of my stationery. I told her she could use it to write letters to her lover.
I hadn’t known he was the Prince. That she was in love with my brother.
Shame pools in my eyes at the memory of her screams and Xander’s yells. His anguish lingered in the halls for days after their whipping. He was left with that scar, but Ella…
She was unrecognizable. I was so sure she was dead.
I should have never kept that letter. It wasn’t mine to read. I just wanted to know what true love looked like.
Tears fall without my permission. What they had was real—just as real as the pain I’ve now subjected them to.
“A prince cannot love a peasant any more than a swine can fly. She is not of good stock, Son. Not for the likes of you and I. But that’s not to say the men won’t have some use for her.”
An inhuman sound tears from Xander’s mouth as he lunges for the king.
I don’t recall seeing either draw their swords, but there they are.
Three black iridescent blades glinting in the fire light.
Xander’s heavy iron points at Father’s neck, while Father’s jagged twins remain at his sides.
All the fury in the world wouldn’t be enough to bring him down, and Xander knows it.
We are not called the Kingdom of Ruin for nothing.
“See to it that Sunday is escorted back to her chambers. Immediately,” orders the king, his voice unchanged beneath the pressure of Xander’s blade.
Galahand wastes no time rushing to my side, his cold hands slipping beneath the bend of my elbow. I wince as his fingers brush the bruises there, biting down on the whimper climbing up my tightened throat.
It hurts to stand, though not more than it does to see the defeat weigh down my brother’s shoulders.
He drops his blade, casting his eyes to the slick black floors of the castle’s undercroft.
Knowing him, he will see this as his failure too.
I want to reach out, to reassure him that I don’t need his saving.
That I can save myself. But honestly, I’m not so sure I can anymore.
“Sunday.”
My eyes cut to where Father’s wait expectantly. “Be ready,” he orders, turning on his heel.
But before he can leave, and despite knowing I shouldn’t, I let the gnawing question slip.
“Ready for what, Father?”
Who needs a curse to kill you when you’ve got curiosity?
A slow, wicked grin stretches across his illuminated features, giving the air of a madman coming undone. If I didn’t already taste regret on my tongue, the words that followed would have had me choking on it.
“To finally see this curse undone.”