CHAPTER ELEVEN
“She’s here? In this cave?” My stomach turned. “Olivay’s the meal you sent for?”
The Hermit shrugged. “What did you expect? She can’t exactly stay in Lafir Castle at the same time that you’re there.”
I whirled on him. “So you kidnapped her?”
“Again, where do you think she should be? With the prince, drinking tea? Roaming free until she enters the same room of the castle as you and reveals you’re a fake?
A Demonos? She needs to be out of the picture to clear the way for you.
And you needed to see her so you could study her face and mannerisms. Plus, there’s the little matter you keep reminding me of—you need to feed.
Did you think I’d bring someone else in to see what we were up to?
Create another possibility of our plot being discovered?
Bringing her here felt like a pretty well thought out solution to several problems we were facing. ”
“But you’ve kidnapped her!” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Taken her away from her home—”
“She wasn’t home.”
“And her family—”
“Who are about to abandon her in a foreign country.”
I glared.
“Any other protests you want me to dismiss? We can do this all day,” the Hermit said, his voice cold. “But I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Are you feeding her?” I asked. “Keeping her comfortable?”
“We’re not trying to kill her. Just keep her out of the way until you’re done. Until it is safe for our cause to allow her freedom. Tell me truly, do you see another option for her?”
“No,” I said, though I hated to admit it. “Fine. But I don’t want her to suffer while she’s here, not any more than that which can’t be helped.” I bit my lip. “And I don’t want her to be afraid.”
The Hermit laughed, his eyes flashing with something mischievous and dark.
“Oh, she’s afraid all right,” said the female witch.
“Terribly filled with it. Something I believe you’ll find to your benefit.
I’d go in there if I were like you and take advantage.
” She stepped forward, sliding her forefinger down my cheek.
“Unless,” she purred, her voice low and seductive, “you wish to feed from her in other ways.”
I stepped back. “I don’t.”
She shrugged. “She’s powerless right now. You can feed however you want. Draw on which emotion you choose.”
I nearly snarled. I didn’t want to feed from her at all.
I rarely fed from women, not on purpose anyway.
And the absolute last thing I wanted to do was seduce an innocent girl—a girl who was already scared and helpless.
It was enough that she'd been kidnapped.
Doing anything more to her was just cruel.
“Please,” Olivay cried out, her voice echoing against the stone walls.
“Please. Whoever’s out there! I don’t know who you are, or what you want.
But I can get it for you. I promise. My family can pay you.
Gold or jewels, if you please. My father is the king of Spartva.
And I can get whatever you want from King Tirian.
And my betrothed, Prince Jaron. If you take me back, he’ll pay—whatever you want.
But if you don’t, he’ll come looking for me. And when he finds you, you’ll pay!”
The Hermit pressed his lips together and shook his head. “No, we won’t,” he sang. “He’s not going to look for you. He won’t even know you’re gone.”
But Olivay kept yelling, pleading. “He will! He will. Please. I’ll give you anything. Whatever you want, you can have. I promise you. I promise! Just please. Please let me go.”
I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to do something. I had to see her, find a way to help her.
But another part of me stirred, hungry. Starving. Threatening to take control. No. No.
“Bring me to her now,” I demanded. “As your Princess, I command you.”
The Hermit lifted an eyebrow and shrugged, something unspoken passing between him and the witch.
“Princess,” she smirked. There was something odd in her voice, in the way she said the word. Like the title meant nothing or was beneath her, but she nodded in acquiescence.
The Hermit pressed his lips together. “I shall bring you to her.”
“And I shall stand guard,” said the witch. “As I intend to do.”
The Hermit took the torch from her hand and gestured for me to walk with him. We went down a long, narrow corridor, then another, which opened into a large chamber with a low stone ceiling revealing Olivay.
The Spartvan princess was chained against the cave’s stone wall, her wrists and ankles bound.
Even crying, dirty, and scared, she was beautiful.
Breathtakingly so. She was more beautiful than I’d ever been, her features more stunning than any face I’d ever tried to create.
Even the Gods, old and new, couldn’t have imagined a face so divine.
Olivay’s beauty expanded into the shape of her body.
She had a slim figure, but curves in the right places, the kind of body I knew men wanted, the kind that I’d tried to mimic at Geoffrey’s.
Not a single blemish marred her face, neck, or arms. Her eyes were deep blue, the kind of blue eyes men wrote poetry about, eyes like the ocean on a clear sunny day.
I could tell that her cheeks were usually rosy, even though at the moment they were tear-streaked and caked with dirt.
Her pink, plump lips were swollen and bleeding, like she’d bit down on them in fear.
But I could imagine how she looked happy, laughing, carefree.
And then there was her hair, just like Kienan’s in color, texture, and shine. Thick, and wavy. And nearly black. I could see it now—see the resemblance between them.
Between all of that, and the long white gown she wore, with belled sleeves hanging off her delicate shoulders, she was the very definition of a princess.
The kind I’d expect to find inside a storybook.
And from everything I’d learned about her, she seemed like a good person.
Maybe simple and unworldly, but kind and sweet.
And wholly undeserving of what was happening to her.
“Who’s there?” She hiccupped, her body tensing as fresh tears fell.
Her sadness and fear emanated off of her in such strong waves that I had a sense of just how innocent to the world she was.
It wasn’t just that she was unworldly, but she hadn’t known hardship before this.
She’d been kept safe, protected. And the sadness in her cries, her own realization that those days were crumbling, was breaking my heart.
She sounded like Cecelia had after Jaron attacked her.
My stomach twisted. I didn’t want to feed from her. Or steal her face. I wanted to protect her, console her. Free her.
The Hermit stepped fully out into the chamber’s clearing, holding the torch before him. The air around the flames thickened with heat, and black smoke rose in thick tendrils around him, creating a kind of shadow across his face, masking his true identity from view.
“She’s so afraid,” I said, my voice catching. But even so, there was a rasp to it.
“She needs to be,” he hissed, and grabbed hold of my wrist, his fingers pressing into the skin still wounded with the blood oath.
I flinched, barely stopping myself from crying out in pain.
“Who’s—” Olivay started, but was so afraid that she sobbed again. “Who’s there?” Her eyes moved wildly back and forth between us. “Please. What do you want with me?”
“Oh, Princess Olivay,” the Hermit said. “I’m almost offended you don’t recognize me. Not after how well I’ve come to know you.”
“Know me?” Her voice shook.
“Know you,” he purred. “Well? How about now? Do you know who I am?” Slowly, he let the torch fall from his face, taking it over to the wall and lighting another, and then another, brightening the cavern, until he hung his torch up on a neatly placed rod.
Flames crackled across the stone walls as he turned, stepping fully into the light.
Olivay’s eyes widened. I could see the moment they were filled with recognition. And I knew what came next. The moment they’d shatter with betrayal.
But first, there was hope. Relief. Her mouth fell open as she called out to the Hermit.
“Lord Brandon?” she asked, her voice suddenly high-pitched. “Thank the Gods you’re here. I’ve been so afraid. Please, you must help me. Get me out of here.”
Lord Brandon? I scowled. Was that his alias in Spartva? Gods. I couldn’t think of a less fitting name for the Hermit.
“Brandon?” Olivay cried, when he hadn’t moved, or spoken. “Please, please! Please help me!” Her voice was growing more urgent and desperate.
The Hermit, or Brandon, shook his head. “Princess, I am sorry. But I can’t help you. As your ambassador, I must inform you of some rather unfortunate news. You see, it’s because of me that you’re here.”
“Because of—” She shook her head. “No.” Her eyes widened. “No! No! No!” The disbelief in her voice was palpable. Her mind refused to accept the betrayal, but her body already knew, her emotions exploding.
That was enough to fully awaken the demonos part of me. I felt it uncoil at the center of my belly. A meal was near. I took a step back, my heart thundering.
No. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t. She was innocent. She was just a girl, a girl who’d been born with the wrong title, placed unknowingly as a pawn in a game she’d never agreed to play.
The Hermit walked into a small corner and picked up a leather satchel.
He opened it and removed a purple velvet cloak—one just as lush and rich in material and color as Brennan’s had been, as rich in quality as Jaron’s.
The purple was so dark in tone, so jewel-like, I knew it had taken a wealth of dye.
A kingly amount. Pinned to the collar, glittering in the torchlight, was an amethyst stone engraved with a silver unicorn.
The sigil of House Kanos. Princess Olivay’s house.