Chapter Ten
Ayala
AFTER EATING THE MEAL laid out on the table, I slip into the deep soaking tub in the space adjoining the shower room. My muscles ache, inside and out, but in a satisfying way. Letting them expand in hot water is an unanticipated pleasure.
And the soap—I smell of him, even after washing away his seed and kisses. Fir and fire. So apt. So like him.
Not that I know him, not really. But he’s kinder than I imagined, and not nearly as haughty as he looks when perched upon the Antler Throne and seen from a distance.
But maybe that’s part of his power: to know him a little is to mistake him for a friend—a sexy, hot, womb-melting friend any woman would rush to please.
I fear I top that unfortunate list.
Fine, my judgment is compromised. I’m not sure it matters, given I’ve little say about how my life proceeds. At least I have a life. For now.
If I survive him—a big if—what kind of after is there for me?
It’s a question worth considering. I don’t think I’ll mind losing the luxury.
I’ve never owned anything worth keeping, and while the material comforts, such as baths and trays of food, are nice, they’re not so important.
No, I think what I’ll miss most is the connection, or maybe the feeling of being seen and accepted.
Of being... treasured instead of disdained. Of being admired, even.
Of being stripped bare to my spirit by dark, haunting eyes and taken to Albios with his body on a journey of bliss I never imagined possible.
I can’t see another way around it: there’s only alone after him, and that’s going to hurt. A lot.
Odd, how the thought cuts. I’ve been alone for most of my life, at least since my mother died when I was thirteen. The idea of being so again shouldn’t fill me with such dread. I’m stronger than that.
But my reassurance sounds weak.
After drying off, I dress in a court robe of soft pink velvet, a shade that even I have to admit looks amazing with my coloring. A sharp rap on the door is quickly followed by the housekeeper with her oily smile and disdainful eyes.
Wonderful. Just what I need.
“May I help you, Mrs. Longthorn?”
“The king left instructions saying you should be given run of the palace. He particularly thought you might find the library of interest, though no doubt he overthinks your abilities.”
“I can read, if that’s what you mean.” But I answer softly, because once Cian finishes with me, this woman will hold a much higher status than mine. The smart thing to do—the smart thing to try to do—would be to make her like me.
Or, at least, not despise me.
“Yes, well, there’s also the garden if you enjoy flowers.” She crosses to the table where the old arrangement wilts. “Perhaps you might entice the king with the delicacy of your crafting skills.”
“Or my baking.” That’s an idea. That’s the only place I can draw upon earth magick—the kitchens. I’m a fair hand with savories, but I excel at pastry.
“The gardens would be preferable.”
If her nose raised any higher, she’d be scraping it along the ceiling.
“I’m thinking a gooseberry tarte. With cinnamon.”
What in all of dubnos am I doing? Soft, Ayala. Tread softly.
She loses her smile. “Let us be frank with one another, dear. No one will touch food from your hand again. If you so much as go near the kitchens, all the ingredients will be put to the torch immediately. Do you understand?”
I do. As my stomach bottoms out, I ask, “At Cian’s orders?”
She picks up the dying arrangement of flowers, her lips pursed. “I really think you should tour the gardens.”
“Yes. I... it has been a bit since I enjoyed fresh air.”
“Please don’t pluck the wrong blooms. Some are poisonous, as I’m sure you’re aware.” Another smile, this one almost giddy as she stabs directly at my heart with her barb.
She turns on her heels, leaving me to follow, I guess. Grabbing a pair of pink slippers without pausing to put them on, I run after her, barefoot, my hair leaving wet rivulets down the pretty gown. I’m only following so I don’t have to remain alone with my dismal thoughts.
“Ladies,” she says, bobbing her head at a group of the upper class does who pass by us. They huddle into a clucking, giggling mass as they examine me.
None of them look friendly.
It’s the same for all the others we encounter, stags and does alike.
They mostly gather in groups as they stroll the hallways.
All stop to either glare at me or say mean things they don’t care if I hear: tramp, no better than she should be, whore, killer, and perhaps the worst, since it mirrors my own inner thoughts—lowborn weakling, good-for-one-fuck-only.
And then there are the stags who look as if they’d like to impale me on their points. One highborn I don’t recognize slips into my path. Mrs. Longthorn continues on without me, as if she doesn’t notice the asshat blocking me every time I try to circle around him.
“Excuse me, my lord,” I finally whisper, pretending to dart right so I might move left.
But he anticipates me. “The king’s plaissance.
What a pleasure.” His nose turns up with contempt as he examines me from head to toe.
“I suppose fucking a villainous weakling might be fun. No need for restraints on darker urges. Tell me, girl, does he fuck your ass, bite your nipples, and clamp your clit? Does he impale you on a point of his rack?” He leans forward, his eyes hard. “Does he make you bleed?”
“She looks in too good health for that, I think.” Another highborn slides into the conversation. “Not anemic enough. I say we teach this doe the pleasure of bleeding when the king’s done with her.”
“Any hour now,” says another lord, ambling over.
Still another stag strides toward us, catching me in the midst of furious males. “We can take turns. Would you like that, plaissance? We’ll take you in turn, as stags, while you hold onto our racks with your tiny hands.”
The first adds, “I doubt the king even remembers her now that he’s fucked her. We could take her now.”
They come in so close, I feel their breath on my skin. They don’t touch me—yet. But they want to.
They want to rape me and rip me apart.
Stags have never shown an interest in me.
I’ve always been overlooked because of simple biology—a stag wants to ensnare the most powerful doe he can find.
Power breeds prestige, whether in a temporary union or a mating.
That leaves me out entirely since does are always physically weaker than stags, and I’m the least of my species.
To be noticed simply because the king fucked me is one of those ironic twists life likes to deliver, because for the first time in my life, I want to be overlooked and ignored.
What has he done to me?
No. What did I do to myself by trying to better my lot and avoid my boredom?
Tears spark in my eyes, but I refuse to cower. Instead, I lift my chin. They’ll do whatever they want to me in any event. I can’t fight them. Can’t dissuade them with a brilliant argument. I might as well salvage what I can of my pride, even if it’s only for my own sake.
“My lords. His Majesty left specific instructions for the care of his plaissance. Games will have to wait.” Mrs. Longthorn sighs, as if the duty of saving me from them is an onerous chore, which to her, it likely is.
But I think she meant for this to happen. She wanted me to know my true place. And it worked.
Slowly, reluctantly, they step back and then away, but their gazes follow me as I find the housekeeper’s side. But they’ve taught me the lesson they wished, one I won’t forget.
I used to be nothing. Now, I’m sport. Tomorrow or the next day, I’ll be painfully ended.
Trying to stop my body from trembling proves impossible. Still, I don’t break down until the old biddy leaves me to myself in the garden. I sink onto the bench, sobs rolling up my throat as I try to bury them in my fists.
It's hard not to believe in fate when mine’s so wretched.