Chapter 7 The Contract
The Contract
Iam ushered into an office that smells of ink and cold iron.
Prince Colsar does not rise when I enter.
He is tall even seated, all long lines and rigid posture.
His hair is white, or close enough to it, an ash blond cut neatly and without softness.
His eyes are mismatched, one is pale blue and the other the color of a gray winter sky.
Both are empty of warmth. Everything about him feels distant, controlled, severe.
He looks at me once. “You stink.”
I swallow. “I was—”
“Save it,” he says. “Marrying a whore’s daughter is inconvenient enough.”
“My mother was not a whore.”
His eyes pause on me for a moment longer than they should.
Then his expression hardens. “Do not speak back to me, or I will send you home.” He smiles.
“When I do, your father can barter you to the highest bidder, as a firebird does with its weakest chick.” His tone is smug.
He folds his arms, pleased with himself as though he has said something clever.
I say nothing at first. I remind myself to be meek and obedient. I even open my mouth to apologize. But my tongue betrays me. “Your metaphor does not make sense, Highness.”
“Your father told me you could read.” He sighs impatiently. “He did not mention you were stupid.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Firebirds discard their weak chicks into scorching volcanoes. There is no bartering involved.”
“I—”
“If wit or humor was your aim, you failed at both.”
For a moment I think he may be humbled. I am wrong.
“Your discernment is as poor as your hygiene, whore’s daughter.”
I say nothing.
He taps his foot impatiently, expecting me to correct myself.
Never.
“You are the weak chick, and I am clearly the unfortunate volcano.” His voice is flat, as though he is explaining something obvious for my benefit.
“The volcano is hardly the unfortunate one in this scenario.”
He narrows his eyes. “Regardless, your father would not have bartered you to a volcano if you were worth more.”
“Your second attempt at symbolism was equally as poor as the first.”
“Says the whore’s daughter.”
“Says the dog.”
He closes his eyes briefly. “You insist on insolence.”
“It is less insufferable than kindness.”
He smirks, as though the word amuses him. “It is no secret that I am not kind to my women,” he warns.
“I know,” I say.
A parchment slides across the desk. “This marriage is valid only if you are untouched. If you lie, the contract dissolves.”
I snort before I can stop myself.
“You find that amusing?”
“No. Reassuring.”
A flash of irritation crosses his face, as though he did not expect that answer. “You will not fall in love with me.”
“That will not be difficult.”
“You will attend every event you are summoned to. You will accept any mistress I keep. If you give me an heir or two, I may allow you a dalliance of your own.”
His mouth twists. “Preferably with women. The siakar in me does not tolerate male presence. A woman might live longer.”
“I don’t prefer women.”
“Then you must prefer dead men, if the male isn’t me.”
“Then why, Highness, bother having it in the contract?” My voice is tense.
“My brother thought it seemed fair, since I planned on taking mistresses.”
He smirks. “And he probably wants to try to fuck you himself.”
Probably. I wonder briefly if he would stop him.
“He can try,” he says mildly. “The artwork in the King’s chambers is said to be sublime. I should enjoy admiring it if I inherit the throne after his…untimely death.”
“I do not understand, Highness.”
He looks at me like I’m stupid. “I’ll speak plainly, whore’s daughter. He’ll die the same death any stableboy you plan to bed would.”
“I don’t plan on bedding a stablebo—”
“You certainly smell like one today.”
“Fuck you.”
The room falls silent. For a brief moment, I wonder if he will kill me.
His voice, when it comes, is lethally quiet. “I find you tedious.”
I say nothing.
He shuffles some papers on his desk. “My expectations were low, but I must say I am disappointed.” He leans back in his chair. “You are rude, unhygienic, and foul-mouthed. And reportedly quite unsightly.” He tilts his head. “Tell me, is it disfigurement, or was your mother both whore and hideous?”
I bite my lower lip, trying not to respond. He is cruel and rude, but still my best escape from the Baron.
And I am not ugly. Fuck him.
In spite of myself, I reach to adjust my veil, suddenly self-conscious. His eyes track the movement.
“What is that?” he asks.
I freeze.
“The mark,” he says. “Was it done in pleasure?”
My hand trembles. Images flash unbidden. Mysin’s laughter. The sting of heat. The casual cruelty.
“It’s nothing,” I say quietly.
He takes my hand before I can pull away, turning it over, examining my fingers. He turns my hand slightly, studying it longer than necessary. “They’re rough,” he observes. “Do you play the harp?”
“No. I do chores.”
His brows draw together.
I rush on. “I can work here. I know the stables. I can feed horses, scrub floors, wash linens. If my rooms face south, I can—”
He interrupts, incredulous. “Is this a joke?” He gestures toward the door. “Your sister does not even piss by herself, and you scrub floors?”
I laugh, the sound bitter and tired. “Like you said, I’m a whore’s daughter.” I fold my arms across my chest. “I’m an embarrassment. An abomination. I must pay.”
“Who says that?”
“My family.”
His eyes narrow. “Be specific.”
“It’s none of your concern.”
“I have little patience and less time.”
Fine.
“My sister. My brother. My father. All of them. Every day.” I let out a harsh laugh. “I’m sure you will too.”
He runs a hand through his hair, annoyed.
“Let me be clear, whore’s daughter. You are an inconvenience.
” He leans back in his chair. “You would be just as inconvenient if you were a king’s daughter.
I would simply insult you differently.” His voice lowers.
“You are now my burden, which means I am the only one allowed to remind you how tiresome you are.”
He smiles faintly. “Siakars are known to be killers. Personally, I find the removal of body parts—some light dismemberment—quite soothing.”
The smile vanishes.
What. The. Fuck.
I have no response to that, so I draw a slow breath.
“I will lie with you when you ask,” I say.
“I will be obedient. I will give you heirs if I am able. I will offer loyalty and courtesy and the appearance of a dutiful wife.” I meet his eyes.
“I only ask that when I do the things I enjoy, it not be called disobedience.”
The room is quiet. “And what,” he asks at last, “do you enjoy?”
“Simple things.”
His eyes narrow with impatience. “That was not an answer.”
“I love horses—”
“I should hope so. You clearly share their bathwater.”
“I like to hunt. I like to drink and dance and play games.” I hesitate, then add, quieter, “I can gamble.”
That earns a short laugh of genuine surprise from him. “And what,” he says, “do you do when you lose?”
“I don’t," I lie. My cheeks warm as I think about how glad I am that I lost last night and earned my first kiss and then some. I close my eyes briefly, wishing it were Eravic, with his easy smile and rough voice, that I were signing a marriage contract with.
Prince Colsar’s harsh laugh cuts through my thoughts. “And let me guess, you swordfight as well?”
I lift my chin. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”
That finally unsettles him. “Explain.”
“The swordmaster taught me,” I say. “He comes to our estate to teach Mysin. Mysin is hopeless and talentless, so Master Forsamin spends most of his time teaching me instead.”
“Does your father know?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Hm.” He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled, studying me with what is either disdain or curiosity. I am not sure which. “At any rate,” he says, voice flat, “we should confirm you’re not lying.”
I stiffen.
He nods toward the side door, barely glancing at it. “Through there.”
A pause. “My preferred method of verification would be considerably more pleasant,” he says mildly. “But the court insists on procedure.”
As though bedding a man who has called me rude, stupid, and hideous in the span of an hour would be pleasant. I would rather take my chances with whatever humiliation this exam might bring.
He shrugs, unconcerned. “Then again, submitting to decorum is hardly inconvenient, given your obvious aversion to bathing.” He wrinkles his nose.
I have an aversion to arrogant princes, not bathing. At this point, I would rather bathe in a bowl of piss than continue this conversation.
And yet, I do not move.
A moment passes.
His mouth tightens. “Unless, of course, you plan to tell me now that this entire arrangement is a farce and save us both the trouble.”
“I’m not lying,” I say.
“That would make you unusual,” he replies. “Go.”
My feet carry me toward the door before I can think better of it. My hand trembles as I reach for the latch. Halfway through the threshold, dread coils low in my stomach. I glance back, an instinct I cannot stop.
He notices.
His eyes lift, pale and cold, and something like amusement touches them. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I have no interest in seeing what’s between your legs.”
For some reason, the words hit harder than the blows I took at the Baron’s house.
“Miracles are rare,” he adds. “If you pass, I’ll be impressed.”
I step fully into the other room. Before I can close the door, he speaks again, his voice carrying easily after me. “And for what it’s worth,” he says, “I find whores’ daughters deeply uninteresting.”
The door shuts. The matrons are already waiting. They do not meet my eyes. They guide me with efficient hands, brisk and impersonal, as if this is no more remarkable than checking a ledger. I focus on breathing. On the cold floor beneath my feet. On not crying.
When it is done, I am allowed to dress in silence. They return me to his office. Prince Colsar does not look up at first. He finishes signing another document, blows gently on the ink, then sets the quill aside.
“Well?” he asks.
“She is untouched,” one of the matrons says. For the briefest moment, something like surprise crosses his face. Then it vanishes.
“Fine,” he says.
He signs the contract with a quick stroke of the quill.
“You will follow the rules in the contract, whore’s daughter.”
My throat tightens, but I keep my voice even. “And if I disobey?”
“I will return you to your father.”
“I would rather you write that you’ll kill me.”
His expression changes, and the air around me tightens suddenly. My chest locks. I cannot draw breath. Panic flares as pressure crushes my lungs from the inside, invisible and merciless.
He watches me calmly. “That,” he says, “can be arranged.”
He releases me. I drop forward, coughing hard as air floods back in, my eyes burning. I fight the urge to throw him across the room with my magic, reminding myself that using my power might make my nose bleed. This is my nicest veil, and he is not worth soiling it.
I draw in a breath, reminding myself that escaping the Baron is my first priority.
He pushes the quill toward me. “Sign.”
I sign and offer the quill back. He takes it with a handkerchief, as though I were contaminated. Perhaps I can kill him after the wedding. Oddly enough, he failed to account for that in his precious contract.
“The wedding will take place in one week,” he continues, already dismissing me with his tone. “The ceremony will be modest. You will be declared legitimate and you will perform your role.” His eyes lift to me one last time. “And do try not to smell like a stable when you stand beside me.”