Chapter 10 Bruises
Bruises
In the morning, Maridale finds me sitting on the edge of the bed, my fingers pressed against the bare place at my throat where my mother’s pendant should be.
I do not realize how long I have been staring at the wall until she kneels at once, her hands hovering, unsure whether she is allowed to touch me.
“My lady,” she whispers. “You could ask for help.”
“From whom?”
“The Prince. Or the King.”
I almost laugh. “The Prince despises me.”
Her eyes falter. “Then…His Majesty?”
I think of the King’s voice at dinner last night. “Indulge me,” he had commanded. His Majesty enjoys supplication, this I now know to be true. And for my mother’s necklace, I would humble myself. I would beg, perhaps even kneel. “Send word to the King’s advisor,” I say.
The servants return quickly. “His Majesty will see you in his study.”
The room feels suddenly smaller. Maridale dresses me with careful hands. When I arrive at the King’s office, the smell of smoke meets me first. He is seated behind his desk, a cigar between his fingers, dark hair loose.
I curtsy low. “Your Majesty,” I say. “I know you owe me nothing.”
He exhales slowly. “I don’t. But your sister’s performance was quite pleasing this morning, so I may be inclined toward generosity.”
Heat floods my face and I am grateful for the veil. I draw in a breath and adjust the fabric out of habit. My sleeve slips. His amusement vanishes and in two strides he is beside me, fingers closing around my arm. “Who did this?”
I say nothing.
“Lower your dress.”
“Majesty—”
“I am not asking.”
My hands shake as I comply. I cannot pull the fabric far without pain, but far enough is enough. His expression hardens as the marks reveal themselves, dark and overlapping, old and new.
He releases me and turns away, jaw tight. When he helps me pull the dress back into place, I gasp in pain despite myself. “Did you come for justice?” he demands.
“No,” I say. “I came about something else.”
His restraint snaps. “Who,” he roars, slamming his hand against the desk, “did this to you?”
The sound echoes, but I am unbothered. I do not care about justice or pride or the king’s tantrums. I want my necklace returned. I move before I can stop myself, stepping around the desk and sinking to my knees. “My mother was no whore,” I say, the words tearing free.
The King laughs, short and disbelieving. “A bastard claiming she isn’t one. How charming.”
“I don’t care,” I say hoarsely. “I do not beg.” I look up at him anyway. “But I am begging now. For my mother’s necklace.”
He smirks. “Your sister is very talented in this position, though a bit too eager to please.” He stands slowly. “But you, I cannot tell if you prostrate out of desperation or spite, and I find it compelling.”
He steps toward me. “You look very convincing like this, and to think it is all for a necklace. A trinket.” He smiles.
“Perhaps you’d like to give me more reason?
” His hand rises toward the edge of my veil, and something in me breaks.
Power rushes out before I can stop it, sudden and unseen.
He is thrown backward, crashing into the far wall with a sound like splintering wood. A hush falls over the room.
Horror floods me. I flee his study shaking, furious with myself, humiliated beyond reason, sickened by the truth beneath it all. And yet part of me does not regret it. Worse, part of me is somehow drawn to him despite how disgusting he is.
Halfway down the corridor, the Prince steps into my path. I halt so abruptly the movement jars through my ribs. The door of the King’s study still hangs open behind me, smoke drifting faintly into the hall.
His eyes move slowly over me in silence. The veil. My hands clenched too tightly at my sides. The tremor running through my shoulders.
“Leaving already?” The words carry a mild curiosity that feels far more dangerous than anger.
I do not stop. I move to pass him but he shifts with effortless precision, placing himself squarely in the narrowest part of the corridor.
The walls press close on either side of him, leaving no space that does not require brushing against his coat.
Power still singes the tips of my fingers, though I remind myself that if I assault both the King and the Prince, my quarters will surely be moved to the dungeon, or worse.
“My brother keeps unusual company,” Colsar continues, his voice smooth. “Though I admit I did not expect you to seek him out so quickly.”
Heat floods my face beneath the veil. “I came on my own business.”
His attention drops to my sleeve, lingering where the bruises hide beneath the fabric. “And did he give you what you wanted?”
“That does not concern you.”
His expression hardens. “After the trouble I went to last night,” he says quietly, “one might assume a wiser course.”
My hands tighten. “I did not realize gratitude was expected.”
A faint smile touches his mouth, though nothing warm reaches his eyes. “No,” he says softly. “I imagine you did not, whore’s daughter.”
For a moment the corridor holds us there, his presence filling the narrow space as thoroughly as a locked door. Then he steps aside. The movement carries the arrogant ease of someone granting passage through territory that already belongs to him.
I walk past without slowing.
I expect the guards. I did assault the King, after all.
Though he certainly deserved it. I sit by the window for what feels like hours, waiting for the sound of boots in the corridor, for the door to be thrown open, for chains or the cold echo of steps sent to take me away.
And yet, nothing comes. Instead, a servant knocks and bows.
“His Majesty requests your presence at dinner.”
Dinner. I almost laugh. I have spent the afternoon expecting the dungeon, not a place at the King’s table. Perhaps this is a trick and not a dinner but some form of punishment. Whatever it is, I will meet it standing.
Later, Maridale offers to help me dress for dinner. I do not care to please the King, even if I am at his mercy. I dress carefully in a gray linen dress I used to wear at the Baron’s manor. I adjust my veil twice before leaving the room.
When I enter the dining hall, my sister is already seated. Yvara looks exquisite. Her dark curls are arranged high upon her head, pinned with silver. Violet silk drapes her body in soft layers, and diamonds gleam at her throat. She is the picture of beauty and ease.
I curtsy low. “I wish to apologize, Your Majesty, for—”
The King cuts me off with a low chuckle. “No need. What you did intrigued me far more than it displeased me.”
Yvara laughs lightly. “What did my dreadful sister do now, Majesty?”
I answer quickly, my voice smooth with desperation. “I spilled tea on His Majesty earlier. Entirely by accident.”
Her hand strikes my face before I can react. “You ingrate,” she hisses. “Majesty, my sister is not fit to dine with you. At home, she eats in the cellar. Or with the servants. Or outside like a rabid animal. You need not—”
Before she can finish, the King rises. He crosses the space between them in two strides, grips Yvara’s arm, and pulls her forward.
In one swift motion, he drags her across his lap, pulling her skirt up until her bare skin is visible.
My cheeks burn as I look at the multiple guards and attendants in the room.
Would he really humiliate her like this in front of the entire hall?
The sound of his palm against her skin echoes in the hall.
Yvara cries out once. Then again, and again.
But then, her protests shift. The sound changes from a surprised yelp to a moan.
I stare at the floor, every nerve in my body screaming to flee.
Something dark and hungry moves across the King’s face.
He lifts her upright at last, fingers tightening beneath her chin.
“Let me remind you of something,” he says calmly. “Your sister passed the purity test.”
Yvara’s breath stutters.
“You would not,” he continues. “Do you know why? Because you have let me fuck you in every way imaginable.”
Her lips part.
He smiles. “You could be carrying my bastard even now.” He laughs softly, then leans closer.
“So do not posture in front of my brother’s future wife.
In days, she will be a Princess. You will curtsy when she enters a room.
” His voice drops. “You, however, will need to earn your position. And you may still fail.” He tilts her face upward.
“Do not speak unless invited. That mouth should only be open when it is around my cock. "
“Yes, Majesty,” Yvara whispers sweetly, her eyes full of need.
I think it is over, but I am wrong.
She reaches for the strap of her gown and slowly begins to slide it down. “Perhaps more punishment is in order, my King. I fear I have not learned my lesson.”
“I apologize,” I say suddenly. “I feel unwell. I must retire.”
He does not stop me, his eyes on Yvara’s dress as it slips to the floor.
I flee. The corridor blurs as I move. I reach my room and shut the door. I fold inward, clutching myself, shaking until the sound of my own breathing is all I can hear. I hate it here. I hate what this place turns people into. I hate that I cannot leave.
And worst of all, I hate that this is only the beginning.