Dinner Plans
She was so tired she didn’t dream, and when she woke, Hazel found her hair was plastered to her face with drool.
Overwhelmed by the urge to stretch her muscles, she elongated her limbs, a sea star reaching every direction on the ocean floor.
She was surprised to find the stretch was far less painful than she’d expected.
In fact, it was quite the opposite. Maybe there was something to those oils after all.
The true test, however, would be in whether her body could withstand its own weight.
Hazel scooted to the edge of the bed, the task before her feeling as insurmountable as jumping off a cliff.
She tempered her expectations. This could go very, very poorly.
After all, it had only been a few hours, if the sunlight filtering in through the windows was any indication.
The likelihood her body was ready for standing, let alone walking? Laughable at best.
She sucked in a sharp breath and held it, reaching for the floor with her toes.
The process was painstakingly slow, her fear of the bone-jarring soreness gripping her wholly.
She shifted her weight partially from the bed, allowing her body to be challenged just a little more.
Her legs held. And the pain, though present, was duller than she anticipated.
Impressive.
Hazel shifted more and more of her weight onto her legs until she was standing on her own accord, half-expecting to collapse onto the floor at any moment. Okay, so I can at least stand again. And while it was no small victory, she knew she still had so far to go.
She let out a hefty breath and took a slow, hesitant step forward. Then another. The next step required her to remove her hand from the bedpost. No more safety net. She couldn’t lie and claim it didn’t hurt, because it did. But she could walk, even if her pace was slower than a garden snail.
Her next goal was the writing desk between the windows.
If she could just make it to the desk, she could take a break in the chair.
One foot in front of the other, over and over again, and before too long, she was there.
It wasn’t the worst thing she’d ever experienced.
In fact, her body was a little less stiff after some movement.
She’d be paying for it later, of course, but she allowed herself to enjoy the accomplishment for now.
The chair cushion was upholstered in red velvet.
And she had to admit, it was soft. Not as soft as the comforting down duvet she’d left behind on the bed, but cushy, nonetheless.
The desk was sturdy and crafted from white oak.
Its surface was scratched and worn from use, marked with old ink stains, and watermarked with ringlets from a cup that sat in the same spot for far too long.
She rubbed her hand across the surface, wondering what sort of scholars or noblemen had used this desk to draft their work.
Without warning or so much as a knock, the bedroom doors swung open, banging against the wall. Hazel whirled around to find Slaide standing there, mouth agape. He righted his face immediately, returning to his usual scowl.
He cleared his throat. “I actually wasn’t planning on bursting in here like that. At least not right away.” He laughed, and Hazel tried to figure out where the joke was. “Door was stuck.”
She cocked a brow expectantly.
“So,” he said, brushing invisible dust from his tunic, “I see you’ve managed to get out of bed.”
He was pinned by her continued blank stare.
“Do we have a problem? I seem to remember pulling some strings earlier to get healing oils from the royal apothecary—at great personal risk, I might add. So, if you don’t mind bottling that attitude back up and, oh, I don’t know…
trying the phrase thank you every now and then?
It won’t kill you. Though existing in this castle without my help most certainly will. ”
“Do you often let yourself into women’s rooms without knocking?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I could have been changing.”
“First of all, this is my room, sweets. Second, women beg me to come knocking. And third, I don’t care. Unless you’re hiding something unusual under that, which I very much doubt, you don’t have anything I’ve never seen—or fondled—before. Anything else?”
Yes, for you to leave. “What do you want from me?”
Slaide stared at her pointedly. “You don’t know what you are, do you?”
What was that supposed to mean? “I beg your pardon. I’m just a person. A human woman. What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything,” he stated. “Just trying to see what you know—or don’t know.
” He circled around her, each step more menacing than the last. “I’m trying to figure out how this foul-mouthed peasant brat from a backwater village ended up with such an enormous target on her back.
Do you understand how many people want you dead? ”
No. And I prefer it that way. She swallowed hard.
He ran a hand through his hair. “I figured as much. Here’s the deal. You’re going to do as I say, when I say it, how I say it. Got it?”
“But I—” Hazel protested.
“No.” Slaide cut her off. “No buts. People with power want you dead. Worse still, some of them want to run tests on you, cut you open like an animal and see what makes you special.”
Hazel averted her eyes. Hel. I’ve landed myself in Hel.
“Are you special?” he asked.
Hazel frowned. “What? No. You said yourself I’m just a peasant from a backwater town. I’m nobody.”
“Right. Keep telling yourself that. But as long as they think you’re somebody, you are. And that’s not a good thing. Believe me when I tell you if given the option between their ministrations and death, you should choose death. Every time.”
She sighed. This conversation was going nowhere. “Why are you so…” Her words trailed off as she tried to find the right way to describe him.
“So, what? Cheerful? Happy? Handsome?” Slaide wiggled his eyebrows.
“Impossible.”
“Now, now. That’s no way to talk to your savior. I still haven’t heard a thank you, by the way.”
“Thanks.” For nothing.
Slaide uncrossed his arms. “We’ll work on the delivery.”
“Why am I still alive?” Hazel regretted the words as soon as they’d left her mouth.
Something about his presence scared her less than it should.
He was handsome. More than he had any right to be.
But he was as deadly a man as she might ever come across, especially considering her newfound power. She could not let his looks disarm her.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Why not?”
Careful, Hazel. “Well, the King and damn near everyone else seems to think I have… forbidden magic.” It nearly choked her to say those words aloud. “I’ve always understood this to be a kill first, ask questions later kind of thing.”
Slaide laughed. “You’re not wrong. Look at it this way. Consider me a cat and you a mouse. Maybe, like the cat, I just like to play with my prey every now and again. Haven’t killed you yet—doesn’t mean I won’t.” He winked at her.
“Reassuring,” Hazel quipped.
“Well, what do you want from me? I can’t have you thinking you’re safe here.”
“Oh, no. I think you’ve made that perfectly clear.”
“Good. Now that we understand each other… ground rules.”
“You mean there’s more to this than just ‘don’t die’?”
“Such a loaded question. For now, let’s start small.
One: never leave this room unaccompanied.
Two: do not under any circumstances try to escape.
Three: always dress appropriately.” He looked her up and down where she sat in the chair, eyes landing on where her shift was pulled up to mid-thigh.
When he met her eyes, she blushed, looking away quickly.
“Which means putting on actual clothes. Don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea. ” He smirked.
Smug bastard.
“I had some clothes brought up while you were sleeping. Don’t look at me like that.
I didn’t deliver them; Phaedra did. She’s great, isn’t she?
As I was saying, she brought up a few things.
Tunics. Dresses. Underthings.” His grin was feral.
“Though, you can always go without those. Up to you.” He shrugged as though it wasn’t the most inappropriate thing to say to someone he'd just met.
“And that brings us to rule four: be on time. Speaking of which, we’re having dinner with your new dance instructor this evening, so do try to look presentable. I want to give Pimley some semblance of hope.”
“Dance instructor?” she blurted. “You said I was going to be competing in some tournament. Not dancing. What are you going on about?”
Slaide smiled. “It’s a week of fun and entertainment for the nobility, sweets. At the end of it all, we drink and dance and celebrate… and fu—”
“I get it. Thanks.” Hazel cut him off.
“Of course you have to survive that long. Which,” he looked her over in an assessing gaze, “let’s just say I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
Hazel rolled her eyes and scoffed at the absolute audacity of this man.
Barging in where he pleases and being a complete prick everywhere he goes.
But then a thought struck her. “Slaide,” she began, “when I was… apprehended… I was wearing a necklace. A pendant from my mother. I was wondering—” she stopped talking as he reached into his pocket and pulled out something wrapped in silk.
She sucked in a sharp breath as he unwrapped it and held the delicate chain up before him, moon locket twisting gently in the air.
“I suppose you want this back?”
“Yes, I do. It was my mother’s.” So what if it also warned her when she was in imminent danger. He didn’t need to know that bit of information.
His eyes narrowed. And then he stalked toward her, rolling his finger in a gesture commanding her to turn around.
To trust this killer long enough to turn her back on him.
She did, despite every fiber in her body screaming at her.
Something told her if she’d been wearing her locket at that moment, it would have been very, very hot.
She heard his soft footsteps approach, warmth radiating from his body as he stopped behind her. Slaide loomed there for a moment, and Hazel closed her eyes, wondering if she’d made a mistake.
“Hair,” he grumbled, voice gravelly and inconvenienced.
Hazel gathered her copper locks with both hands and lifted it away, giving the monster of a man access to her neck.
His arms reach around her then, one end of the fine silver chain in each hand.
The quarter moon locket dangled in front of her.
Without knowing why, she closed her eyes.
Maybe it would be easier to die with her eyes closed?
Next thing Hazel knew, warm skin grazed her neck.
It was slight, a featherlight touch. She stiffened and sucked in a sharp breath at the contact, and his hands froze in place.
When his hands moved again, brushing the ultra-sensitive skin along her neck, the feeling spreading through her body was a rush of something else. It wasn’t fear. It was confusing.
With deft hands, Slaide clasped the necklace. But his hands lingered against her skin for a beat longer than necessary—until Hazel turned her head enough to cast him a sidelong glance.
Slaide cleared his throat and stepped back from her, hands falling to his sides. His face flushed, and his eyes darted toward the floor for a moment. Well, that was interesting.
“Thank you,” Hazel said, voice just above a whisper.
Just like that, the flush was gone, replaced by a predatory gleam. With a smirk, Slaide turned to leave her. As he closed the door behind him, he said, “Dinner is in half an hour. Don’t be late.”
She placed her forehead against the desk, heaving out a sigh she’d held in during the entire encounter. It was going to take some time to digest the information she’d just been given.
A swish came from behind her in the direction of the door, drawing her attention from the noise of her unpleasant thoughts. Hazel looked over her shoulder to find someone had slid something under the door.
She rose, slowly lifting her body out of the chair again, slightly annoyed that she had to move. As it had before, her body protested only slightly at the movement, stiff muscles complaining the most, and she was able to cross the room without much pain.
It was an envelope. She stooped to pick it up and was surprised to find it closed with the official wax seal. She carefully peeled back the wax, revealing the handwritten letter inside. It read:
Wear the green one.
- S