Chapter 8
Florienne
A rose that draws blood is still a rose.”
— KASAROS’S RIDDLES
“Oh well, you found me,” I sigh dramatically. “Guess my time as a free woman is up.”
“It is indeed,” replies the man with his blade at my throat.
He’s one of four surrounding the altar. Shit.
In my dreams of defiance, I never thought I’d have to deal with this many at once.
They aren’t the same as the other hunters. Their armor, their weapons, how they take a position and keep guard. They’re organized, and that’s dangerous.
The one who spoke is different. Not just in how he holds the knife, but in how he breathes. Measured. Controlled. No erratic hunger, no sweat-slick grip. His black hair is cropped close, like he has no time for anything as trivial as vanity.
Double shit.
To my left, a warhorse of a man scans the courtyard, his grip firm around the hilt of his blade.
Another stands near the altar, his hand brushing the stone in thought.
Calculating. His presence unnerves me more than the blade at my throat.
The last of them moves the least, standing at the edge of the group like a shadow.
His fingers drum once against his leather-clad thigh.
He’s impatient, like a wolf waiting for his alpha’s command to attack.
My eyes narrow as I look between them. “You can’t honestly think you’ll all be king, right?”
The calculating one’s eyes dip to my golden rosebud, but the others don’t take the bait. The leader—I’m guessing he’s the leader—sheathes his blade and says, “You’re not for us.”
Panic flutters in my chest. I mentally weigh my chances of slipping past them and making a run for it. But the instant I lift my head, I’m pushed back down.
“Lucky for you,” the calculating one murmurs. “The Baron doesn’t want you bruised. Much.”
Cold, grimy dread fills me.
The hand on my chest grows heavier as its owner leans down to inspect me. “He said you’d be special. Can’t say I see it. Maybe I’ll take a taste first, see what the fuss is about.”
“Varek,” the leader snaps. “We don’t have time to waste.”
“Gideon’s right,” the quiet one mutters. “Sooner we get this done. Sooner we get paid.”
Varek visibly bristles at being denied. His palm lingers on my chest, pushing harder to crush my air flow. I stare him in the eyes. My response excites him, but after another stern rebuke from the leader, he eases off.
“How much is the Baron paying you?” I ask, my voice low.
A flicker of hesitation. A quick glance between them.
I smile. “Not enough, I’m guessing.”
One of them shifts—the quiet wolf—and I hear the grumble beneath his breath. The warhorse rolls his shoulders, uneasy. This group might hunt well enough together, but they’re not loyal to each other. That’s the opening I need.
“Why not one of you claim me now?” I press, voice honeyed, deliberate. “Then you’ll be king. You’ll be the Baron’s superior.”
And when you get close, I’ll stab you.
A dangerous kind of silence hits. The kind that means they’re thinking about it.
“You know,” I muse, studying them all in turn. “There’s a reason the Baron wants me so badly.”
“Because you’re a Vesper whore,” Gideon sneers. “Obviously.”
My lashes lower. “One who’s mastered all ninety-nine of the feminine mysteries. Aren’t you curious about why that makes me the perfect queen for any king? Why he waited ten whole years for the chance to claim me?”
Doubt. Suspicion. Narrowed gazes flick between them.
“If you’re smart,” I continue, “you’ll choose before the Baron tosses you aside like yesterday’s hunt. You know how men like him work—when he has what he wants, he doesn’t need you anymore.”
“Shut the fuck up,” the leader growls, but his hand tightens on his sword’s hilt. The action doesn’t go unnoticed by his men. They all do the same, eyes wary of each other.
I’m careful of the words I choose, knowing Kasaros punishes those who lie within his game.
“A queen rewards her most loyal subjects,” I continue.
“A fancy lord like the Baron? He forgets his men the moment they’re inconvenient.
” No one is telling me to shut up now. They’re too busy watching each other.
So I make the final push. “The right man at my side won’t just be a king.
I’ll make him a God.” I pause. “But which of you may be strong enough to claim me?”
The first strike happens fast. A blade sinks into flesh, and a gurgled breath follows. Then the violence spirals, quick, brutal, inevitable.
I watch, breathless, as they turn on each other, cutting, slashing, dying. Until only one remains. The cruel one.
What did they call him? Oh, yes.
Varek.
He stands over the last body, panting, victorious.
I rise slowly, stepping toward him, hiding the dagger behind my back.
“You were the strongest.” I let admiration seep into my voice. “I knew it would be you.”
“They were too weak to resist you. I won’t make that mistake.”
My stomach dips.
I miscalculated.
Before I can react, he grabs my arm, his grip like iron. “The Baron will be pleased.”
He twists the dagger from my hand. The world tilts. My victory shatters.
Fury contorts his face. He hurls me around and onto the altar, stomach first. The air knocks from my lungs—a horrible, winded sound grunts from my lips.
Before I can recover, he tugs me downward until I bend at the waist, and my legs dangle over the edge.
The too-big boots fall off as I kick, scrambling to find purchase. My toes scrape the ground.
“I thought I was for the Baron,” I say.
“You are.” A calloused hand glides over my rear end, splitting the silks to bare my panties. “But what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
“The rosebud mark will bloom when your seed fills my womb. Your betrayal will be obvious.”
The press of his fingers, or knuckles, graze over my bare buttocks—inward to the crack. He pauses there and whispers, “I’m sure a Vesper whore understands there is more than one hole to fill.”
No. I squeeze my eyes shut as he fumbles behind me. My last line of defense was my virginal blood.
His belt buckle clinks.
There’s no guarantee I’ll bleed if he takes me. Unless he’s rough. I don’t know if I have what it takes to ensure that happens. It means reaching into my coldest parts—parts from which I might never return.
Swallowing, I open my eyes and prepare myself.
Something moves in my periphery.
The Huntsman.
The gray of his uniform blends with mist as he stalks through the courtyard toward us. Every part of my soul weeps in relief. He’s alive, a little torn up and spattered with blood, but in one piece.
My captor doesn’t see him. I know because he’s pushing up against me, too eager to give himself the distance needed to undo the buttons at his breeches.
My eyes lock with the Huntsman’s over his mask, and my hope falters. His eyes burn with retribution, but something else—hesitation.
“Maybe next time, I’ll let him fuck you.”
“Maybe that’s what I wanted.”
The horror dawns on me as I remember my impetuous words. Does he think this is what I want?
Tears well. I give an almost imperceptible shake of my head and beg him with my eyes—help me. But the Huntsman doesn’t move, and my vision warbles. When I blink, he’s gone.
I’ve pushed him too far, and now he’s left me. I’m alone in this fate.
My throat closes up.
It’s then I realize I’m disappointed. Crushed. So, so much. A part of me is still drawn to him, even though he isn’t Drayven.
“That’s right.” Varek mistakes my silence. “Be the good little whore they taught you to be. Don’t move until I tell you to.” His hand lifts from my hips, and then a breathy, “Yeah. Just like that.”
But nothing happens. I wait, my wrists and neck pinned under the heavy weight of rusted chains. A cool breeze curls mist before the altar. The world holds its breath.
When Varek speaks again, my fragile heart soars. “Wait your turn.”
“Touch her and I slice off your cock.”
A weighted silence stretches between the men.
He’s a fool if he thinks the Huntsman is bluffing.
“No, you won’t,” Varek counters, smugness leaking into his tone. “You work for Kasaros.” An unmistakable blunt sensation fumbles at my entrance. “Wait your—”
Varek makes a sound no man should make. It’s agonized, horrified, and deserving.
His presence behind me disappears. Against my back, I feel the heat and movement of violence.
Bones crunch and crunch and thud. Heavy grunts and animalistic snarls.
It sounds like a starving wild beast feasting.
Blood sprays in my periphery, but the chains stop me from craning my neck far enough to see.
Finally, one man’s ragged, shuddering breath and my pounding pulse are all I hear.
The weight of iron chains lifts from my body. I scramble off the altar and turn around.
The Huntsman stands inches away from me, splattered in blood, staring down at the chains in his hands.
His knuckles are white from the force of his grip.
His body twitches with contained aggression.
His lungs inflate slowly. Measured. It’s almost as if he’s afraid the air will tip him over the edge, into what I’m not sure. But it’s not human.
Cautiously, I step aside to see Varek’s body. But it’s unrecognizable. It’s a pulp of skin, hair, and broken bones. The only recognizable part is the penis flung to the side, resting among weeds.
Oh my Gods. He really cut it off. Not just that, he dished out his retribution far beyond the realm of sanity.
“Huntsman?” My voice trembles.
His head lifts. Eyes collide with mine. The shock pulses through me. The coming dawn reveals the color for the first time. Blue. More alive than ever. And wrong. So very wrong. The Huntsman who killed Drayven had cold, dead eyes. Colorless eyes. I’m sure of it.
My gaze dips to his bloodied and scarred knuckles, then up to his face. Emotion threatens to undo me, but I have to know.
“If you’re not Drayven, who are you?”