Chapter 15
Fifteen
Roman
The whip cracks against my skin a second time, but I don’t flinch. If I do, it’ll only drive my father to raise it again. So, I stay perfectly still, tears stinging the sides of my eyes, jaw clenched.
“Get up,” he says, voice flat and unbothered.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I stand on uncertain legs. I bite my tongue to keep from wincing, the pain shooting across my back as I turn to face him.
He places the whip back in its holder on the wall. “What did you learn?”
My lip snarls as he flexes his hand, as though he’s in pain from the work he’s done on me. My gaze lingers a little too long and before I can correct it, his eyes snap to mine.
“I asked you a question, Roman.” He takes a few strides toward me. I suck in a breath at his abrupt closeness, fighting the urge to shrink into the corner.
“I-I…” My tongue trips over itself as my father looms over me. He doesn’t even have to speak for my body to react to him.
Fight or flight, Roman.
Much to my father’s despair, it’s never been fight for me. I wish I could run, right now. Straight through the doors and never look back, because no matter how I pretend, I’ll never be the son King Silas Rudhek expects me to be.
Preferring books over weapons and art over bloodshed. It’s the same damn foolery that’s ended me up here today. Squaring my shoulders, I tilt my chin, so we’re eye level. “I’ll never miss training again,” I say with much more conviction than I feel.
His dark eyes narrow. He doesn’t believe me. I don’t even believe me, but what else can I say? Certainly not the truth. That I’ll always choose the library over the sparring ring, just as I had earlier today.
He wasn’t supposed to be in Valebridge and so I took my chances, running from training and straight into the welcoming arms of a thousand tomes. But much to my disappointment, his trip to Scandavi was cut short, and he arrived back in Valebridge just in time to hear word from my mentor that I’d skipped yet another session.
I open my mouth to defend myself, but before I can speak a word, his knuckles connect with my cheek in the lightest of touches. Brief and warm and harmless, he runs his fingers down my face.
“Good,” he whispers before smiling. “I only want the best for you son.” His fingers linger, cupping me just under my chin.
My heart races, cracking my ribs with its incessant vigor.
“Now get cleaned up.” His fingers slide away as he turns for the door. “We have scholars coming this afternoon for a visit. The last thing I need is for you to embarrass me further.”
The oak doors slam as he exits the study, leaving me broken and bleeding and alone. But the pain in my back is nothing next to the phantom burning of his hand brushing my cheek.
It’s amazing all touch is capable of. When you’ve spent so much of your life starving for it, the smallest gesture holds the most significant meaning.
And my father knows it. I have no doubt he uses it against me and always has. Deprived me of all physical touch. Hugging, shaking hands, anything remotely resembling affection since my mother died when I was just barely two. He took it all away so that in moments like this, moments I am beaten down and vulnerable, all he must do is offer me the faintest touch. The smallest silver lining that maybe he does care for me, and all my woes against him are forgotten.
And because I’m as weak as he claims, I fall for it every time.
I run my fingers over the spot he grazed, savoring the memory and pocketing it for later. Adding to the collection of pathetic touches and hugs I’ve gathered from him over the years. Always ignoring the fact that they’ve all been given after the searing pain of a whip to my back.
The rational part of my mind knows it’s manipulation. Knows he’s doing this to keep me under his thumb. His disappointing heir with the soft heart and brittle spirit. The most twisted parts of my mind, however, accepts his behavior for love. And I’m more inclined to believe that part, anyway.
With a deep inhale, I make my way out of the study and back to my room to ready myself for another day as King Silas Rudhek’s broken, delusional son.
The memory leaves me gasping. Every night since the Dyrsjel and I first spoke, the nightmare has been the same. My father and the study and all the ways he used to make me feel small.
Just as she had the other day.
I take a few large breaths, the sudden inhale of oxygen burning my lungs. Sweat covers my forehead, and when I roll to ensure I haven’t woken Galen, my breathing falters.
He isn’t there.
Sitting upright, I let my eyes adjust to the darkness before scanning the room. No lamps are lit, meaning he isn’t in the bathing chambers or reading in one of the chairs like I so often find him. It’s not unusual for Galen to stay up much later than I do, but after the nightmare I just had, his touch is the only thing I know will calm me down. I pull on my robe and head straight for the study.
The castle at night is just as lovely as during the day. The arched, open windows allow the moon’s light to shine through. White lanterns line each hallway, their flames flickering as I walk with haste. I pass a few handmaids on my way to the study, and after several declines for drinks or service, they finally leave me alone.
Just as I suspected, orange light spills from under the study door. Smiling, I quicken my pace so I can find some assurance in Galen’s arms. But as I get closer, several hushed voices seep from the door’s cracks. My mind races. Who would he be meeting with at this hour? And why didn’t he tell me?
Pressing my body against the door, I hold my breath so I can get a better listen.
“That wasn’t the first time Roman’s been down there, sir. A few of the other guards have seen him conversing with the prisoner on two separate occasions. Not to mention the food is still being delivered.” My stomach drops. The audacity this guard has to speak of me so informally. I lean closer, waiting for Galen’s reprimand for not using my proper title.
“I want an extra rotation outside the dungeon. It isn’t to be left unattended; do you understand?” There’s a beat of silence, and I assume the guard has nodded because Galen continues, “If anyone so much as sees Roman heading in that direction, inform me immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” the guard says.
“Another thing,” Galen says. “Gather a group, tell them it’s time to make good on our promise. I’ve waited long enough.”
“Shouldn’t we wait until after the Autumn Moon? Wouldn’t want to send too many guards away with all of the extra?—”
“Are you questioning me, Deidrick?” Galen snaps followed by a few minutes of silence. I swallow; a knot in my throat makes it painful to do so. I move from the door, finding a shadowed corner to tuck myself into.
“Of course not, sir.” The guard, Deidrick, exits a few moments later, hastily making his way down the hall in which I just came. I keep perfectly still until he rounds the corner and is out of sight.
Minutes pass without another guard so I move from the corner. The door to the study remains open, but other than the crackling fire, there’s no more talking. No more movement. Heat licks up my spine, filling my lungs with anger I’m ready to spew.
How dare you send guards without my consent.
How dare you let them speak my name.
Anger rises in my throat and a million curses threaten to spill from my tongue. After I hear no one else leave the study, I stomp forward with every intention to tell Galen exactly what he deserves to hear. But as I enter the study, a scream ready in my lungs, I pause.
Galen’s heavy breathing isn’t loud enough to be heard from the hall. He’s asleep in the chair, a book still open in his lap. His face is so soft when he sleeps, as if it’s the only time he feels peace.
The anger subsides and before I can think better of it, I cover him with a blanket and leave.