Chapter 11
Ithought carefully about his question. Back when he first found me, he did scare me.
With his ferocity in battle, scarred muscles, and owned power, he would terrify any man or woman with a desire to live.
But since then, I’d unconsciously lowered my guard and defied him on multiple occasions.
Sure, he’d been angry every time, but all he ever did was care for me.
It was easy to assume that was only because of my use to him, but I was beginning to think he wasn’t as much of a monster as he was made out to be.
When we’d entered the city, his people had welcomed him with overflowing gratitude, and the men we’d traveled with clearly respected him.
“Not really. Except when you fight, like in the kitchen,” I answered honestly.
“That was no fight.”
I shook my head. Of course, for him, killing those men had been too easy to be considered a fight. “Maybe not for you.”
He pulled the cloth away and picked up a hand. My fingernails were jagged at the edges, blood seeping from a few small wounds. I winced. Stone floors weren’t kind to clawing fingers.
“Frightening people has been beneficial, but I would never harm you.” Dampening the cloth again, he brought it to the small wounds, wiping carefully.
My hand looked delicate in his grip. It was the same hand that’d chopped wood, skinned animals, cooked, cleaned, and worked every day. Never once had I thought it to be fragile.
Never once had I thought myself to be fragile, until I was placed next to Harthon and thrown into battles and kitchen fights. I hated it.
“Why did you run?”
I tugged at my hand as he approached a particularly gnarly fingernail. His grip grew firm, eyes meeting mine until I acquiesced. With light pressure, he dabbed around the nail.
“I told you. I don’t want any part in changing the order of things and making someone king,” I said, omitting the part about Merelda. Harthon wouldn’t physically hurt me, but he was tactical, and holding Merelda against me would be an effective strategy.
“There’s more to it than that. Your village life leaves little to be desired. There’s something else you want to return to badly enough to almost die descending three stories with a makeshift rope.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised that he read right through me. “You may not scare me, but I don’t trust you.”
He dropped the cloth and grabbed the scissors, bringing them to a cracked nail. There was a slight tug as he snipped the mangled end, and then he moved to my other hand. “Would changing the order of the world be such a bad thing?” he questioned.
“Change could make things better, but they can make them ten times worse. We can’t afford worse.”
He paused, studying me for a moment. “Right now, resources are running lower and lower each day, people starve, and the Territories fight. Getting into Centralis would give us access to food and supplies that we can disperse to those who need it. Things would improve. People could thrive. It would be better, not worse.”
All of that was true, but only if the man who entered the Domus truly intended to do all of those things with a benevolent spirit. Taking Centralis could also mean holding those resources over the other Territories’ heads, forcing compliance and ruling with an iron fist.
“You told me, back when you first took me, that you were not a good man. Can you blame me for questioning the goodness behind your motives?” I said carefully.
He finished his methodical ministrations with a snip, and then he rinsed the cloth and went to my cheeks, which were still speckled with the dead man’s blood.
His eyes slid to mine, the fabric hovering above my skin.
“I am not a good man, but I care for the people. It’s why I’m here, in the Citadel, as Princeps.
It’s why I took Tamen’s throne.” He shifted his attention to my cheek and began to clean.
“What were you doing before you took his place?”
His other hand lifted to cup my head, holding it in place as he rubbed. “As you know, I led a group of mercenaries. We planned our attack for a long time.”
“When you weren’t planning, what were you doing?”
Harthon didn’t falter. “We hunted and killed those who needed to be hunted and killed. There was little outside of that.”
“And what determined who needed to be killed?”
“Multiple factors.”
“Callen, North, and Ana. Were they with you then?”
Cool water brushed my forehead. “Cal and North, yes. Ana came later,” he answered.
Again, my mind wandered to the possibility that he and Ana were lovers. The question rolled to the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t ask. Who he had relations with was not my concern or business.
He pulled away, dropping the cloth into the water. His eyes tracked over my body. “Are you sure you aren’t hurt anywhere else?”
I pushed myself off the backrest. “Just bruises.”
With a frown, Harthon stood. “You’ll need energy for tomorrow. Rest tonight. If you need anything, knock on my door.”
To do that, I’d have to enter the hallway. “Will there be a guard outside my door tonight?”
“No, just at the ends of the hallway to prevent intruders,” he said, stunning me speechless.
My mouth opened and then closed. I’d just attempted to escape, and rather than locking me down, he was giving me the free, unfettered ability to walk out of my door.
Seeing my confusion, he explained, “If I want you to trust me, I need to trust you.”
I stared at him with wide eyes as he walked toward the entryway. He shouldn’t trust me. Merelda was still my priority. If this dragged on for much longer, I would be running again. I only needed to wait until I was trained enough to survive.
“Harthon,” I blurted as he swung the door open.
He stopped.
Thank you, I wanted to say. And then I remembered that I’d only needed his help because he’d taken me. So I shut my mouth, letting silence hang.
Harthon nodded once and closed the door.
* * *
Someone shook me awake. I opened my eyes to see my mother, her brown eyes wild.
“Get up, Etarla,” she whispered frantically.
My father was a flash of movement behind her. Screams came from outside, followed by the smell of smoke.
“We need to go now,” he said, and I was dragged out of bed, wondering what was happening.
My mother shoved a dress over my head and shoved me toward my father.
He opened the door, stepped out, and immediately came back in, face pale. “They saw me. We can’t outrun them. Hide her.”
His face never got pale.
I turned around to see my mother throwing clothes out of a chest.
“Get in here,” she said. There were tears on her face.
My mother never cried.
Hands grabbed my arms and carried me to the chest, dropping me inside.
“Etarla, look at me.” My mother gripped my face. “Do not make a sound. Not a single sound, whatever happens. We love you.” And then she pushed my head down and closed the lid on me.
Darkness was everywhere. I wasn’t scared of the dark, but I was scared of my father’s pale face and my mother’s tears.
The chest slid, and then I stopped moving.
There was a slam.
“Please, please don’t—” The pleas from my mother suddenly stopped.
A man laughed, and there was a bang.
More scuffling, and then my father said, “Why are you doing this?”
A voice, darker and meaner than any I’d ever heard, responded, “Because I can.”
Slowly, I shifted and lifted the lid a crack.
My mother and father were on the ground.
A big man, naked from the waist up, stood in the middle of the room, facing away from me.
There was blood all over him, but there was a spiral of white in the center of his back, like circles around each other that all connected.
He turned.
My eyes snapped open.
Soft sunlight filtered into the room, illuminating the small particles of dust floating through the air.
I wasn’t surprised by the dream. I had it often, usually when I was stressed or sick. It was the only memory I had of the night before Merelda found me, and it was one of the few memories of my birth parents. It used to wake me in a cold sweat, but repetition had dulled its impact.
I sat up, bruises flaring to life. Last night slammed into me with the force of a stallion. Harthon had said I’d need energy for today. I hoped that energy didn’t require fully functioning body parts.
Sliding from the bed, I found water and a bowl of porridge waiting. I ate in silence, my aching cheek grateful for the mushy texture. I was examining the discoloration along my face in the mirror when Frannie and Felda burst into the room.
“Did you eat?” Felda demanded. Already, she was scowling. She probably frowned in her sleep, too.
I nodded in response.
“Change and sit. There’s no time for slowness,” she snapped.
Frannie bustled around me, depositing a pile of clothes on the dresser.
Felda scooped the basin of dirty water and rushed to the door. “You had better be changed by the time I return.”
I swung my head toward Frannie. “What’s going on?”
Worry pinched her features. “Princeps Harthon called a Citadel gathering. He’s requested that you be there, and it starts very soon. Could you get dressed?” She extended a deep purple tunic and black trousers to me.
“What’s a Citadel gathering?” I asked, stripping and pulling on the clothes as Frannie turned her back.
“Everyone in the Citadel goes to the training grounds for an announcement. Only a few essential workers stay behind. Princeps Harthon has only ever called one once before, and it was bad.”
“How bad?”
“Two of the woodworkers were caught doing terrible things to a woman. He gutted them in front of everyone.”
My attackers from last night were already dead, so Harthon either had other topics in mind, or there would be no gutting today. Frannie handed me a leather vest. This one was black like the others I’d worn, but the textured front was even thicker. It was almost like armor.
I’d just secured the ties when Felda returned. She dropped the basin on a table and pointed at me. “Rinse your face and clean your teeth.”