He looked displeased to see her; the beautiful lines of his mouth thinned and then he glanced away, not looking at her. “Why are you here?”
Uncertain, Seri looked back at the door. “Your man… he said you were asking for me?”
Graeme ran a hand down his face, then shook his head. “Viktor presumes too much, though he does it in my best interest. You do not have to stay. I will see you shortly.” His words were curt, dismissive.
She hesitated, torn. He’d given her the out she so desperately wanted—for she did want nothing more than to run away—but his flaring aura called to her, and the clear distress he was in made her hesitate. She took a step forward, putting her hand to his shoulder. “What ails you?”
He turned to face her, a swift, sharp gesture made all the more horrific by the baring of teeth he showed her. Instead of the normal straight, white teeth, two of them had lengthened to sharp points. “You, my lady, are what ails me.”
Seri flinched at the sight of his teeth and took a step backward, her hand going to her throat. “Me?” His teeth were enormous, terrifying. Memories of last night shot through her, and fear assaulted her. He would hurt her with those. Had they been that long last night?
His aura pulsed; hers flickered in response. He looked away, facing the shadows. “It would seem that… this betrothal affects my kind in a rather severe fashion. Give me time and it will pass.” His voice was strained. If it was possible, his aura flared brighter.
She hesitated, torn. He seemed distracted, lost. The dagger still lay under her pillow. She could lure him to bed—Oh gods above—and do the terrible deed then. Part of her felt a surge of tender pity, but she shoved it out of the way.
She was alone in this task that she must do for her people.
Resolved, she placed a hand on his shoulder, forced herself to stroke down his arm. “Do you… shall we…?” She couldn’t quite force herself to state it so blandly. Her throat closed up.
Graeme turned to look at her at that, his expression unreadable. “I do not frighten you?”
She nodded. “You do.” The quiet statement hung between them. She let her words falter, and she reached behind her back for the long row of buttons that went up her gown.
His eyes followed that motion, burning intensely. He stood and came toward her, pulling her into his arms and beginning to unbutton the ones she could not reach. She could feel his body quiver and tremble against hers, and she forced herself not to look him in the eye; she put her cheek on his shoulder and stared hard at the pillow on her side of the bed.
Graeme’s fingers brushed against her chemise, and the heavy length of gown sagged against her shoulders. His hands slid into the unbuttoned length as if desperate to feel her skin through all the cloth. “You do not wear a corset,” he murmured against her hair. She didn’t respond, simply closed her eyes and allowed him to peel away each layer, trying not to be distracted by the whirlwind of sensations that ripped through her with every soft touch.
And then she was in nothing but her chemise, and his long fingers worked at the high collar buttons of that, revealing her skin inch by inch. He panted hard against her, and she found her own breath had quickened to match his.
Her chemise slipped to the floor and he lifted her in his arms, carried her the short distance to the bed, and gently laid her there. Seri’s hair spread over the pillow and her body tensed, remembering the terrible dagger underneath. She felt that if he looked at her, he would know what was going through her mind, know what she planned. A shiver tore through her body.
“I frighten you,” the prince said quietly, his heavy weight sliding next to her on the bed.
She shook her head and opened her eyes. She didn’t smile, for she knew he’d not trust that, but she offered him her hand instead. “It’s all right,” she said, her voice hoarse with emotion. For some odd reason, she didn’t want him to think that she was terrified of him.
But then his hot, hard body covered her own and she had a hard time thinking again. The faint smell of sweat clung to him but it wasn’t unpleasant, just sharp, and she inhaled the scent as she wrapped her arms around his neck, ignoring the guilt at enjoying his embrace.
He took his time with her body, touching and kissing every inch of her he could find, until she was moving and panting and writhing along with him, though she didn’t want to and her mind protested. Her hips lifted suggestively against his when he did not move fast enough, but now that she lay in his arms, he seemed determine to seduce her away from her fear, and it frustrated her even as his touch sent shudders through her body.
But then his hands locked around her hips, and her legs parted in anticipation, and she lifted them and wrapped them around his hips, and she felt the core of his body nudge against her hot one and then he ripped into her body with that hot, hard part of him that seemed so foreign, and it felt so good that a sigh escaped her despite herself, and her fingers dug into his back. He thrust into her body, roughly, once, twice, and she met him with each hard movement, even though her limbs quivered and his body slammed on top of hers. Over and over, he thrust into her, the force of his body sliding them across the bed and shoving her head up against the ornate, carved headboard, and she put her hands up to brace herself.
Her fingers brushed against the dagger, and it was like a splash of cold water through her body, and she knew she had to do this, even though he drove into her body with the sweetest of sensations, and his lips tugged at the peak of her breast, and her soft cries echoed in the room. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt, and when he drove into her again, she closed her eyes and arched her back to fool him.
“Ah, Seri,” he groaned against her flesh, and it startled her that he would say her name in his passion. They were always silent except for the soft cries and gasps that escaped them, and she had wondered if he thought of Lady Aynee as he held her close.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered and plunged the dagger into his side.
Chapter Nine
She’d never stabbed anyone before. Her experiences with knives were limited to butchering a calf for meat and never anything more than that. She wasn’t a warrior.
Still, she knew as soon as the dagger sank into his skin that she’d done it wrong. Perhaps it was the angle, or perhaps the blade itself was dull, or she didn’t have enough strength in her arm, but the dagger didn’t sink in as much as she wanted and instead was ripped out of her hand when Graeme’s body jerked against hers.
And immediately, she knew it was a mistake. She wanted to take it back, to stop time and change her mind, but it was too late.
In the next moment, he rolled off her, and the world fell into confusion. The hot smell of blood filled the room, and as she watched, his aura flickered and then faded. Her heart nearly shattered in her chest at the sight.
Her own heart stopped. Oh god, she’d killed her betrothed.
You fool
, she told herself.
You horrible, horrible fool. You’ve killed him and he was nothing but kind to you.
“Graeme?” she whispered into the darkness.
He cursed, the most beautiful and most awful sound she’d ever heard. In the next moment, she heard him cross the room, and she slid out of bed to follow, heedless of her nakedness.
Across the room, a sliver of light was revealed as Graeme opened the door on the far side of the room. “Get Viktor,” he said, his voice angry and strident. “Now. Tell him to bring his kit.”
The guard spoke assent and the door slammed shut again, and Seri was enveloped in darkness once more. She scarcely dared to breathe and stared into the shadows of the room, waiting for Graeme to approach again. Would he kill her for what she had done?
But nothing happened. It was silent in the massive chamber, and the minutes ticked past with agonizing slowness. A knock came at the door. “Enter,” said Graeme, his voice cool as always.
Viktor entered the room, carrying a lantern in one hand and a bag over his shoulder with the other. He lit another lantern with his, the room falling into dim light and revealing the scene to Seri’s eyes from where she stood, huddled next to the bed, a sheet draped over her body.
Graeme sat across the room in a chair, his wadded shirt dark as it pressed against his wound. He gestured impatiently for Viktor to approach.
The manservant didn’t glance at Seri. He came to the prince and dropped to a knee. “How may I serve, my prince?”
“I am wounded. I need you to sew the wound.”
Nothing more was said. No reference to her was made, though she saw Viktor stiffen a bit with surprise, but he hid it well.
They sat in silence as Viktor worked on the prince. A pungent herbal salve was rubbed into the wound—to stop the bleeding and numb the area, Viktor explained—and then he began to sew the wound. “You’re lucky, my lord,” Viktor said, his voice easy. “The wound is not a deep one. Whatever it was that hurt you has deflected off your rib.”
“I am quite lucky,” Graeme said, glancing over at Seri.
Despair shot through her, and she ducked her head in shame. She hadn’t even been able to stab him correctly, and she knew why. She hadn’t wanted to. Not really. Whatever it was that bound them together in this bizarre betrothal had taken over her mind, and she was obsessed with him. She couldn’t do it. Her mind might be focused on one thing, but her body had not followed through.
She was a failure to her people and a failure to herself.
The wound was sewn up and then bandaged. “Thank you, Viktor,” the prince murmured, then stood as if nothing else had happened.
“If we’re done here, my lord, I shall leave you.”
“One more thing,” the prince said, and moved to the side of the bed where Seri sat, watching. She backed away as he reached for her, but he only reached across her and took the dagger from where it lay in a pool of blood. He turned and handed it to the manservant. “Dispose of this. Tell no one where you got it.”
Viktor’s eyes widened as the dagger was handed to him, but he nodded, again never looking at Seri. “I will, my prince. Good evening to you.” He bowed again and left the room.
Silence fell. The prince didn’t speak to her, didn’t look her way.
Seri shivered as she was left alone with him again. She slid across the far side of the bed, away from him, and her feet landed on the soft, carpeted floor. “I…I’ll leave,” she said, her voice whisper-soft with humiliation.
He was at her side in an instant, grabbing her by the arm. “You’re not leaving.” His voice was cold. “We will spend the night together, as in accordance with the laws. We will spend every night together for the next two months. Do you understand me?”
She nodded, trying to pull her arm out of his grasp. “I understand.” She twisted her arm, trying to get away from him. “You’re hurting me.”
His grip loosened, though he did not release her. His thumb began to stroke the soft skin of her inner arm, almost thoughtfully. “Do you have any other weapons hidden here that I should be aware of?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Nothing.” The feel of his fingers on her flesh was distracting, even more so when they fell into silence again and her aura flared to light. Soft, subtle at first, but noticeable. Shame surged through her, and she struggled to break free again. “Let me go.”
But he didn’t. Instead, his hand snaked around her waist and pulled her back against his body, and she felt the arousal in his own, and his own aura roared back to life, as bright and wild as before, though there was a hardness in his gray eyes that she hadn’t seen there before. A cold smile touched his beautiful mouth. “That is the troubling thing with our betrothal, is it not? That one can hate the person they are bound to and yet still be consumed with desire for them?”
She shook her head to deny it, but he thrust his hips against hers in a suggestive push, and her breath caught in her own throat, betraying her. The core of her body ached and throbbed, and her neck felt overheated, her entire body shifting with need.
He pulled her down to the edge of the bed, laying her on her back even as he stood over her. Her hips rested against the edge of the feathered mattress, and when he nudged at them, she let her knees fall open and wrapped her legs around him again.
~~* * * ~~
When she awoke the next evening, he wasn’t there. It suited her—she didn’t want to see him after last night’s devastating event. So she dressed, not really paying attention to the chatter of her maids, and headed out to the main courts, Idalla trailing behind her.
So lost in thought was she, it took her several minutes to notice something was amiss. Vya attended her, and Idalla, but there was no sign of Kiane. Seri frowned and looked to her maidservants. “Where is Kiane?”
Idalla shrugged, fussing over the long train of Seri’s newest and more ornate gown. “I do not know, my lady. The lazy girl hasn’t been seen today.”
A frown touched Seri’s face. She hoped whatever Kiane was off doing hadn’t delayed her message to Rilen. A brief pang of guilt shot through her as she pictured her poor family. Poor Josdi and Father—she hadn’t had a chance to see them since this ridiculous marriage. “Where is my husband this evening?” The words felt heavy on her lips.
“He has ridden out, my lady, with his vizier. They are visiting the local foreman to take assessment of the granaries and will not be back for several hours.” Idalla beamed her a happy smile. “He took his man Viktor with him, which I thought rather odd. He normally only has Viktor accompany him if he’s ill.”
“Perhaps my husband is not feeling well,” Seri said, trying not to let her emotions show in an effort to duplicate Graeme’s serene, cold mask. The two men she needed to see most, and both were out of reach.
She remembered the local foreman—a hateful Athoni bastard who prided himself on humiliating the Vidari that worked for him. She’d have to talk to Graeme about replacing the man if she was to be stuck here in this terrible, tension-inducing position as princesse. “Very well.”