Comfort in another’s bed.
It is easy to guess who that bed belongs to. Pretty little maids eager to fulfill his every degrading fantasy. Would I prefer thealternative? To have my maidenhood taken while out of my mind and against my will?
The king and queen would have found a gleeful widow in the morning if he had dared force himself on me. No matter how many times these villains declare so bluntly that I am theirs—they bargained for a bride, not a body. Then why does this rage burn so bitterly, and why is it tinged with a woeful ache in my chest?
Why do I care that he does not want me?
I roll onto my side and hitch up my knees, curling into a ball, and gazing out the arches to the ink black sky that stretches to eternity. The rain patters against the stone, and when the thunder rolls and the lightning cracks, I do not shudder. Instead, I close my eyes and find a soothing rhythm to the thrum of the storm.
Because I do not dream, I must imagine what dreams are like. Are clouds fluffy enough to bounce upon? If I climb to the very top of the tallest tree in The Grove, can I touch the sun? Would my parents be proud of me? As my heavy eyelids fall closed and I slip into slumber, all I imagined fades from my mind, and the last waking dream I see is Daedalus Phaedren standing over me, devouring me whole with those stormy gray eyes.
Chapter 6
My mind stirs and my eyes flicker open. I have always been an early riser, as if my body senses the dawn, but when I glance through the arches of my bedchamber, there is not the faintest hint of sunlight. The sky is gray with dense hanging clouds, and though the rain falls lighter, still it falls.
Does it ever stop?
It is not until the doors open and the maids file in that I’m convinced it is morning.
Here in Baev’kalath, the morn is as dark and dreary as the midnight hours.
They rush to the bed, but freeze in their strides when they take in the scene as I lie on top of the undisturbed covers, fully dressed. They look curiously around the room and I know who they are searching for.
“He is not here,” I say, putting them out of their misery.
Solena asks the question on the tip of all of their tongues. “The prince did not spend the night with you?”
I roll my eyes. “I assumed you would already know that. At least one of you.” Something sour hits the back of my throat. “Or all of you.”
They exchange bewildered glances, but I am learning quickly that no one in Baev’kalath is to be trusted and lies fall easily from their mouths, like acorns from an oak. I have no doubt the more enticing bed my husband spoke of belonged to one of these pretty Fae. Solena walks around the bed to stand beside me, then puts her arm behind my back to help me up.
“I’m fine,” I say, shirking away her help. I push my hands against the bed to prop myself up, then wince and curse under my breath when a sharp pain surges through my hand.
Solena looks at the black cloth wrapped around my palm. “Are you injured, Your Highness?”
I narrow my eyes at her. It is the first time someone has addressed me this way, and the words feel too big to me. Like clothes I will never grow into. “Just call me Amara.”
“Princess Amara,” she corrects.
“Fine then. Princess Amara,” I reply, and I realize Daed and I had a very similar conversation last night. Both of us unwilling and unwelcoming of the titles forced upon us.
“Your hand, Princess Amara,” Solena continues. “Is that from the wedding ceremony?”
“Yes,” I grumble. “Is it custom for the bride to bleed out?”
“May I?” she asks. I nod, interested myself to see what it looks like. I wince as she tugs back the cloth of Daed’s shirt and the contortion of her face does not fill me with optimism.
I lean over to get a glimpse and find the wound still open and raw, as if freshly cut, like the flesh of the rabbit in the snare.
Solena glances at the maids. “Hot water, towels, bandages, and brew some limmeth tea.” They set to their tasks in an instant. “Fae brides heal almost immediately after the cutting,”she says to me, her tone dripping with disappointment, as if this is my fault.
I arch an eyebrow. “How fortunate for them. Sadly, marriage alone does not make me immortal.”
“Fae are not immortal. We die quite well,” Solena retorts. “We just age slower and heal faster than humans do.”
“I suppose that makes you superior to us?”
Solena considers me, her face thoughtful, not giving an inch. “It is one reason. Yes.”
