Bellinor gripped her wet hair, yanking her head back so he could hiss in her ear, shock jolting through her after the seemingly polite conversation.
“Don’t ask questions you won’t like the answers to.”
He shoved her forward, and she almost tripped, steadying herself as the towel fell to the floor. She turned to see a scowl plastered on his face, his gaze raking over her naked body. He cleared his throat, though still eyed her with a look of utter disdain.
“A feast has been prepared for you. A servant will return with something for you to wear, then escort you to the dining hall.”
He bowed slightly, then hurried from the room, uncharacteristically disarrayed.
Before Isabelle could ponder his peculiar reaction, the door opened once more andsomethingwalked in. It stepped toward her with its arms outstretched, handing her a wrapped parcel without saying a word. Of course, it didn’t speak; its face was as blank as a slate, just a smooth, milky white surface where the eyes, nose, and mouth should be.
It looked like a mannequin, something the seamstress in Marilet used, a humanoid figure with no discernable features.
“Thank you,” Isabelle said quietly, unsure whether she should speak to the thing.
She moved to sit on one of the chairs and unwrapped the package, keeping her eye on theservantthe entire time.
There were a number of tiny vials, and when she opened one, the scent of sun-drenched flowers mether nose. Her fingers grazed soft fabric, sheer marquisette in many layers of sage green, along with a sky-colored corset that laced up in front. She took a few moments to dress, admiring herself in the mirror while she fixed her hair with the brush provided.
Such a strange place. Such a strange man.
One moment, he was chasing her through the woods like an animal, and the next he was giving her the most beautifully crafted pieces of clothing she’d ever laid her hands on. She kept her brown hair loose, letting the air dry the tendrils, then cleared her throat to get the servant’s attention.
The mannequin gestured toward the door, and Isabelle nodded, following as it escorted her from the room, nerves prickling her skin.
CHAPTER 7
ISABELLE SAT IN AN intimate dining room, completely overwhelmed by the sheer amount of food filling the small space.
There had been five courses, each one more luxurious than the last. Small plates of meat and cheese, a large roast, green salad, oysters, truffles, and vegetables slowly filled the table, until a final tray of macarons, chocolate biscuits, and candied fruit arrived. She had eaten ravenously, fully aware that she had no idea how long she’d been asleep before Rul’s erotic wake up.
A glass of red wine sat untouched, calling her name, though she’d not been eager to dull her mind. Not in a place like this.
It was beautiful, of course, from the crystal goblets to the fine candelabras adorning the table, but she was still a prisoner. One who was expected to let these demons use her at their whim, a thought which was not as unappealing as it should have been. Shewas consciously aware of the knife in the pocket of her dress, having swiped it from the dining table while no one was looking.
No matter what her body craved, her mind resisted, wanted to fight back, wanted to gohome.
A squeeze at her thigh jolted her to awareness, Bellinor’s firm hand gripping her tightly.
“Come here, my dear,” he said, grabbing her arm and pulling her into his lap, the pink macaron forgotten on her plate.
So much for the polite silence from dinner.
He pressed his face to her hair, breathing in deeply as Rul watched from across the table with a smirk. He was immaculately dressed now, dark pants and a delicate sage shirt matching the green of her own outfit.
Bellinor’s arms constrained her like a vice, one hand gripping her skirt and dragging it up her legs.
“What are you doing?” she asked, trying to escape his grasp, to no avail.
He slid his hand under her skirts, brushing along her inner thigh until he found her center, his fingers circling her clit languidly.
“Have you already forgotten? A plaything gives herself freely with no complaints. Yes?”
“Yes.”
She was tempted to reach for the knife, but she had plans for that later, instead tensing her muscles and trying to resist the sweet seduction of lust burning between her legs. There was pressure at her ass, a hard cock that she felt compelled to grind against, though she refused to give him that satisfaction. Thesensation was exquisite, mixed with the fingers stimulating her clit, and she let out a small whimper.
“I love corrupting the moon mother’s sweet devotees,” he whispered, bringing her back to awareness in a surge of anger.
