“A woman as beautiful as you can make it difficult for men to suppress their baser instincts.”
Baser instincts? Does he mean the instinct to rip my head off and mount it on his wall?
Troi must read the confusion on my face because he leans in and whispers, “To possess you.” Then he pulls back again and gives me another smile, this one more sinister, as his hand runs up my side, stopping at my breast, his thumb making circles over the spot where my nipple presses against the bodice of my dress. Nausea tugs at my belly and my corset suddenly feels too tight. I’m trapped. I can’t shove him away the way I would any other man, and he knows it. Bastard.
I carry on, a smile on my face the way Leodin told me, even when he hooks a finger over the neckline of my dress and runs it across the top of my breast. Finally, the music ends, and I’m able to pull away from the prince. I curtsy and thank him for the dance, then hurry for the ballroom doors. I manage to keep my pace fairly normal, but the minute those doors close behind me, I bolt. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing, but my instincts are screaming at me to get out.
I need air. Fresh air. I don’t even realize I’m heading for the garden until I’m almost there. I shove through the door and intothe moist night air. It’s deliciously cool against my hot skin, and I fold over at the waist, hands on thighs, breathing, breathing, breathing, breathing.
“Katya.”
I whirl around to see Aemon stalking toward me, shoulders hunched, teeth bared. I instinctively back away, tripping over a path stone and landing in a bush. The woody stems jab my back and rake long scratches across my exposed arms, but I hardly feel any pain as I tear myself free and run.
I barrel down the narrow trails, the sliver of moon in the sky doing little to light my way. I veer left, then right, seeing the breaks in the trail only moments before I have to turn. The trees and plants, so lovely in the daylight, stand like shadowy sentinels against a night-black sky. They reach for me, hands and claws and teeth tearing at my clothes and hair. My heart is a metronome, pounding at an ever-increasing pace as cool air sears my throat with every heaving breath. Pain shoots through my ankle as one of my fancy heels slips on a chunk of gravel. I bite back a yelp of pain, and limping, I push on, no thoughts except the need to escape. I don’t dare glance behind myself. Instead, I scan my surroundings, looking for somewhere to hide, but there’s nothing.
I’m almost to the back wall when I hear it: the pounding of footsteps behind me. I try to speed up, but I’m hobbled by my injured ankle.
Then he grabs me from behind, just as my foot buckles, and we both go down. The breath is knocked out of me as his much larger body crashes on top of mine. He pulls up only enough to cage me in while he turns me over to face him, then lays his body against mine again, effectively pinning me to the ground. I openmy mouth to scream, but he slaps a hand over it before the first note leaves my lips.
“Dammit, Katya,” he says between heaving breaths. I twist and squirm and beat at his back with only one hand since the other is pinned between us. He grabs that wrist and lifts it up, over my head. Then, he rests his forehead against mine. “You can’t get away from me. I won't let you.” He’s holding himself up with one arm, saving me from being crushed by his full weight, but I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline or just some undeniable chemistry between the two of us, but there’s a part of me that wants that weight holding me down. There’s a part that bucks and writhes beneath him, wishing there were no clothes separating us. Gods, I must be insane.
But I’m not the only one because either he has a rather girthy pistol in his pocket, or the rock-hard bulge I feel against my thigh is his cock.
“I’m going to remove my hand,” he says, “and if you scream, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and take you to the interrogation room in the dungeon. Understand?”
That threw some much-needed cold water on my libido. Is he serious? Is he going to interrogate me? Wait, thereisa dungeon?
I nod, because there isn’t much else I can do, and he slowly lifts his hand.
“Please. Please don’t hurt me,” I say as soon as his hand is gone.
His throat bobs as he swallows. “That depends on you, Katya. If I get up, you promise not to run?”
I nod.
“Say it.”
“I promise.”
He seems to take my word for it. He leans back on his heels, legs still straddling mine. “Where’s the notebook?”
Fuck. “What notebook?” I say, trying to play stupid again, even though I know he won’t believe me.
“Don’t fuck with me.” He curls a hand around my throat. He doesn’t squeeze or even use an ounce of pressure, but the threat is clear. I grab his wrist with both hands, but he might as well be a stone battlement for all that I can move him.
“My pocket,” I say.
He scans me up and down. “Where?”
I remove a hand from his wrist, lower it to my side, and pat the spot in my skirt. He pats the same spot, feeling for it, then reaches inside and pulls out the little journal. Without moving from his position, he scans the pages. “You’re almost as bad an artist as you are a spy,” he says, his eyes scanning the hastily drawn dresses I scribbled in the journal to detract from the writing running along the edge of the pages.
“They’re sketches,” I say. “It’s about the dress, not the art. Now give it back. Please.” I tack that last word on for good measure, but he ignores me.
“What is this?” he asks, pointing to the text which I wrote in an ancient hieroglyphic form of Cardemian that only a handful of scholars and I know.
“They’re doodles,” I say with way more confidence than I feel.
“Doodles?”
