Dr. Stefan nods. "Be careful, Princess."
Then he's gone, walking quickly back toward the castle.
I stand in the garden, surrounded by roses and morning light, and make my decision.
I'm going to kill Prince Benedict.
Not eventually. Not someday.
Soon.
Very soon.
Before he figures out what I am. Before he can dispose of me first.
The burning in my throat pulses in agreement, and somewhere deep inside, I swear I feel my dragon's presence. Approving. Waiting.
I head back to my chambers to retrieve my knives.
It's time to plan a murder.
ACT III
DESCENT
CHAPTER 11
THE PRINCESS
The month passes in a haze of preparation and rage.
I practice with my knives every moment I'm alone. The movements the knights drilled into the training yard dirt are now carved into my muscle memory. Thrust, parry, slash. The vulnerable spots on a human body. Throat. Kidneys. Femoral artery. Heart, if you can get past the ribs. I’ve even memorized all the books I could find on the human body and organ functions so I can be sure to hit the most important organs.
The fire comes sometimes. I've managed to summon it three times in the past month. Once, when Benedict was particularly vile during one of his nightly visits, once when a servant looked at me with pity that made me want to claw her eyes out, and once alone in my chambers when the rage built so high I thought I might explode from it.
But I can't control it. Can't summon it at will. It comes when the fury peaks, when the burning in my throat and belly becomes unbearable, but I can't make it happen on command.
So I'll rely on steel. On the blades I've stolen and hidden. On the techniques I've memorized. On the element of surprise.
The plan forms in my mind like a beautiful, terrible flower blooming in poisoned soil.
I'll seduce him. Make him think I've finally submitted, finally accepted my role as his breeding mare. I'll tie him up, he'll love that, the pathetic little mama's boy. And then I'll kill him.
It's foolproof. It has to be. Because if it's not, I'm dead anyway. If I can even die.
The bond pulses in my chest, that golden thread that connects me to my dragon. It's been there all along, thrumming quietly beneath my ribs. Sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker, but always there.
He's alive.
He has to be alive because I would feel it if he died, wouldn't I? The bond would snap, would shatter, would leave me hollow.
But he hasn't come for me.
Three months. Three months of captivity, of nightly violations, of being treated like property. Three months of waiting for him to burst through the castle walls, to rain fire down on these people who stole me from him. Claw them to death and string them up by their intestines.
Three months of silence.
The rage that realization brings is different from the anger I feel toward Benedict. This is deeper. Colder. More personal.
