They were pretty words, and ones she heard in some form or another several times over the years. Josephine knew better than to believe them.
And yet, the heat in her blood had not died down, nor did the fluttering in her belly when she thought of the shifter’s hard features, the fervent way he said the words.
They swirled in circles in her mind as she smoothed her hair back behind her ears. She was not allowed to use pins, as they might be taken and used as weapons by her father’s subjects, so she made do with a few ribbons woven through her braid and around her head.
It was just as well that she took such care in her appearance, since Harrod disregarded her request for a knock once more.
He gave her a cool look from her doorway. “Ready, then?”
Josephine dropped her eyes to the floor, where hundreds of shallow claw marks lay etched in the polished stone. Pulling her shawl up against her throat, she answered, “Yes. Will I be allowed breakfast before we go to the barn?”
He made an impatient sound and stepped over the threshold. “You’ll be fed in the cell. Come along.”
Her eyes widened in alarm. He was not supposed to enter her room.Noone entered her room. “Sir,” she began, voice pitched high.
Harrod was a lean, hollow-featured man. When he moved, it was with swift efficiency. While she had never seen a rattlesnake in person, she had read that they struck suddenly, fangs bared, and seemed to appear as if from the ether when one least expected it.
Her father’s assistant moved like that when he wrapped his fingers around her arm, in the exact same spot he held her the day before. She could feel his fingertips digging into the bruises. He found them unerringly, the way drivers find grooves left by cart wheels in a muddy street.
The cold, astringent scent of antiseptic made her nose itch. It seemed to permeate his clothing, or perhaps emanate from his pores. Below it was a muskiness that made the beast quiver and growl with unease.
Looking down his long, narrow nose at her, he said, “It pleases me when you wear your hair up, Miss Wyeth.”
She kept her eyes on the button just below his collar. Her pulse hammered in the base of her throat. “I… Thank you.”
“You’ll style it like this more often.”
No, I won’t.The defiant impulse was a hot lashing in her mind. She had no desire to please Harrod, and would not set the dangerous precedent of doing so simply to appease him.
Though he had great capacity for cruelty and many opportunities to cause her harm, Josephine knew there were limits to the ways in which he could make her life worse. While she may be only athingto her father, she was the most precious thing he owned. He would never allow Harrod to permanently damage her.
But there are many ways one might be damaged impermanently,she thought, stomach sinking.
Though she had been locked away for ten years, Josephine was not entirely ignorant of the ways a cruel man might think to punish a woman he perceived as his lesser. Her father’s subjects had threatened her with all kinds of terrible things, usually in explicit detail, when they finally realized what awaited them.
Instead of answering him as she wished, Josephine sweetened her voice and replied, “My father dislikes it when my hair gets in the way of his work.”
As she hoped, the mention of her father appeared to do the trick.
Harrod straightened his spine until it looked fit to snap. His keen, almost avaricious expression slid away. It was replaced by the cold detachment she was used to. “You are correct. We shouldn’t keep him waiting.”
It was a curious thing to feel relief as he escorted her out of the house and across the yard to the barn. She was afraid, of course, but a different sort of anticipation prickled under her skin when he thrust open the door and marched her inside.
Things are truly dire if I’m beginning to see this cursed place as a refuge.
Her father stood by the cell door, his ever-present notebook in hand. His dark hair, streaked with gray and shoulder-length, was mussed. The high, starched collar that had — according to her mother — gone out of fashion a decade ago was slightly creased and yellowed where it rubbed against the underside of his chin.
When he looked up at her, there were dark circles under his eyes.
“Josephine,” he greeted her, nodding toward the metal door. “Six hours today. Since you were good yesterday, I’ve left you a cushion.”
Bygood,he meant that she had not screamed and banged on the cell door as she used to. He didn’t care what she did in the cell, so long as she followed the protocols and remained quiet.
Out of habit, she stared at his shoes when she whispered, “Thank you, Papa.”
“You are welcome.” He closed his book with a snap. “Now, let me look at you.”
Josephine closed her eyes and held herself rigidly still as her father’s cold, dry hands probed her jaw, the soft flesh under her chin, and then prompted her to open her mouth.
