Flori’s hand darts out, snatching the tiara. In one fluid motion, she jams it into the Baron’s face.
Chapter 19
Florienne
What grows from pain blooms most beautifully.”
—ETCHED ON AMARA’S STATUE
Atwisted sense of déjà vu hits me as the Baron drags me into this dark, dead place and bids me to lie down. It’s not an altar but a cleared ritualistic floor space surrounded by the bones of old sacrifices. Signs of Kasaros are everywhere, suffocating me. Hope seems to flee, but I don’t let it. Shadows distort and dance around us as I force my body to go limp. I let him believe my spirit is broken—another skill I learned in the Pen. Sometimes, appearing weak is the strongest strategy. I’ll find my moment.
For a fleeting moment, I am convinced the Baron is Kasaros himself, kneeling there with a cruel smile playing on his lips. But it isn’t. It’s someone who devoted his life to the Trickster God, being his bludgeoning hammer. In this realm, war is rewarded. The Bride Hunt is the game, and for The Baron—I am the ultimate prize.
Men like him don’t like to be handed their gifts. They want to feel like they’ve earned it. How else does one justify such inglorious, violent acts in the name of entertainment?
I watch as he removes his coat. The placket of his breeches is already unfastened and flapping, and his tucked shirt is a hindrance. He snarls as he pulls the hem and struggles with the buttons.
The Baron’s eyes are no longer dead and cold. They glint with savage triumph as he looms over me, pausing his undressing to trace his fingers over the delicate curves of my face. I flinch, bile rising in my throat.
“At last,” he purrs, “You’ve led me on quite the chase, my dear.”
I want to spit in his face, to claw at his eyes, but my body won’t obey. The oppressive aura of this unholy place weighs on me like chains.
His hand travels lower, ghosting over my throat, down to my heaving chest, where he parts Drayven’s shirt collar.
“Such exquisite markings,” he murmurs, tracing the badges of mastery marking my skin. “I look forward to exploring every one.”
A whimper escapes, and I hate myself for it. Where is my fire? My strength? A fat fingertip lingers on the golden rosebud marking at my sternum. A jolt of revulsion shoots through me.
The Baron’s hand slides lower, cupping my breast through the cotton. I turn away, hoping to focus on something, anything else. Choosing where to look is the only freedom I have left. The obsidian throne stands cold and empty behind him. He grabs my jaw and forces my attention back to him. His rancid breath is hot on my neck as he whispers, “Youwillsubmit. You will bear my children. And you will watch as I reshape this world in my image.”
Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I won’t give him the satisfaction. Ten years in the Pen, and I haven’t cried since the day I arrived.
“Remember your promise,” he reminds, easing back on his haunches. He drags me roughly toward him. “Part those thighs, my queen, and the rest of your little pet Vespers will remain unharmed.”
I close my eyes and hear the rustling of his shirt coming off. Rough hands part my knees, fingers digging into my flesh. I feel the heat of his body as he shuffles between my legs, and I brace myself for the inevitable.
“Fight, Flori. Fight like hell!”
My eyes fly open.
Drayven?
He’s not supposed to be here. I told him to—there, shadowed in the arched doorway, and imprisoned by thorns. Wet, maskless, and scratched up. His broad chest heaves, blood and rain glistening on his leather and skin. His eyes burn with a fury I’ve not seen for a decade.
My throat clogs with emotion.
Demaya, also battered and bruised, runs in. She takes stock of the situation and locates Dray’s fallen scimitar, then uses it to start hacking at the unnatural restraints—to free him. So he can come to me. Because he’s doing what I asked. He’s fighting for us.
Drayven bellows something else, but no sound arrives.
Am I imagining this? Is this my fantasy, my escape?
My fingers twitch at my side and scrape my tiara. I hadn’t noticed it fall.
Strangely, the Baron doesn’t see Drayven beneath the archway.
I am reminded of my first experience with Kasaros in the flesh. When he walked through the nemeton, bored yet resignedto relaying the rules of the game to every bride, forcing a different version of his display into their minds.
