“Artoris!” I cry out in protest. “Remember, I am wounded.”
“I do remember,” he pants, his lips on my jaw, my neck, moving down to my shoulder. “I remember, and I’ll be gentle with you, I promise.”
There’s nothing gentle in this embrace, nothing gentle inhis wet mouth moving across my skin. He pulls my shift off my shoulder, and one large hand presses hard against my breast. I push against him, growling, “Artoris! I’m not your wife yet.”
He draws back a little to look at me sternly. “Don’t go frigid on me now, Ilsevel. I suffered for your capriciousness the last time. And I’ve not forgotten.”
I draw a long breath through my nostrils. “I’m not sure—”
His mouth is on mine then, hot and demanding, swallowing up my words. I feel a wild sense of falling, plunging, inevitability. As though every choice I’ve ever made has led me to this place, and this is what I deserve somehow. This is the reward I’ve won for myself, whether I like it or not.
I shake my head, trying to escape his mouth. He releases my lips only to assault my neck once more, kissing and licking down my throat, my collarbone, yanking my shift askew.
The door latch rattles. My heart leaps with hope. “Artoris, someone is coming,” I whisper, pushing at him again.
“I’ve bolted it,” he murmurs. “I’m not taking chances on an interruption this time.” So saying, he yanks open my already-loosened front laces and slips a hand inside, pinching my nipple aggressively. I try to stand, to get away, but he pushes me hard back into the chair.
With a bang that rattles the walls, the door bursts open. I scream, and Artoris startles back from me, half-falling to the ground at my feet. My neck and breast feel blessedly cool withthe removal of his hot mouth and hand. I turn sharply to see my savior, standing in the doorway like an avenging angel. Lyria.
“Mage Artoris,” she speaks in a cool voice limned with fury, “you had best remove yourself from this chamber now.”
Artoris curses and scrambles to his feet in a flurry of dark robes. He looks frightened. I can’t explain it. Is he not some dark and powerful sorcerer? While Lyria is just herself, nothing more. But his cheek is pale beneath his dark beard, and his eyes fix hard on her face, as though watching for sudden movements.
“Larongar has already signed the marriage agreement,” he says, his deep voice acquiring a faintly whining tone that I find singularly gross. “She is mine.”
Lyria plants fists on her hips. “Until the vows are spoken, she is, in fact,notyours, but still the rightful property of King Larongar Cyhorn. The king, as you know, does not take kindly to his property being manhandled.”
A sick knot coils in my gut to hear myself referred to in this way. Still I can’t deny the effectiveness of this little speech. Artoris shoots Lyria a venomous glare before turning to me. “We will wed by the week’s end,” he says. “No need for any Maiden’s Journey—you’ve performed sacrifices enough. And when you are mine, Ilsevel, I will take my satisfaction from you at last.”
He makes an abrupt move, as though he’s going to grab me and kiss me again. I recoil in my seat, but Lyria barks, “Artoris!” Her sharp voice is enough to stop him cold. He castsme one last look that hardly befits an ardent lover before storming across the room. He brushes past Lyria without a glance, missing the face she makes at his retreating back. She steps lightly to shut and bolt the door in his wake.
“How did you get in?” I demand, my voice tight.
Lyria turns to survey me, one eyebrow upraised. “Are you sorry I did?”
“No!” I answer quickly. “No, not at all. I just . . . I thought he’d bolted it.”I thought I was trapped.
“He did,” my half-sister acknowledges. “But I know a useful trick or two for the unbolting of doors.” She offers no further explanation, but glides across the room, studying me closely by the narrow light coming through the curtains. “You look terrible.”
I’m not about to argue. Fingers trembling, I pull the fabric of my rumpled shift straight and begin to tie the laces. “I’ve certainly felt better.”
“You shouldn’t be out of bed.”
My lip curls. “Artoris might have had an easier time of things if I’d stayed abed.”
Lyria takes another step toward me, but her foot comes down on a bit of crumpled parchment, dropped unnoticed on the floor. She picks it up, gives it a cursory glance, then frowns and looks again more closely. Realizing what she’s discovered, I grimace as yet another flush of embarrassment stains my cheeks.
Lyria peers at me over the missive. “So. You really love him?”
I snort. “According to my own written confession, I suppose I do. Too bad I don’t remember writing it.”
Lyria’s eyes narrow. “Tell me the truth, Ilsevel.”
“The truth?” I throw up my hands. “The truth is, I’m fairly certain I’ve hated him for a long time now. Hated him for pawing at me, for putting his hands where I did not give permission. For trying to take far more than I was ready or willing to give. But for so long I couldn’tbearto hate him. If I did, that would mean what had happened had really happened. That ours wasn’t some forbidden love story, but something sordid. Something awful.” I shake my head slowly, recalling the frightened young girl of fifteen that I once was, a girl who still feels all too present in this room. “I suppose I did what I had to do. I recast Artoris in the role of some desperate lover, and me as the lovelorn maiden.” My skin crawls at the memory of Artoris’s embraces, that warm, wet mouth, those hard fingers. “I suppose I’m getting what I asked for, aren’t I? My very own happy ending.”
Lyria’s face is solemn in the half-light. Wordless, she offers the letter back to me, but I recoil. “Kindly oblige me by throwing it in the fire, will you?”
She nods, crosses the room, and feeds the flames with the last evidence of my childish infatuation. Too late to do anyone any good, but it’s somehow a small relief, nonetheless.
