Page 93 of Given to the Black King

“Run.”

I stare at him.

His fingers open.

For one heartbeat I do not understand.

Then I wrench away.

He lets me.

The release is worse than the capture.

I stumble, recover, and run toward the rose walk with my gown hanging open behind me.

He gives me ten steps.

Perhaps twelve.

Then he comes after me for real.

I hear claws strike gravel.

One breath behind.

Another closer.

The hedge shakes as he takes the corner without slowing.

I run hard enough that the garden blurs. My lungs burn. My torn gown slips from one shoulder. The mark he left throbs with every stride.

He could catch me at any moment.

He does not.

He stays close enough that I feel his heat at my back, then falls away, then appears at my side beyond the hedge. Each time I change direction, his footsteps close behind me and cut off the safer turn. He is driving me. Not toward the wall.

Toward the orchard court.

The dark opening waits ahead. He has driven me past the last branch of the yew walk and closed every turn except the orchard court. I knew the destination. I did not understand how completely he would take the choice of route away.

He is behind me now, close enough that the next breath touches my torn gown.

I turn.

His hand closes around my ankle.

The ground disappears.

I hit his cloak, not stone.

The cloak he promised lies beneath me. The realization lasts less than a heartbeat before he is over me.

One hand pins both wrists above my head. One knee spreads my thighs. His claws frame my skin, points sunk into the wool beneath me.

I fight.

Not prettily.