Page 69 of The Masked Princess

“You’re a monster.”

“I prefer the term ‘strong ruler.’ Your own King Everet isn’t that much different, if the rumors I heard were true. While I may hate Doveans, I held a certain amount of respect for the man.”

Soren shook his head, trying to clear it of the last of the drug. “If your original plan was never to marry Annalise, why the insistence now?”

“Because unfortunately, despite my best-laid plans, she escaped her abductors and completed the journey in good health and spirits. The contingent of Dovean guards camping outside Rea’s walls drew quite a lot of attention, and when she finally arrived and it was confirmed that the bandits had failed, I had to improvise. In the end, I suppose it was a blessing in disguise. Now, with her hand in marriage, I can make a play for the Dovean throne and kill two birds with one stone.”

“Doveans may love Annalise, but they will never accept you as king or ruler.”

“I think you mean they won’t accept me without a Dovean woman at my side. As far as I know, Annalise has two young cousins who arguably have a more legitimate claim to the Dovean throne than Everet’s bastard. I’m a patient man, and if Praxis starts a war in the next year or two and it takes us a handful of years to finish it and bleed Dovea dry, well, then her cousins will be nearing marriageable age. An accident on the front lines or an assassin will take care of Annalise, and then after an appropriate mourning period, I’ll have two kingdoms under my control and a young and easily manipulated queen who can bear me plenty of heirs.”

Soren’s shoulders throbbed. He lifted himself partially to remove some of the tension only to find that doing so made the rope chafe against his wrists painfully. “My father would never allow it. As high general, Dovea’s safety is his utmost concern.”

“Your father is irrelevant. If the news of your death doesn’t break him, an extended stay on the front lines with his Dovean soldiers against Praxis will.”

Soren struggled against his bindings, but could hardly do more than twist in the air. “I’m not dead yet, and I don’t plan on dying until I ensure you won’t ever go near Annalise again.”

“Bold words for someone strung up like a hog ready to be gutted.” Nelan flipped the knife in his hand, and his smile dropped. His eyes were as vacant as the sharks Soren had seen while sailing desolate seas.

Nelan set the knife against Soren’s forearm. Distantly, as the blade nicked at his skin, Soren realized the man hadn’t even wiped it after it had fallen on the dirty floor. He froze, afraid that any struggling would deepen the cut.

“Don’t worry, Soren, I won’t kill you immediately. It’s been a long time since I've had someone as strong and virile as you. I’ll be sure to take my time with your torture. Usually my prisoners give up far too easily, but I’m hopeful you’ll put up a fight for many weeks,” Nelan said with a chuckle.

“Mark my words, Nelan. As soon as I’m free, you’re a dead man.”

Nelan didn’t respond beyond a quirk of his lips. He took his time slicing a long cut down Soren’s left arm, then went to a wooden chest at the edge of the room and pulled a cat-o’-nine-tails from the depths.

“Brave words from someone who has already been declared dead. You should have seen Annalise’s face when I told her. The poor girl barely kept it together, especially when I implied that you had died trying to protect her honor. Her grief was deliciously strong. It’s really such a pity that I couldn’t keep you around more and watch you two torture yourselves. You would have been a wonderful pawn to use in this little political game. Such a pity you’re so unpredictable.” When Nelan stepped forward once more, his teeth were bared in a wild, euphoric grin. “There is no escaping this, Soren Kierson. You will die a slow and torturous death by my hand in this very room.”

“I will not die at the hand of a coward such as yourself.”

“If you hang on for long enough, perhaps I’ll reward you with a dull knife and let you do the deed yourself, then. The few Doveans I’ve had the pleasure of working with were quite soft, so let’s see if you survive the next few days before we make any long-term plans.”

The sting of the whip sliced against Soren’s back, but he gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t give Nelan the satisfaction of hearing him cry out or seeing his tears.

Soren knew the stinging rain of a hurricane’s wrath, the burn from a kitchen galley on fire, and the deep painful ache of blisters created from hours spent climbing ropes. He’d fought pirates, spent days without water, and bloodied his knuckles in far too many bar brawls to count.

He would endure, and when the time was right, he would end Nelan.

CHAPTER 52

Two days later, Annalise stared into the mirror as Priscilla and Elsabeth flitted around the room like sparrows. It felt like an entire lifetime had passed since she was in Dovea picking out fabric for her trousseau and dreaming hopefully of a future where the Rhinnean king was a kind man who would help her break her curse. Instead of joy, or even hope, the mood was as somber as a funeral. There was no celebration, only mourning what might have been.

The past three days had passed in a fog of grief, pain, and regret. The only small mercy she’d received was that ever since he’d told her of Soren’s death, Nelan hadn’t requested her presence at dinner. Annalise had hardly slept since that fateful day; every time she closed her eyes, she saw Soren’s face, or the faces of her two Dovean guards who’d been slain while she was in Nelan’s office pleading to return home.

She’d come to Rhinnea to avoid a war and in the process had doomed her people and killed the only man who’d ever loved her. She’d been a naïve princess hoping she could heal the rift between their two peoples.

Now she was a queen biding her time to exact her vengeance.

The wedding dress she wore felt like it belonged to a different woman. With its long sleeves and high collar, every inch of her skin was covered except for her face. The pure white lace over satin and fine, light blue and gold embroidery evoked the image of fresh snow on winter ground—a clean slate and promise to unite their two peoples and work toward a bright and peaceful future.

It was all for naught; there would be no peace and no future. Soren, her best friend, the man who’d stolen her heart like he’d stolen berry pies from the kitchen when they were children, was dead, and her wedding dress felt like a mourning shroud.

Annalise dipped her head to allow Priscilla to fasten a heavy tiara to her hair. She rubbed her gloved fingers together to distract herself from the air of finality that descended as she stood to her full height.

Her silk gloves were both her saving grace and her doom. She’d spent the past two nights taking apart her favorite pair and meticulously re-sewing them. She’d cut the timing perilously close, but she was satisfied with their new design that would allow her to remove the fabric covering her palms with a well-practiced nudge of her fingers and flick of her wrist. She didn’t mind the long hours working in secret in the dead of night—she hadn’t been able to sleep anyway, consumed with grief at the loss of Soren and fear of what might happen to her country.

When Nelan took her hand in his at the start of the ceremony, it would be the last thing he ever did, even if by doing so she signed her own death warrant.