This novella is a fantasy romance featuring some heavy themes, including sexual assault and torture. (There will be a happy ending, eventually.) Please consider the content warnings and proceed mindfully.
Many thanks to my advance readers, including Not_E and happyyy_, as well as to my editor LaRascasse.
Content warning
: references to sexual assault, depictions of violence, depictions of attempted suicide
***
The clouds danced under each other, cutting the light in intermittent rays. Litheian walked face to the sky, eyes tearing in the flood of brightness. The long days in Olandrion's dungeons had left her eyes grasping for any possible light, and now it was blinding her. But she wanted to drink it in -- the sun and sky and clouds. All of it, before she was inevitably locked in a new room, with a new master.
She shivered despite the sun on her skin. It had been a good respite, these days after Igandrion's death. Despite the occasional blows and cuts, no one had dared touch her in that way. She was the property of the crown: a royal captive made to play Igandrion's bed slave for three years, now to be passed on to his younger brother. No one had spoken to her in the dungeon, but she heard them talk.
As fast as a hound
, one guard had said,
and he expects the rest of us to keep up with him. And if you can't, he makes you run twice as many paces
.
Did you hear?
another had said.
He demoted a herald for failing to report to him fast enough
.
Latrine duty used to rotate regularly
, had muttered a third,
but these days it's full of those who catch the prince's ire
.
Litheian shivered again. Olandrion's last son, his precious heir, was hard with his men and would no doubt be rough with her as well.
She curled her fists even as she lowered her gaze to avoid the tall figure standing in the middle of the bright courtyard. She would do as she had always done, ever since that first night Igandrion had violated her: she would fight. The bruises and cuts were worth it; she would never let a man take her easily. Not her first tormentor, nor his favored soldiers whom he permitted to take her, and certainly not the last son of that monster Olandrion.
The guard leading her by the neck stopped abruptly to salute his prince, and she narrowly avoided tripping over his feet.
"Insolent bitch!" he hissed, shoving her to the ground. She knelt on the hard cobblestones, knees and hands scraped bloody. "My apologies, your highness," he said. "She is a stubborn one, as will take some force to break in."
"No apology is necessary," responded the prince, his voice as clear and cold as the autumn wind that whipped at her ragged dress. "I know of her reputation. But I think we'll quickly come to an understanding."
She shivered at the threat as he chuckled, and the soldier joined in. "Then I shall take my leave, your highness," he said, saluting. She felt a tug as the rope was passed from hand to hand, then listened as the soldier's footsteps faded away.
"Get up," said the prince, tugging at her neck. Mutely she rose, still facing the ground. She would see enough of his face in the future, and besides, there was no point in goading him into striking her.
"Good," he said icily, then pulled at her again to follow him.
***
When he reached the anteroom to his chambers, Bethaer waved off the guards to post outside his doors. They bowed curtly and gave him sly glances as they filed out. When the door latched shut, he let out a long breath. He glanced behind him, and she stood there, eyes down and hands crushed to her side.
He took a breath and opened the chamber door. He tried to see it through her eyes -- the bright rugs and lush tapestries, the heavy chairs with plump pillows, and the gauzy curtains with his bed out of focus behind them. He turned to shut the door and she stepped sideways away from him the furthest she could.
This time when the door latch caught, he could almost feel her curling into herself, pressing to the wall as though she could slip between the stitches of the tapestries and melt into the cold, hard stone. In the corner of his eyes he could see her gaze dart around the room, looking for a sliver of freedom. He turned away from the door and she dropped her gaze, crimping her hands to her sides.
His father's words laughed in his ears.
She's a tricky one.
But why wouldn't a deer try to run from a hound? He took another breath. Her fear was like a haze around him, and his actions needed to be sure. He took one step toward her, then another, as she stayed frozen in place. Slowly he unbuckled the collar around her neck, careful not to touch her. She stayed still as a rabbit, unmoving.
He backed away and dropped the filthy thing to the floor. He raised his hands to greet her properly, as befitted the daughter of a royal house, when she suddenly lunged forward and the space below his ribs collapsed in pain.
He fell to the floor, gasping. He could hear her rustling the drapes of the windows, looking for an out. He forced his stomach to breathe, forced his legs to stand and follow her before she found the laundry chute or --
The screen doors opened with a soft whine, and he tore away the curtain between him and the bedchamber, slammed open the swinging screens and saw her standing there at the balcony rail, looking down like the earth itself had betrayed her.
Any doubts about not moving to his brother's room were erased in the moment she turned to him, in that brief second she took to decide whether to jump. His own rooms were not high enough to kill, but Igandrion's were.
Bethaer grabbed her before she could lift herself over, dragged her thrashing back inside, and dropped her indelicately on the bed. She nearly flew off the mattress and he tackled her. He could hear her panting and realized she hadn't made a sound, not even a whimper. She used his pause to try and kick him, and he ended with his knees on her legs and his arms pinning hers above her head. She squirmed furiously under him, and he realized this was the opposite of what he intended, the last impression he wanted to give.
The door wrenched open and he lifted his head to see the heir-guard swarm in, the captain pulling back the curtain and giving pause.
"Forgive us for interrupting, my prince, but we saw the bitch fit to leap from the window, and your royal father did bid us keep her alive."
Bethaer could feel the mask tugging down over his face, the cool mirth in his eyes as he smiled at the man before him.
"Of course. We can't have her escaping in any manner." He hardened his gaze and looked back down at her, her skirt at her thighs, the dead set of her eyes in her sunken face, her ratty dark braid unravelling across the bed. "Bar every door to my chambers except the main entrance, bolt every shutter, and post guards outside."
His stomach clenched as the man curtly saluted him, and he waited for the sounds of their heavy feet to fade before he lifted himself from the bed. She sprang away and flattened herself against the wall, eyes out and angry, chest heaving. He lifted his hands and she pivoted away, circling him to reach the far corner as he stepped into where she stood only moments ago.
"Forgive me,
il-susashai
," he said softly.
Her eyes went blank and her face closed, unreadable.
"I would help you to escape," he continued, "but my father watches both of us more closely now." He paused, and Igandrion's death rose between them. "He is not likely to send me to the front of battle, not so soon. So this is the safest place for you."
Her lips gave the barest twitch, but she said nothing.
"I did not mean to frighten you,
il-susashai
, but my father expects me to... keep you in line." He swallowed before speaking his next words. "It is better if you let him believe that you submit to me. It will keep him happy, and he will leave you here with me -- and not give you to someone else."
She folded her arms like armor and glanced at him, eyes appraising. He tried not to flinch under the fire of her gaze, let himself be inspected -- his day-old shave, military uniform, and the heavy signet ring on his hand.
Only when she turned away, almost shy, did he speak again. "The bathing room is there," he said, nodding to the far wall, "and the door behind you is your room."
She didn't turn, didn't open the door, but he wished she would -- that she trusted him enough to find what he told her was true.
"It used to be my manservant's room, but I had it cleaned and the belongings of my sister-in-law sent up."
Her eyes flashed, and he remembered she would have heard the story, the woman his father forced to marry his second son -- the only sister he could ever claim to have had. He shoved the memories away.
"I have arranged for meals to be brought three times a day and for the bathtub to be filled weekly. There is a chute by my wardrobe" -- he gestured to the hulking wooden structure -- "for the dirty linens. Any laundry you send down will be returned clean along with meals."
He paused, wondering how to end his speech. "These rooms are as much yours as mine now -- more so, as I have little need of my chambers but to sleep. I bathe and eat with my men, so please -- do not hesitate to use them as you see fit."
Bethaer braved a glance at her, but she was looking sideways at the floor. He shifted his weight between his feet and she tensed.
After a moment he said, "The servants should not disturb you -- or even speak to you. And my guards will remain outside, always." He took another breath. "
