Once she had helped Meya cobble together a pain-relieving poultice for Dad, Arinel excused herself under the guise of helping the Baron prepare for his escape. Meya knew better, however. Finding no solace and instead more headache in Meya’s company, Arinel had probably decided to seek out Lady Agnes instead.
Dad must’ve told Mum about Graye’s offer while she was gone. Meya had seen Dad’s contempt for it. She knew Mum wouldn’t react any different, so she didn’t waste any breath discussing the matter. Mum and Dad must’ve assumed she shared their apathy. They didn’t bother bringing it up, either.
Like Arinel, Dad simply asked how Coris was doing. Meya obliged, but left out the part about Coris’s contract. She had a hunch Dad wouldn’t accept the gold if he learned who it came from.
At sunset, the innkeeper knocked on their door, delivering dinner alongside a message from Baron Hadrian. So, once they had supped, the Hilds trooped down the hallway to the Hadrian’s quarters.
It wasn’t just them this time. Sir Jarl, Philema, Tissa, Dorsea and Cleygar spun around as they entered. Behind them stood Baron Kellis at his desk by the window, hands clasped at his back, staring out at the evening town dotted with streetlamps like fireflies. The Baroness sat on the chair beside him, flanked by Ladies Arinel, Agnes and Persephia.
Kellis turned round, his blue eyes following Dad as Mum and Meya lowered him into the one spare chair set out specially for him, then left to sweep the throng.
“You may have heard. I’ve been removed from my seat on the Council,” he said. Gasps, draining cheeks and bulging eyes from the audience proved him wrong. Kellis closed his eyes briefly, then tilted his head. “And you may have noticed the absence of some among our number.”
At that, the marshal and the four Greeneyes glanced about the room. Kellis obligingly paused, then continued,
“In five days’ time, my sons and I will depart on a perilous quest of utmost secrecy. I cannot promise when, perhaps even if, we shall return.”
A chill gripped Meya as if a cold gale had rushed past. He lied to her? Just hours earlier he promised Coris would return. Now, he wouldn’t even dare promise that anymore.
The Baron heaved a tortured sigh, his eyes on the floor as he nodded listlessly to himself.
“In the meantime, I will trust the seat of Hadrian to my sister Kyrel. And Sylvia will return to her kin in Noxx. You are all freed from my service. Lady Crosset will depart aftermorrow to see you all safely back to Hadrian.”
Arinel straightened as all eyes pooled on her. Kellis took a few silent steps towards his freshly dismissed subjects, his voice lowered now,
“When Kyrel returns, she may seek you out for information on my whereabouts, my mission. You have the choice to remain in Hadrian, share with her all you’ve learned. Or, you may uproot your family, bring them with you to Crosset, where Kyrel cannot reach you.”
Dorsea and Tissa shared nervous looks of disbelief. Philema gripped the bosom of her tunic, eyes wide and haunted by resurrected nightmares. Cleygar turned to the similarly dumbfounded Sir Jarl as if hoping for reassurance.
Meya, however, barely heard the words following aftermorrow. She gawked at Arinel, petrified with panic and fury.
What was the meaning of this? She’d had not the slightest whiff this was coming. Why leave? Why so soon? Aftermorrow? When Dad’s leg was still paining him so badly? When he was a carriage ride away from the best healers in the land? When merchants from all corners of Latakia had just gathered with the rarest, most priced herbs and remedies?
No, she wouldn’t allow this. She couldn’t!
Yet, as she boiled where she stood, Baron Kellis calmly bowed his golden head, oblivious.
“For all the years you’ve served under me, I thank you.” He rose slowly, genuine emotion in his wavering eyes as he studied each of his fearful subjects. “You’ve weathered the whims of my unruly sons, faced perils under their command. And you remain loyal. I cannot ask for more from my people.”
“Milord, may I ask what—” Cleygar leaned forth in earnest.
“Milord, please. We can help—” Dorsea beseeched.
“Greeneyes remain the heart of our quest,” Kellis cut them short, tender yet leaving no room for questions. He shook his head then, his expression pained. “Aynor is not ready. Latakia is not ready for you. We will bring that day, but we aren’t willing to lose any more of you as we fulfill our promise. This quest is our burden alone,”
The Baron declared, his head hung, trembling fists at his sides. At the sight, Cleygar’s reaching hand fell lifelessly. Dorsea froze with her lips parted, hands joined over her heart. Tissa heaved a mournful sigh, shoulders sagged. Clearly, they were all raring to take part, to lend their service, but their lord was casting himself alone into the dark, churning sea.
“That will be all. I apologize for cutting Miracle Fest short,” concluded Kellis. Before he could dismiss them to bed with a wave, Meya stepped forth. Two dozen eyes were upon her in a blink, but she kept hers fixed on the Baron.
“Milord, we’re staying,” she declared, indicating Dad with a flourish of her hand. “We’ll leave with the Boszels at the Fest’s end. Me father needs rest and treatment. I’ll find better healers who wouldn’t give up at first glance—”
“No! I’m done here. We’ll leave with Lady Arinel,” growled Dad as he pushed himself painstakingly to his feet. Meya whipped around. Dad had left his cane leaned against his chair, but he kept his right foot afloat, and his right hand gripping the chair tight.
“Dad—” Meya dove for the opening. Dad crushed it with his tirade—
“I’ll not have you waste your husband’s last treasures on no fancy healer peddling fake potions for summat they know can’t be cured. Save them for your babe. I’ll handle meself.”
“Dad!” Meya wailed. Dad had crumpled to his chair again, from the mere effort it took to rant at her.
“Meya, you must leave!” Arinel strode in, eyebrows tied, a finger pointing down. “The sole purpose of us leaving early, is so the king can’t hold you hostage once Coris shows his true colors, so we can beat Kyrel back to Hadrian and prepare!”
“Fine, I’ll leave! If Mum and Dad stay.” Meya threw up her hands, then jabbed her pointer at her parents.
“And do what?” snapped Dad. Meya spun around to his stubborn scowl, his childish challenge. “You can’t make me see no healer if I won’t!”
Meya skidded to her knees and clung to his leg for dear life, staring unblinking at his profile, for he didn’t deign to stay and look her in the eye.
“One day—” Still, she bargained. “Give me one day. I’ll find new healers. Hear what they have to say—”
“I said, I’m done, Meya,” Dad repeated, a note of grim finality in his word. His brown eyes flared, demanding her silence. “’Tis me leg. I decide.”
They locked eyes. Although her arms trembled, she held fast as she pored into the cold, pitch-black pits that for seventeen years served so well to seal Dad’s heart away from her reach, her understanding. He didn’t blink, and his face held like chiseled stone, unmoved. Sapped of strength, her hands finally slipped and fell. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She climbed to her feet and staggered back.
“First Coris, then you.” She choked on her breath, shaking her head in disbelief. “All I ever want is to help, to repay you, to be useful!"
She burst through the door, hurtling back up the corridor. She flung herself into the room, sprinted straight for the bed but tripped halfway there and landed on something soft. A mattress. The inn had finally sent a maid with extra bedding. Perfect, nevertheless. Meya clawed her way up to the pillow, flopped down for a good loud cry, and was yet again hindered by a crackling sound from underneath.
Sniffling, she reached for the source of the nuisance and withdrew a crumpled roll of parchment. She unfurled it, revealing ornate letters in charcoal gray ink, shining silver in the moonbeam.
Lady Hild,
I’d like to discuss your father’s condition, and your decision regarding my offer.
Tomorrow, my whip will wait near your lodging. Whenever you’re ready, simply tuck this into your hair and stand before the gates.
I look forward to our meeting.
G. G.
Below the initials lay a wispy, pure white feather with an eye of similar white. Meya picked it up by the hard quill, spinning it numbly between her fingers. Soft knocks came from the door, then. Jolting, Meya stashed the letter back under her pillow and slumped down, her back to Mum as she entered gingerly with a creak.
“Meya?” she called, uncertain. Meya gritted her teeth, calming her thundering heart. Mum closed the door, then glided gently down to her knees by Meya’s bedside. “Songbird, can we talk?”
It was beyond Meya to think, to decide at the moment, even for the simplest choices. She sniffed, twisting the cold sheets in her trembling grasp. Mum understood. She tucked a stray lock of hair safely behind Meya’s ear, her sigh barely audible.
“Let’s sleep on it for a night. We’ll talk when you’re ready.”
Her hand slipped away, then she rose and disappeared with a flutter of her nightdress, leaving Meya alone in the dark with naught but a shaft of light from the devil.
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After a hurried breakfast, most of the entourage left the inn seemingly to join the festivities as usual. In actuality, their aim was to find wagons and gather supplies for the journey home.
Dad being crippled, Meya being pregnant, the Hilds weren’t assigned any duties. Not to mention as one of Coris’s closest associates, Meya couldn’t be seen scurrying around preparing to flee. She was confined to the lavish prison Coris provided her, chained to Mum desperately finding excuses for why Meya shouldn’t worry for the family, subjected to Dad brooding in the corner, mourning his lost pride.
Maro was ready to succeed Dad as breadwinner. Marin and Meya would marry soon. Morel was in Hadrian. Jason had agreed to take Marcus along on his caravan. Myron had begun his apprenticeship with Yorfus. With only Mistral still home, Mum could leave the house and win some bread on her own, lighten Maro’s load.
Yet—she didn’t have to, nor did Maro! Nothing needed to change, yet everything would change. How could Meya not concern herself, when she was given a solution to all their troubles with her choice of husband?
Worse, after lunch, Jason visited, accompanied by a Tyldornian healer. He brought naught with him but a belt of leather, two dozen gleaming needles of pure silver sheathed neatly in every fold.
Dad wanted none of the bizarre treatment at first, but Jason had his trust, and a golden tongue. In no time at all, he had Dad sprawled on the mattress, the healer drilling needles into his flesh, all the way from his hip to his leg.
Dad gritted his teeth every time a new needle sunk deep into his muscle, then softened in bliss when the descent stopped. Meya couldn’t make sense of it. How could stabbing heal? But, Dad was no longer in pain. That was all that mattered.
“How is it, Mirram? Better?” Mum strained her neck to see past the old healer’s back. Dad breathed slow, looking as if he were asleep, but he finally nodded. Mum whipped around to Meya with a smile. Laughing in relief, Meya spun to the healer.
“This is it, then?” she demanded, breathless, as the healer edged back and flipped his hourglass. “We vent all the pain knotted up in there, and Dad’s gunna prance about like a stag again?”
To her horror, the healer shook his silvery-white head.
“The needles only bleed the pain. The eye of the pain remains.” Out of the folds of his tunic he drew a wooden doll carved and inked with countless lines and dots, each labeled with minuscule Tyldornian runes. He set it on the carpet before Meya, tapping his finger on the line slicing down the doll’s back.
“The bones of his spine are crumbling. They’re coming loose, grating on his nerves that connect to his legs. Were they rusty cogs in a golem, you just needed some oil and a wrench. But you can’t oil a man’s spine, not even with surgery.”
Meya slumped back, staring numbly at the doll. Like a river, the nerve line sped from its back to its hip, branched in two, then traveled on down to its toes. They could only dig a leak for the pain, but all the while, the lake would refill and fester, and the cycle would repeat. There was no end, no panacea. Not even with surgery?
“So, he’ll have to keep doing this? Every day? For the rest of his life?” Meya whispered, tears burning in her eyes once again. The healer simply sighed.
Mum peered down at the rows of unused needles sparkling in their holster, then Dad’s pincushion-like leg, then lastly the healer.
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“Does it take long to learn this art? Doesn’t look complicated,” she added, rather unwisely, her eyes fixed upon the needles again. The healer swelled and flushed.
“One needle out of place, and you might as well have run a sword through his heart. Why do you think I charge fees so high?” he snapped. Mum jolted, eyes wide in terror at her blunder. A white-hot flash of anger gripped Meya. How dare he—!
“I’m so sorry, Master Healer. I didn’t mean—I was just—” Mum blustered. Jason shot Meya a silencing yet sympathetic look as he pinned the rearing Dad down with a hand on his shoulder. He leaned across Dad to the healer, head bowed in plea,
“They’ll leave for Crosset tomorrow. Isn’t there anything they can do?”
The healer met Jason’s similarly beady, black eyes, glanced at the panic-stricken Mum, then deflated as he understood their desperation, nodding.
“You won’t find a needle-master in those parts, but there are simple exercises that may ease the pain and right the body over time. If you’ll stand, I’ll teach you. And you can teach him.”
Mum eagerly stood up, carefully stretching and contorting her limbs after the healer’s example. Even Jason followed suit, just in case. Meya, however, couldn’t move. She couldn’t care for such makeshift remedies, couldn’t possibly be sated. Latakian herbs wouldn’t work. Tyldornian arts wouldn’t work. Surgery wouldn’t work. What of Nostran? What of something else entirely? Something other than medicine?
A hard, sharp tip scraped against her leg through the fabric of her pocket—Graye’s white peacock quill. Daybreak tomorrow, they would leave this city. This was her last chance. She must take it. She must try, at least.
----------------------------------------
Meya hadn’t had a night this long since the Famine, when it was supposed to be just until second sleep, and her belly was full and warm. She waited for Dad’s snores to settle into a steady rhythm, for Mum to cocoon herself with Dad’s half of the blanket, then rose soundlessly to her feet. She crept to the door on her toes and turned the knob, opened it as wide as it would allow her to before squeaking.
Down the hallway, down the stairs, across the hall, out the door, across the courtyard, through the wrought-iron gates, she glided like a spirit. She couldn’t feel her feet. She couldn’t feel the ground pressing against her soles. She didn’t know how much time had elapsed. When she came to herself, she was standing barefooted on moonlit cobblestones, a cloak over her nightdress, Graye’s feather in its pocket.
Her hands trembling, she pulled the cloak to her and drew out the feather. Her hair was undone, so she simply tucked it over her ear.
One breath, two breaths, three breaths she waited. The square was black and white, empty but for shadow and light. Had the whip given up? Had he nodded off? Poor man had waited an entire day and half the night, after all. Should she find her way to Graye’s mansion herself?
Just as she raised her foot to take her first step into the night, the clip-clop of hoof and metal on stone echoed nearer and louder. A chunk of shadow detached from the silhouette of a large tree, washed by moonlight to reveal a charcoal-gray carriage, which glided to a stop before her. The whip dismounted and opened the door, revealing a mouth of pitch blackness.
Shivering, yet not from the night’s chill, Meya braced her foot on the ice-cold step and plunged headfirst into the dark. Familiar black cushions awaited her. The journey was long, solitary and silent, but its comfort couldn’t lull her to sleep.
As the journey wore on, Meya rehearsed her demands and conditions, what she would ask, what she would not give. Then, she’d hear Graye’s counteroffer that she wouldn’t take nevertheless.
She was only meeting him because she could, just so she’d know she’d done everything there was to be done. Turn over the remaining two thimbles to find Freda was toying. There never was a crystal to cure all ills in the first place. No hope from the beginning. She’d take despair over regret as her torture.
Yet, if so, why was she trembling? If becoming Graye’s mistress in all but name was not even the last thing she’d do, why was her heart shivering in anticipation?
Before she reached the truth buried deep within, the horses slowed to a halt. Meya peered out the window. The resplendent Graye mansion in sunlight was now a pure shadow of rock, like the peaks of Greentail Ridge whence he hailed.
Baron Graye wasn’t waiting with his entourage, but a wavering light shone from a window high on the uppermost floor. The whip helped her dismount, then led her down the silent, deserted bowels of the long gallery, vacated of life with nothing but husks of history clinging to its walls, bone-white ghosts frozen in the moonlight.
The whip stopped before the lone door with light shining underneath, then knocked. Meya told herself she was relieved when Baron Graye’s voice answered.
Graye was sat at his desk in his nightgown, his long silvery-blond hair tied back in a loose ponytail. He looked up from the letter he was writing. There was no pause of surprise before he smiled tenderly.
“You came alone.”
He rose to his feet and glided down to receive Meya, motioned for the whip to bow and dismiss himself. He drew her a chair and poured her tea so she could warm her hands, then settled soundlessly back onto his seat.
“So, Coris is chained, and The Axel is in his belly.” He plied tea to his half-empty cup, set down the pot then met her eyes at last. “He may flee or stay. One way or another, he will abandon you. His fate is sealed. Your father’s is not.”
At his expectant look, Meya blinked and averted her eyes, her heart pounding. This wasn’t what she expected. He said he’d like to hear about Dad. Yet, it seemed he’d already heard everything. He’d expected her. He knew she was hopeless, and so chose words to make her hope again, make her desperate. And it was working.
Just as much for warmth as for time, Meya drew an enormous gulp of tea. The stream of heat barreled down to her stomach, pooled at the region underneath, seeped out onto her linens. She found her eyes drawn to Graye’s chest, peeking from the hanging collar of his robe trimmed in gold, full and broad. She wished to see further, to be held against it—
What?
Meya shook herself. What in Fyr’s name was wrong with her? He was thrice her age, widowed with two daughters. And she was pregnant with another man. Why would she desire him?
She knew this feeling—Rose Crystal.
She glared at Graye. He appeared not to have noticed, still staring patiently in wait, miring her in doubt. Did Rose Crystal even melt in water? She should’ve felt grains like sand on her tongue. But what would this mean, then? That she was losing love for Coris? Falling for another man?
Hear his offer, then leave. He is evil. His words are lies. He won’t follow through with his promises. You’re just here to make completely sure with your own eyes, not just hearsay.
But what if I’m lusting for him, as he I? Then I’m an adulteress. I’m no longer worthy of Coris. I should go with him, take what I could get for my family at least.
He clasped his hands on the desk as he leaned close. She wondered how warm and tender his fingers would feel, wrapped around her breasts, smoothing down her thighs, unlike Coris’s burning cold. Her heart thundered in equal parts desire and panic. It must be Rose Crystal. Please let it be Rose Crystal. She couldn’t live with herself otherwise.
Glaring unblinking at the wily baron to shut out her shameful fantasies, Meya ushered her voice through the moaning sigh building in her throat,
“What are you willing to offer, milord?”
Graye nodded as if the long, awkward silence hadn’t punctuated negotiations. He retreated and reached into his drawer, producing two scrolls of parchment adorned with lines of ink—a contract. He set them before Meya.
“As my lawfully wedded wife, you will receive the title of Baroness Graye. I demand no dowry from you. Whereas you will be entitled to a generous stipend, which you may spend on any pursuit of your desire—research into medicine to heal your father, reforms to establish Greeneye rights, education for the common folk...”
He went on and on. Meya’s resolve swayed. The things she could do with gold and power. Gold and power that Coris was giving up for a quest of honor.
“Any children you bear during this marriage will also inherit my titles and lands,” he continued. Meya perked up, astonished.
"During?" she gasped, her hand flying to cradle her belly. “You mean to say—this babe—”
“Yes, the baby will be mine, bestowed all the rights and privileges of Lord or Lady Graye from the moment of its birth.” Graye tilted his head. “Rest assured, the truth will never see the light of day.”
Meya could barely breathe. She’d completely forgotten her babe—their babe. This was Coris’s child, his blood he trusted with her. She couldn’t do this to him. She couldn’t decide without his knowing. But what about Dad? What about everyone else?
Graye rested his hand upon hers, his ocean-blue eyes solemn as they pored deep into hers.
“There is no future for your child as a Hadrian,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Coris would understand. At least—he would come to, in time. A man of duty would want what is best for those he sacrifices in his pursuit for honor.”
Coris—she remembered how he’d kiss her belly as she slept, whispered a sobbing farewell to his babe, back when he was sure she’d tear it from her womb, and he’d be powerless to stop her. And she remembered his tears of joy, his trembling embrace, when he realized he would actually get to become a father.
And yet, he’d taken a decision that meant he wouldn’t be here to do so.
Graye dabbed tears from her eyes, then gestured at the scrolls lying untouched before her.
“This contract will be our vows. Read every word at your leisure. The last thing I want is our marriage tainted by the slightest of misunderstandings.”
Meya unfurled the contracts with numb fingers. It said what Graye did in elaborate detail. Her hands shook as she read the annual stipend. It was more gold than she could ever make in a lifetime as a farmer.
The moment of decision had come. Meya wished her reading hadn’t progressed so far under Coris’s tutelage, so she’d have more time to think. She could stall, perhaps, pretend to still be reading, but she still must choose. A choice that either way would change her life, and the lives of her family, forever. And one she could not return from. Everything Coris had taught her, everything she’d learned. All led up to this crossroads, the choice of her lifetime.
Her hand trembling, Meya reached for the white peacock quill, dipped it into Graye’s inkwell, then scrawled her name onto both copies. The name Coris taught her to write.
I’m sorry, Lexi. I must.
Teardrops fell onto the ink, then the quill from her hand. Graye wordlessly took the contracts and blew on them—he’d already signed. He rolled them, tied them, slipped one into his drawer, then slid one back to Meya. She couldn’t move to take it. She still couldn’t believe she’d actually done it. Signed a loveless marriage contract with Grimthel Graye.
Graye stood and straightened his robe. He turned and shut the curtains over the window.
“Now, all that’s left is to consummate the marriage.”
Meya nodded listlessly as her brain whirred. Very well, she still had time. First, there was the wedding, and then the birth. She’d have a year at least to prepare. What’s more, if she played her cards well, she may even be able to fool Graye and avoid the act altogether. Her pregnancy was proof of consummation, anyway. She’d be his wife in name only, while reaping all the fruits of his orchard.
“How soon can you arrange the wedding, milord?” she finally managed. Graye froze, eyebrows raised.
“Wedding?” he frowned. An ominous chill raced down Meya’s spine. What had she missed? What tricks had he hidden in his sleeve? “We’ve exchanged our vows before witnesses. There’s no need for a ceremony. Why prolong your family’s plight over empty formalities?”
Witnesses?
Meya glanced wildly about, only just noticing the five burly knights standing sentry at the wall. Her heart pounded in her ears as blood in her extremities froze to ice. He wanted to consummate now. No. She wasn’t ready. Or was she? He couldn’t—
“Milord, we can’t just lie together and say we’re married! What would folks say if you brought me to the palace tomorrow as your baroness just like that?”
Meya sprang to her feet. She was tempted to sing, bend him to her will with her Song, but what if Graye had anticipated that, too? What if he rescinded his offer?
“And why would that matter?” Graye shrugged, looking innocently confused. “All we need is for this marriage to be binding, so you’ll be entitled to your stipend. And all a marriage needs to be binding is a consummation.”
Meya hung her head, the image of defeat. She couldn’t surrender. She must stall him.
“I need time, milord,” she begged. A lie, and the truth. Graye nodded, magnanimous as ever.
“As long as you can endure. Every second past is an eternity of pain for your father. Every day your belly swells, your child becomes less Graye and more Hadrian.”
His inkling pierced through her like a stake. She’d get nothing until she slept with him, and she couldn’t wait forever nor escape. She’d lost, utterly. Gambled with the devil, and stepped smartly into his trap.
As she sat frozen, Graye circled the desk to her, slid the back of his hand down her cheek. His touch reawakened the unbidden desire pushed aside by the thought of her babe.
“Don’t you wish to repay him?” he crooned. “Don’t you wish to lighten his burden? Show them all what a brave, bright, beautiful young Greeneye peasant girl could accomplish, if only Latakia had given her the chance? Don’t you wish to give your baby a loving father, a warm house never in need of food, friends and toys? A birthright to the mighty fortress of Galwerth? The chance to pursue any dreams he might have?”
His voice was soothing as a summer stream. His hand traveled to her collar, brushed past her medallion, tugging apart the knots of her nightdress.
“There is no need for fear,” he whispered. “I’ve held countless women, although none as young and beautiful as you. I won’t hurt you, or leave you unfulfilled, unlike—”
“Milord, your men—” Meya protested, clinging on to her last shreds of restraint. Graye bent and licked her jawline.
“They’ll bear witness to our consummation.”
Shame and fear overtook lust. Meya bolted from her chair. No. Not with them here. Not with them watching. She couldn’t—anything but that—
Graye caught her in his arms. Meya flailed and kicked, screaming and sobbing—
“No—NO! NO! NO!”
“Meya, there is no need for shame!” Graye lamented. “You are making a noble sacrifice. For your child, your family, your kind. You have nothing, nothing at all to be ashamed of.”
His soothing voice gave her pause, and she stilled. He took the opening, pulled the last knot and parted her collar, freeing her breasts. The heat of his hands crept over the cold night air on her skin. As if he knew she was hurting, he was slow and gentle as he fondled her. Yet tantalizing, making her crave for more.
Meya squeezed her eyes shut tight and turned away. It was all she could do. She was powerless to resist. The fight was sapped from her. Her body wasn’t moving by will, but instinct. He was skilled, far too experienced, while she’d only ever known the clumsy, innocent touch of young Lord Hadrian.
“Perfect. Coris is a fool to leave such beauty to rust,” he breathed as he caressed her nipples. Meya shuddered. “Open your eyes. Have you ever examined your naked reflection?”
No, she hadn’t. She couldn’t resist. She peeked, then stared. A tall mirror leaned against the wall. Graye held her breasts in his grasp, suckling the pain of early motherhood out of one. A cry of desire gathered in her throat at the sight. She bit hard on her lips until tears welled in her eyes from the pain and strained with all her might. Having drunk his fill, Graye dragged his tongue up her neck until his teeth found her earlobe.
“Don’t. Let it out. Let yourself feel. Let yourself enjoy,” he commanded as he slid his hand past her middle and into her. With a mere caress of his finger, he broke her. The moan burst out in a scream, as her knees buckled. To her horror, warmth cascaded down her legs. If Freda blessed this union, she would carry his child alongside Coris’s. She’d actually mother twins.
There must have been Rose Crystal in that tea—lathered on his hands—somewhere. She prayed that was the case. Yet she couldn’t prove it. No. She couldn’t be enjoying this, couldn’t be pleased. She should be suffering with dignity, should be solemn in her sacrifice. There must be no reason behind her decision but family and love.
Lexi, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
Yet, why should she suffer? What was she doing wrong? Why was she apologizing? She was choosing family and duty, as he would’ve done—was doing—would always do.
“You deserve to savor this pleasure. You’ve chosen love. You’ve chosen right. And Freda is blessing you,” Graye supported her argument. He stripped her of her last defenses, then spun her around so his men could witness her downfall.
Behind her, Graye disrobed. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pressed himself against the small of her back. He was ready. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she gasped for breath, for mercy.
A knight closed his eyes and turned away, his fist trembling around his pike. One watched with lifeless eyes. Another stared past her at the wall. One gulped and gritted his teeth as he hyperventilated. One watched with eyes crossed and mouth ajar, drool inching down his chin.
A secret, savage triumph blossomed inside her, even as her soul died. She was beautiful. For seventeen years she’d been kept hidden away, priceless yet also utterly undesirable. To see men tremble with desire at the mere sight of her naked body. Even the rich, handsome, powerful Baron Graye would go so far as to seduce and poison her, take her by force, was willing to accept another man’s child as his own and pass down his birthright, just to have her.
“They’re watching. Give them your all,” Graye whispered. “You can make them burn. You can make them writhe. You can make them conquer land and sea, just to drink a drop of your nectar. You have the power. Unleash it.”
He bent her forward, grasp her hips, then claimed her. She closed her eyes and heard a voice that was not hers gasping and moaning, felt a body that was not hers writhing and bucking. And all she longed for was the little boy with silvery eyes like the moon, the young man whose melancholy smile would break her heart and whose cold arms would hold the pieces of her together.
The night she signed his contract, he held her hand as he taught her letters. He was already teaching her even before she sealed their pact. He had never touched her against her will, had always defended her from her worst impulses, had always given her a fair choice. He’d never asked a thing in return but her happiness—the new life she’d given him was enough.
How did it all come to this?
Save me, Lexi...