Page 18 of Dare

I turned away, retreating to the exit as my First Knight appeared in the doorway. Solstice’s white hair was tied into a bun at her crown, and her skin contrasted more intensely in this dim lighting, her face divided between a pale and gray complexion.

“All is settled, my liege,” she reported. “The trade fools will be roped tomorrow night, then clamped in irons once we’re aboard.”

“No,” I murmured. “Not the beast with the collar.”

“Sire?”

“The mad female with the neck tattoo. Find out who gave her the marking, but do it quietly. Then tomorrow at midnight, bring her to me.”

“Your Highness.” Solstice’s voice grew cautious. “Interacting with the fool is a risk. The marking means she isn’t like the others.”

My lips twitched. “I know.”

8

Flare

I wanted my clothes back. Right fucking now!

The next eventide, sometime close to midnight, the dungeon bustled with activity. My skin beaded with sweat as some brute poked me with strange devices—pronged things and smooth things and scratchy things. One of Winter’s knights held a torch aloft for him, and a fellow soldier—that woman with a half-moon countenance—stopped me from tearing into the physician. The manacles took care of the rest, the irons shackling my wrists.

The physician picked through my cropped waves, then checked my mouth and ears and eyes. Also, my neck where the symbols were painted. The Summer Crown had tattooed black sunbursts onto every prisoner, to catalog and keep us from getting far in an escape. If the markings encircled the ankles, it meant the captive was a so-called “simpleton.” Around the wrists meant they were mad but harmless like my tower mates.

A painted neck meant the prisoner was a feral kind of mad, dangerous and liable to maim. The villain prince must know this, so that couldn’t be the reason he kept asking about my collar.

The physician patted down my bare tits and stomach. When he shoved my thighs apart, I lunged toward him, but the chains and the female soldier kept a firm grip on me. Although I’d never been shy, I drew the line at being examined like a specimen. Giving my dignity as much consideration as he would to a rodent, the physician checked the crease between my legs, the torch flame following his movements and illuminating my cunt for the world to see.

Bile fizzled on my tongue. What was the man checking for? A magic trick? Did he suspect I was hiding a rabbit down there? Since when was having a pussy this important?

They couldn’t intend for me to become a breeding experiment. This continent wanted fewer of us, not more. Summer had made sure we couldn’t breed, though maybe Winter had invented nefarious ways to work around that.

Oddly, Pyre wasn’t there to enjoy the show. Instead, two other guards stood nearby, the pair betting for a duel—a showdown between Winter and my naked self. One of them flaunted a sheathed dagger at his hip, the hilt’s scarlet gems causing recognition to fester in my gut. The Summer troops had confiscated Poet’s weapon after catching me. I’d been agonizing over what had happened to it.

A dispassionate grunt cut off my fury. The physician stood and wiped his hands. “Nothing but filth.”

Curse this man. Curse him to the afterlife!

They upended a pail and splashed water over my head. I went rigid, my muscles tensing, because it was water.

Clean. Water.

Before I could shut my eyes in bliss, a pair of hands toweled me down, robbing me of the sensation. A sob coiled in my throat, the longing so great my hands soared to my face, where a few droplets remained. Suds frothed on my cheeks but popped the instant my fingers located them.

“Giving her the Royal treatment?” a Summer warden jeered from the sideline.

“His Highness wants them healthy and unsullied for transport,” the physician explained. “The last thing we need is an infestation.”

The villain prince. Hatred simmered through my blood.

My captors unchained and thrust me into a filmy chemise with straps as thin as weeds and a short hem barely covering my ass. The troops saw fit to honor Summer’s culture of nudity beneath our clothing, but at least the garment was freshly washed and devoid of holes.

A Summer soldier joined the action and wrestled me back into a set of restraints. This time, the bindings weren’t attached to the grille, nor were they irons. Awareness struck me, the material familiar. Briefly, I’d forgotten Summer’s tradition of using ropes to bind their captives during transport, a practice Winter was honoring.

I hissed, declaring war as the knights fastened the cords around my ankles and snagged my wrists in front of me. The brittle restraints scratched and proved hearty. Divine Seasons, I recognized the feel of them. I knew these types of knots.

The female warrior from Winter prodded my hip with the point of a crossbow bolt. Punctuating the movement, she urged me toward the cell door. “Let’s go.”

Yet before she could nudge for a second time, an idea sparked. My eyes skirted to a tiny whelk on the floor—the one I’d used to write Summer’s song. Feigning clumsiness, I stumbled forward and landed on my knees, then swiped the whelk from the ground. Using a deft sleight of hand, I wedged the object into the slender gap between the ropes and my wrists.

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