Page 12 of The Prince's Captive

But the commander was strong, and her side and ankle burned, and the clasps came off despite her struggling. The fabric shifted, but the chains pinning her arms down kept her peplos from sliding off as he held them up so she could see, and she prayed her expression—certainly red and her eyes were watering—held more righteous indignation than the humiliation she felt.

“Gift?” he asked in her language, his horrid accent butchering it.

Marcella’s tight throat that had been holding back a sob eased. He… didn’t know what they meant. Which meant he didn’t know just how horribly inappropriate his actions had just been.

Or maybe he was just pretending not to know.

Marcella clenched her teeth together and just glared at him. It was too late. She might not be a real bride, but ignorance or not, taking a woman’s engagement pins and clasps when not her betrothed and not on her wedding night was unforgivable.

When she didn’t respond, he rolled his eyes and dropped them back onto the table and said, “Behave. Give back.”

Despicable creatures. May they all rot in the Abyss.

He picked up the rag again and moved toward her shoulder, still caked in mud, and when she jerked away again, he huffed and snapped, “Want to stay in filth?”

She narrowed her eyes back at him, feeling the dried mud crack as her shoulders shifted. “I’d rather it than your hands on me. But if you’re so determined, I’ll do it myself if you’ll give me my arms back.”

Despite preferring it to the heretic, Marcella didn’t actually enjoy rolling around in the mud. And if he was away from her, that meant she could ensure her scar stayed hidden and the vision went unfulfilled for a little longer.

He stared at her for a moment, and the way he eyed her had her heart racing all over again. There was a light in his eye she didn’t like. It was too intelligent.

Maybe there was a good reason he was a commander at so young an age.

Then he just nodded, setting the rag to the side and pulling out a key. Wait… he was going to do it?

He reached around her and with a click, the chains shifted. Then she felt them start to fall away as he unwound them, freeing her arms. As he pulled them back fully though, there was nothing to hold up her peplos, so Marcella immediately scrambled to catch and pull it up before it fell below her strophion wrapped around her chest and exposed her side. She quickly tied the front and back together again which would have to do in the absence of a proper clasp.

The commander hadn’t even looked her way once as she’d righted her peplos. He’d simply set the chains to the side and fussed with the rags on the table. The manacles were still around her wrists, but she wasn’t really a threat.

Once she’d finished, he looked up and held a rag out to her. How had he—Oh.

Despite not looking like he’d been watching her, he’d been watching her enough for that.

She eyed him. If this was some kind of a trick or a trap… she didn’t get it.

She slowly reached forward and picked up the rag out of his hands. She used it to scrub the mud off her shoulder and arm that he hadn’t gotten to. She did reach up and run her fingers through her soaked curls, far gentler with them than he’d been. As she did so, she could feel his eyes on her, watching her every move.

Once her skin and hair were clean, she dropped the rag to the ground and lowered her wrists, ignoring the way her peplos was still covered in mud. It was also scorched from the injury she’d sustained earlier, and she wasn’t going to be doing anything about that, especially with him sitting there and staring at her.

She was still highly aware of just how quickly this scene could turn into Hypatia’s second vision and how her clock would start running out the second it did.

“Better?” he asked.

“What do you want?” she asked. Ambiguous enough but commanding enough, given who she was pretending to be.

“To not talk to mud for start.” His lips twitched slightly as he sat back. Oh, he thought he was funny, did he? His eyes darted down to her scorched side and mangled ankle. “Attacked. You attacked the healer. Promised no harm.”

She couldn’t help her scoff. “You kidnapped me! And I’m supposed to believe you don’t want to harm me when you send me right to your heretic?”

He blinked, shook his head. “Uh—again?”

Marcella just huffed and sat up straighter. Why bother trying to speak in her tongue if he couldn’t even understand simple sentences?

When she didn’t respond, he gestured to her ankle. “Have to heal.”

“Not by one of your sick heretics.” Marcella spoke slowly and enunciated every syllable.

He tilted his head for a moment and then gestured to himself. “I heal.”

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