Page 56 of The Prince's Captive

“What? No. Wait—did you think anytime I’ve said ‘puella’ I was insulting you?”

Her silence was answer enough.

“I have not insulted you in my language and I have more than once warned my soldiers not to either.”

Before she could decide whether or not she believed him, they broke the line of the forest and Areator could be seen on the horizon in the near distance.

The men whooped and cheered. Within seconds, they all rode faster—too fast for any conversation.

Gavril’s grip on her tightened again and the little distance she had gotten between her back and his front vanished once more as they approached the city walls. He spurred his horse on even faster than the men around him and joined the older commander at the front of the group.

The commander shook his head when he laid eyes on her sitting in front of Gavril as they came to a stop at the city gates. The older commander lifted a hand and called out to the men manning the gate.

There was a flurry of words so fast she couldn’t hope to translate any of them, but then they were being waved through. The guards at the gate clapped some of the men’s horses on the flank as they went, laughing as they spoke.

To be fair, they were celebrating what they thought was the successful capture of the heir of Clan Desero. All of them but Gavril… who still hadn’t told anyone who she really was.

Once they were behind the city walls, Marcella couldn’t help the shuddering breath she choked on as the weight hit her. It was officially over. She wouldn’t be escaping.

Her eyes watered, and she squeezed them shut. She would be void. She would be as empty as the Abyss before she showed such weakness in front of an Inimicus, especially in front of Gavril again.

“I promised no harm. Will be safe,” Gavril murmured.

Even if she was inclined to believe his intentions were honorable and he was telling the truth, he was just one commander. The Inimicus commanders were of a high status, but even they still answered to their king.

Their king who would know by now Hypatia had escaped.

Who had a commander she was bound to with their magic so she couldn’t escape. She was completely at their mercy.

Did the Inimicus even have a word for mercy?

The second their group started to ride down the streets, a few of the men rode ahead of her, Gavril, and the other commander, clearing the streets as more and more people stepped outside of their homes and businesses to watch them return.

The people were extremely excited to see their soldiers returning after a mission, it seemed. More so than she would have expected of the Inimicus Solitus who made up the majority of the city’s population.

Or maybe just their commanders, as most of them seemed to only have their eyes on her and the commanders.

Quite a few stared right at her. She wasn’t entirely sure if it was because she most certainly looked like she’d been kidnapped and dragged through the forest for the last three weeks—her poor curls—or because they’d never seen a clan mage before. She glanced over the crowd and didn’t spy any curly hair.

Maybe they were just trying to figure out why she was riding with the commander instead of another Inimicus.

Gavril kept his left arm wrapped around her and under his cloak, but since they were moving slowly, he set the reins in front of her and occasionally lifted his hand and waved to the crowd before picking the reins up again.

Marcella watched the other commander out of the corner of her eye, and he never did anything. He just kept riding with an emotionless expression.

Maybe it was just because Gavril was young, a new commander, and frankly, just handsome.

She could see the palace getting larger on the horizon as they approached. Her heart beat faster despite her outward marble expression and complete stillness. She didn’t know if Gavril could feel it. She hoped not.

She wanted to be nothing.

It was going to make whatever they did to her next easier.

It meant she wasn’t going to be disappointed when his false promises were revealed.

His hand shifted against her side, his thumb moving up and down over the fabric of her peplos and over the scar that he always seemed to find.

A not so small part of her really wanted to believe he meant it.

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