Page 84 of The Prince's Captive

Marcella was delivered back to her cell without incident and without a detour to the labs.

As she ate, sitting on the floor and watching the cell door, she tried to figure out what the bigger plan was. The obvious answer to what Gavril had done that morning was to have the other Inimicus observe her to learn about her people’s fighting style. She didn’t fully understand why he would want to know about how they fought without magic.

Her people weren’t going to fight against the Inimicus without their magic if they wanted to stand a chance.

The performance she’d given against Gavril had been humiliating, and he hadn’t used a single drop of vitae. She didn’t stand a chance against him without her magic, and she very likely wouldn’t stand a chance against him with her magic. Not if he was a skilled commander.

She doubted they’d gotten anything useful out of Gavril sending her to the ground countless times.

But he’d never struck back.

Still… what was he really up to?

Was he trying to get her to lower her guard as well as glean whatever information they could from her before she was sent back to their table?

Probably.

The next day she woke up from a nightmare that was more memory than anything else, screaming, thrashing, and trying to break free of leather trapping her to cold wood. She was brought out of her cell again, and they didn’t turn right. They turned left.

The same Inimicus were there in the courtyard, and Gavril already stood there in the rectangle. She was brought right up to the rectangle and released.

Gavril rolled his shoulders and said in her tongue, “Soldier.”

“Prince.” Marcella shook her arms out once they were released. She hadn’t bruised from anything the day before, but the physical activity had left her sore since she was out of practice.

When she raised her fists, he gestured to them and said, “You lower your guard when you swing. Keep it raised.”

Now he was trying to give her advice?

Marcella wasn’t going to rest until she’d given him a black eye.

Or two.

Maybe they’d even kill her for it. A girl could only hope.

But when she swung at him, she did keep her guard up.

For two weeks this went on. Every other day Marcella would be brought out of her cell; Gavril would deflect every hit she threw at him and never swing back. Occasionally Gavril would tell her what she was doing wrong. When she started to get apathetic, he’d open his mouth and goad her into fighting. Once she was thoroughly exhausted, she’d be escorted back to her cell. She’d eat, pray, and then sleep.

At night, she returned to that horrible table regardless. She always woke up from the nightmares with a scream and tears rolling out from her eyes. She would pray until the guards came for her. Or if it was a day they didn’t, she would continue her prayers.

She was fed once a day when she got back from sparring with Gavril or sometime in the afternoon on the days she wasn’t, and the portions weren’t large. She was a soldier, as Gavril had started calling her. This was enough.

Or at least she’d thought so until two weeks into this strange routine she’d stood up in anticipation of the guards coming for her and her vision went dark for a moment as her head spun and her legs started to buckle.

Her vision cleared by the time the guards opened the cell door so she brushed it off.

But when her vision swam again and she was overwhelmed with lightheadedness that had her swing buckling at the last second and her legs falling out from under her, she supposed ignoring it had probably been a terrible idea.

But if she hit the ground she didn’t feel it.

“—cella? Marcella!” Then there were words in the Inimicus tongue, someone was yelling.

When her vision came back, she was looking up at the sky—well, some of the sky but mostly Gavril. She could feel his arm around her back and his legs under her, holding her up. His other hand was on her cheek. As soon as she took in a breath and started to shift, his grip tightened and he cut himself off from whatever he was saying to someone else and he looked down at her.

“Marcella? Are you harmed? Talk to me.”

“Dizzy,” she mumbled. “Just dizzy.”

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