Page 34 of Enslaved

“That’s a bit of a story. One we haven’t time for now. It involves kidnappings and rescues and vendettas and betrayals. The long and short of it is, Nelle and her husband, Soran Silveri, broke a spell which had kept me imprisoned as a child, saving me from my captor. They gave me shelter when I was vulnerable. Later on, when they needed shelter in turn, I brought them to Vespre.”

I’d always known the Prince cared deeply for Nelle; I’d not realized he’d known her since childhood. There’s so much about him I don’t know, so much I’ve been afraid to ask or discover. Somehow, it’s easier to let myself think of him as some sort of rogue, as casually cruel, cold, and calculating as any of the fae I’ve met since coming to this world. But he’s not. And seeing him here with his wyvern, it’s impossible to maintain the illusion. His is a heart capable of beautiful dreams and equally beautiful creations. Too bad he’s trapped in this role his father fashioned for him. Were he given the space, the freedom, what wonders might he work?

The wind whistles up the cliff, biting at my face and hands. I shiver and wrap my cloak more tightly around me. The Prince notices. “You’re cold now,” he says, turning from the wyvern, “but you’re about to be much colder when we enter the merqueen’s realm. While the crone’s flower will spare you from drowning, we need to make certain you don’t freeze to death instead.”

“How?” I ask, my teeth starting to chatter.

He studies me a moment, his brow stern. “I can work a glamour of warmth strong enough to deceive both mind and body. It should work—though once you’re in the water, it will begin to break down. I cannot guarantee it will last the full three hours. But it’s the best I can offer.”

I nod. “Very well. Let’s get on with it, shall we?” He moves toward me, reaching out. Startled, I draw back a step. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll have to remove your cloak,” he says. “You won’t be wearing it underwater. Nor your outer dress, your shoes, your stockings. We need to get this spell as close to your skin as possible. If you want to be safe, I suggest you strip down to your small clothes.”

Suddenly, all the chill is gone from my body. Blood like lava roars in my veins, pounds in my ears. I take care to let no trace of this heat show in my expression, however. I merely nod and say through a tightly-held breath, “Whatever is necessary.”

I don’t wait for him to reach for me again. Instead I unfasten the clasp of my cloak and let it drop to the ground. The cold wind blasts through my skirts and pulls at my hair, shivering me to my bones. But I won’t let him see me hesitate. My fingers numb and fumbling, I begin to untie the front laces of my vest. A knot sticks, and I struggle to get it loose.

“May I?”

The Prince is very near, his breath hot against my forehead. I glance up at him, but it’s almost too much. Hastily I look down, firm my jaw. And nod. Once. His fingers are long, elegant, and strong. They work the laces nimbly, as though he has ample practice undoing women’s vests for them. Hastily, I push that thought down into the darkest recesses of my mind. Instead I focus on the hollow of his throat, so near my line of vision. Focus on the way the muscles in his throat contract as he swallows.

Then the laces are loose. He steps back. With a quick inhalation of breath, I slide the vest from my shoulders and drop it to join the cloak. After that, I undo the buttons of my blouse, first at the wrist, then starting at my neck. The Prince turns away for this, stepping once more to the wyvern. It burbles prettily at him, ruffling its neck feathers. He rests a hand on its shoulder, and they gaze out across the ocean together, offering me that little bit of privacy.

I remove my blouse then unfasten the waistband of my skirt and let it fall away from my body. The corset is next. I almost need to ask the Prince for assistance, but part of me would rather die. I manage it on my own in the end. Finally, I yank off my boots, my stockings and garters, and soon find myself standing in nothing but my chemise and small clothes. Trembling, vulnerable. And so very cold.

Not quite knowing what to say, I clear my throat. The Prince turns, takes in the sight of me. His brow tightens. “It’s too much,” he says. “The spell won’t function as well if you’re wearing that.”

I look down at my chemise. It feels paper thin and exposed, but it’s still better than the practically nothing I’d be left wearing without it. “It will have to do,” I say, pleased when my voice doesn’t quaver.

The Prince’s mouth presses into a thin line. Then, leaving the wyvern, he approaches me again, standing in such a way as to block the wind. He looks oddly pale. The lines of his jaw and brow are harder than usual. He opens his mouth, closes it again. “I will have to touch you,” he says at last. “To make the glamour adhere.”

My heart pounds in my throat. I fear it might choke me. I don’t dare try to speak again, so I drop my gaze and hold my arms out stiffly to each side, silent indication for him to get on with things.

He claps his hands together and begins to rub them fast. As he rubs, a glow forms between his palms, intensifying by the moment. I feel the warmth of it, lovely against my skin. “Hold still now,” he says.

He first touches the top of my head. His hand is large enough to cover it completely, his fingers pressing into my skull. The warmth of his glamour pours out of his touch and creeps through my hair, down to my scalp. Then he begins to circle, both hands working now. One he slides down the back of my head, the other over my face. I close my eyes as the glamour spreads across my skin, my cheeks. He does the sides of my head, over my ears, surrounding me in a warm aura of light.

He moves to my neck next. And I lose all sense of anything else. Only the sensation of his touch—of his fingers, sliding down my throat, slowly, carefully, meticulous as he works his magic. The warmth spreads across my skin, but a hotter, more dangerous warmth floods my blood, my being. The rest of the world falls away, the ocean, the wind, these stark, bare cliffs. There’s only room in my existence for him. For his hands, his touch. For his eyes, fixed upon me as he goes about his work.

He progresses down to my shoulders. When he comes to the sleeves of the chemise, he grimaces.

“What is it?” I ask, breathlessly.

He lifts his gaze to mine. “I told you. The cloth interferes with the magic. It will hold, but not as well and not as long.”

I blink once. Then: “Keep going.”

A little growl rumbles in his throat. But his hands move again, sliding down my arms, raising gooseflesh. His fingers run along mine, twining briefly, like a dance of just our hands. It’s more than magic that sparks along my skin, sending thrilling bursts straight to my heart.

Then he draws both hands back up to my shoulders, rests them against my collarbone. I catch my breath as he works his way down. His motions are quick and efficient, but I cannot deny the shivering quake in my gut as his palms glide over my breasts, down my abdomen, coming to rest on my hipbones. He moves to stand behind me and trails magic up my spine, slowly, slowly.

When at last he kneels to finish his work—to draw the glamour over my hips and down each leg in turn—it’s all I can do not to scream for him to stop. Or worse still, not to grip him by the hair, yank his face up to mine, and . . . and . . . what? What would I do? What would I dare dream of doing? I don’t know. Because I won’t let myself finish that thought. I stand like a block of ice, both hands clenched into fists. And I lock down any wild thoughts, any foolish impulses. Any dangerous sensations I have no business thinking, feeling, or experiencing.

He finishes spreading glamour over every inch of me, ending with the soles of my feet. Then he rises, a black lock of hair falling across his forehead, his mouth hanging open. Breath comes in rough gusts through his lips, as though he’s just endured some terrible exertion. His face lined and stern, he roughly pushes the hair back into place and turns away from me, staring out at the ocean. Even above the rush of the wind, I hear him heave a terrible sigh.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice struggling through my tightened throat. “Did it not work?”

“It worked.” He doesn’t look back at me. Another long breath, then he turns and strides to the wyvern. “If you’re determined to go through with this madness, we should set out at once. We’ll fly over Ulakrana, dive in above Seraphine’s city, and make our way down from there. It’s going to be dark. And cold. Even with the glamour, it might be too much for you.” He half-turns his head, not quite looking back at me. “Are you ready?”

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