Page 42 of Enslaved

Sitting upright, I pull the Prince’s coat closer around me. The wyvern, catching the movement from the tail of its eye, lifts its head from the barrel, a wrinkled apple caught between its teeth. It flares the feathers around its delicate face in greeting. “Hullo,” I say, my voice a bit scratchy. “I . . . I hope you slept well?”

It blinks large, soft eyes. Then with a flick of its head, it tosses the apple into the air and swallows it in one big gulp. The next moment, it roots around in the barrel once more, oblivious to my presence.

There’s no sign of the Prince. At least it seems to have stopped raining. Glints of pale sunlight squeeze through the cracks in the door and the shuttered windows. Hopefully he won’t be soaked through when he returns, especially as he was obliged to leave me his coat.

Grimacing, I turn to inspect my clothes, arranged on the backs of several wooden chairs near the fire. One stocking is partially singed, and my blouse, vest, and skirt are all still too damp for comfort. The thinner petticoats and chemise, however, are dry enough.

I inspect the chemise, running it through my fingers. It’s ripped right down the center. I let out a slow, careful breath, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest at the sight—this all-too real vision of my own peril and the Prince’s desperate attempt to save me. I won’t think about the vulnerability, the exposure. The sheer embarrassment of it all! If I can put such thoughts out of my mind entirely and never think of them at all, so much the better.

Never to recall the heat of his touch . . .

Of magic flowing across my skin . . .

Of fire scorching through my veins, burning like a furnace in my core . . .

Hastily, I shrug out of the Prince’s coat and pull the chemise on, tugging the torn front together as best I can. The petticoats and corset go on next. At least they keep the chemise in place. I’m not exactly modest, but I’m no longer naked, and that must count for something. I hang the coat on a peg by the fire before setting to work on my hair. It’s a mass of snarls, thick with salt, and not a single hairpin left to keep it in place. I comb it with my fingers, detangling as best I can.

I’m in the midst of working through a particularly stubborn knot when the wyvern lets out a little burble. Its head pops up, eyes turned to the door. I just have time to realize it must have heard something when the door opens.

I gasp. Hair slips from my fingers, tumbles about my shoulders just as the Prince ducks under the lintel and steps into the lighthouse.

He stops.

His gaze fixes on me, kneeling at the hearth.

Clad in my undergarments, my hair in utter disarray.

I cannot breathe. I cannot do anything but sit there, staring at him. A cry of surprise freezes in my throat. He still wears that same thin shirt, all undone and wet, clinging to his shoulders and chest. He’s slicked his damp hair back from his face, which only emphasizes his strong bone-structure and the intensity of his violet eyes. He looks like something out of a romantic ballad, a wild-hearted lover with untamed passions, the kind who strides across moors in billowing capes and tall boots. The kind I’ve read about in far too many romances secreted up to my room and pored over by candlelight.

Only he’s not some fantasy, some indulgence. He’s real. Beautiful and terrible and real.

His lips part. His throat constricts. For a moment, I think he’s going to speak. What will he say? What will he do? What do Iwanthim to say or do? A thread of tension tightens between us until I can scarcely breathe.

Then the wyvern bleats cheerfully. The tension snaps. I let out a huff of air even as the wyvern glides over to the Prince, its large white body obscuring him from my sight. Hastily, I scramble to my feet and try to order my hair, fingers shaking, heart pounding.

The Prince pushes the wyvern’s head aside and gives me a wry look. “What must a man do to keep you from catching your death of cold?” He jerks a thumb at his coat. “Put that thing on, won’t you? I’ll not have you undoing all the hard work I’ve put in keeping you alive.”

I swipe the coat down from its peg and pull it on like armor. Then, taking care to don my most demure, meaningless smile, I turn to him once more. “Were you able to find anything? In the ruins, I mean.”

The Prince pushes the wyvern’s eager muzzle away from the packet he carries under his arm. He places it on the old, dusty table and proceeds to unwrap a loaf of crusty bread and a bottle of some strong drink. “The provision spells have broken down a great deal since the death of the spell-caster. But the bread is still good. And old Lunulyrianqeiseonly improves with age.” He steps to a ramshackle cupboard, digs around inside, then returns to the table, plunking down a chipped glass. Using his teeth, he unstoppers the bottle, pours himself a measure of the drink, and swirls the glass before taking a sip. He hisses sharply and makes a face before declaring, “That’s good.” A short glance my way. “Eat, Darling. You must be starving.”

As though he knows I wouldn’t dare approach so long as he stands near, he saunters away from the table. By some unspoken agreement, we keep a good five feet between us at all times. It’s like there’s a magical barrier which neither of us dares cross.

Leaving the immediate warmth of the fire, I cross to the table and tear off a portion of the loaf. It’s surprisingly soft and sweet, not what one would expect to find in long-abandoned ruins. This is powerful magic indeed. I eat several bites, discovering as I go just how ravenous I am. “Who was it who made this?” I ask after I’ve devoured half the loaf. “Do you know who left the spell on the island?”

“My mother.”

I stop mid-chew. My stomach drops, churns. With an effort, I force the mouthful down my throat. The Prince stands with his back to me, silhouetted by the fire. His stance is wide, his silence forbidding. Like he’s suddenly turned himself into an impenetrable wall. I draw a long breath, allowing my gaze to linger. He’s so . . . soimpossiblesometimes. These last few days, our dynamic has shifted. Though we’ve been at odds, he’s never shut me out. It’s too easy to forget how he was when first we met: all that ice overlaying a simmering hot rage. It’s too easy to forget how he hates me.

I bite my lip. He doesn’t hate me. He forgave me. For what I did. He forgave me, and I believed him. At the time. But now? Staring at that broad back, trapped in this silence, I wonder if he’s changed his mind. I can’t blame him if so. I’ve not forgiven myself. I’m not sure I ever will.

I turn the bread over in my hands, still hungry, but unable to make myself eat another bite. “What was her name?” I ask softly, my voice a mere whisper of sound.

The Prince turns his head, not quite looking back at me. “Who?”

“Your mother.”

“You know her name.” He snorts and faces the fire again, swirling the drink in its glass.

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