Page 85 of Enslaved

Ivor dandles his hand in the water, idly flicking scented bubbles. “So,” he says at last, “you gave yourself to the half-breed prince, did you?”

Heat rushes from my gut to my face. But I don’t have to answer. So I won’t.

Ivor shakes his head, shifting in the water. “It’s a shame. It will only make things harder for you when I destroy him. Oh, don’t worry!” he adds, just as though I’d spoken. “You shouldn’t die from it. Humans rarely respond to the mate-bond quite so extremely as do elfkin. It will hurt, though. You will suffer and cruelly.” He smiles. “But I’ll be here when your suffering is through. And I will forgive you.”

Three days of pain . . .

My heartbeat quickens. It takes all my willpower to maintain that blank, bland expression on my face. That little half-smile that means nothing, gives nothing, allows for nothing.

Ivor rises in a rush of water and foamy suds. Naked, dripping, he steps from the bath and, with unhurried grace, retrieves a robe and drapes it over his shoulders, only lightly belting it at the waist. Every movement sends a ripple of glamour wafting over me. But his magic no longer affects me as it once did. Glamours break like waves on rocks and wash away. Perhaps my bond to the Prince protects me; or perhaps I’ve seen too much of Ivor’s true colors to be deceived anymore.

He moves to a chair, takes a seat. “Well?” he says. “What are you waiting for? Assist me.”

Obligation pulls. Though everything in me is repelled, I step behind him, drawing a steadying breath. There’s a set combs on an ornate table. I pick up one and begin to run it through his hair. Such soft, silky, perfect hair. With methodic strokes, I pull free any tangles or snarls, all the while trying to imagine myself elsewhere . . . back in Castien’s arms, tangled up with him on that desk . . .

Ivor growls softly. Then he catches my wrist. I stiffen. The Prince’s true name springs to my lips. I could summon him, but . . . no. That would lead only to a bloodbath here and now. At least with the Rite of the Thorn there should be some rules, some decorum, some measure of protection. I hold my breath and my tongue.

Ivor is still for a long, tense moment. Waiting. He knows how near I am to calling out. But when I don’t, he exhales softly. “What is it you see in him?” he asks at last, tugging me around to stand before him so that he may peer up into my face. “What makes him so much more worthy in your eyes?” I don’t respond. “He was your master,” he continues. “Now I am. He did not grant you your freedom, no more than any other fae lord would. He bought you and sold you, and now he has had his way with you. But in him you see your savior, and in me, your captor. Why is that?”

I shouldn’t let him provoke me. I know better. But the words come anyway: “He has never enforced his will on me.”

Ivor smiles. “Neither have I. You entered my bed chamber of your own free will, remember?”

A cold, slimy sensation creeps down the back of my neck. When I pull against his hold, he lets go. Shuddering, I slip behind him once more, go back to combing his hair. Ivor leans back, sighing. “You have such an idealized view of Castien. It would be sweet were it not so pathetic. If you knew what he truly is, if you knew everything he has done, you would be grateful to me for slaughtering him later today. Because make no mistake: I intend to bleed every drop of blood from his body, be it blue or red.”

My hand shakes so hard I can scarcely keep my grip on the comb. Ivor turns, looks up at me. “Perhaps you won’t thank me at first. But someone else will. Someone you care about.”

I stare into his gold eyes, so cold and cunning. What is he saying? What does he mean?

“Yes, Clara,” he continues. “Someone you care about more than anyone. More even than Castien himself. Can you not guess who I mean?”

I shake my head. Somehow, deep inside, I know what he’s about to say. But in that moment, I cannot accept it, cannot fathom it. If I could, I would stop him from speaking.

“Your brother.” His lips curve. “Oscar.”

Ice ripples through my veins, freezes me in place.Run, run, get out of here!Every instinct cries out for escape. But Obligation and agonized curiosity alike keep me rooted in place.

“Yes.” Ivor chuckles. “I know about your brother.”

“How?” The word whispers through my lips, a mere breath without sound.

“I made it a point to learn everything I could about you. I wanted to know you, to understand you. To do so meant understanding where you came from. So I used the Between Gate, traveled back to your world. There I found your brother. A wretched creature but no wonder considering the curse he carries.”

“You cursed me, you witch!”Oscar’s voice echoes inside my head. “If it weren’t for you . . . if you hadn’t done this to me . . .”

I shake my head, protests spilling from my tongue in a rush: “Oscar isn’t cursed! He’s sick. His mind isn’t right, and it makes him desperate. He doesn’t mean the things he says.”

Ivor shakes his head slowly. “I’m sorry to tell you, Clara Darlington, but your brother is indeed most disastrously cursed. One of those nasty, ingenious, powerful curses which could only be crafted by the Blessed Beldames, the Daughters of Bhorriel. Someone must have been quite determined not to let the boy access his magic to be willing to place such a burden on him.”

The whole room spins around me. The comb drops from my numb fingers, and I grip the back of Ivor’s chair.

“It didn’t take much to figure out who.” Ivor’s voice pours relentlessly into my ear. “Do you want me to tell you? Or do you want me to spell it out with your little human alphabet? Will that make it easier for you to understand?”

I wrench away, stagger blindly through the steam.No, no, no!This cannot be true! But . . . but at the same time . . .

The Prince must have seen Oscar’s potential. He’d just witnessed what I and my father had made, crafting the Eyeless Woman together and bringing it to life. We had both exhibited terrible power, but Oscar? Oscar was always the most gifted one. His magic, his ability, must have been tremendous. So why not block it entirely? Why not place a curse on him, keep him from ever fulfilling his promise? Protect the worlds from him and all he might create . . .

And in the process, break him into little pieces. Strip him of the one good thing in his life, the one source of beauty and relief for his tortured soul. Drive him to drink and drugs and debauchery, desperate for something to alleviate the pain.

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