Page 73 of Enslaved

“No,” I admit.

“I dare not risk putting you to work until I’ve received instruction from my master.” He tips his chin into the depths of his white beard. “I hope . . . I very much hope things will turn out well for you, Miss Darlington.”

His words are sincere, but in his eyes, I see the truth: he already considers me a lost cause. He looks even more sorry for me now than he did when I first learned I was being sent to Vespre.

“Thank you, Mister Creakle,” I reply, the brightness of my voice belying the tension in my gut.

Turning to make my escape, I spy a book on the return trolley, right at the top of the stack.Zaleria Zintoris,the Book of Stars.My heart skips a beat. Did the Prince return it? Does this mean . . . is it possible he’s already been to Illithorin’s Waste and fetched the elixir from the dragon? I reach out, touch the cover of the book. And suddenly, with all my heart, I wish . . . I wish . . .Oh, I wish . . .

Turning sharply, I stride from the library. My footsteps carry me through the palace and out to the gardens, avoiding merrymakers and all places where light and music congregate, I flee instead through shadows, ducking and weaving, heart racing as though I’m being pursued. A half-mad idea forms in my mind. Ivor has given me no command. Might I possibly pass through the Between Gate, find the Prince? Might I release him from this foolish Obligation and set him free? Apologize for my foolishness. Tell him how I hate myself for what I’ve done to him.

But I never come anywhere near the gate. Long before it’s in sight, some invisible tether stops me so hard, I nearly choke. My hands fly to my throat even as I fall to my knees. I bow over, my bare back prickling at the cold wind like a shivering finger trailing up my spine.

And so I remain for some while. Weeping. Alone. Cursing myself for the fool I am.

It’s impossible to wander anywhere in the palace without running into merrymakers. Estrilde’s ball has spilled from the garden and continues to spread, until I can hardly turn a corner without coming upon a pair of fae locked in a clinch. Sometimes more than a pair—sometimes whole clusters of them, all in various states of undress, oblivious to the world beyond their small sphere. Their eyes are bright, glassy withrothilliom,their laughing voices slurred, their beautiful bodies contorted.

Shuddering, I hasten away, too aware how quickly the fae can turn from amorous to ravenous. One glimpse of a frightened human face would be enough to set them upon me like a pack of hounds, as dangerous as the Wild Hunt in their own way. In the end I’ve no choice but to return to Ivor’s apartments. I’ll shelter in my room for now and hope my new master will remember to give me work soon.

Ivor’s chambers are eerily quiet when I slip through the side door and into the back passage leading to the servants’ quarters. I don’t meet anyone, which is a relief, but reach my own room, step inside, and close the door. Leaning my head back, I close my eyes, breathe out a long sigh.

“At last.”

Ice lances down my spine. Whirling on heel, I face into the room.

Lord Ivor. He’s there, seated on my bed. Grand and beautiful and shirtless. Nothing adorns his upper half save garlands of golden flowers. His horns are gone; instead he wears a jeweled band across his brow which does little to tame his tousled mane.

Just to see him is to feel lust burn in my veins. I want to run to him, to throw myself into his arms.

Instead I grip the doorknob at the small of my back like it’s my last lifeline. “Lord Ivor,” I manage, my voice thin and small. “What are you . . . ?” The words won’t come. With tremendous effort, I whisper, “You will be missed. At the ball.”

He rises. Light from a single candle reflects off all the gold in the room and paints his muscular frame in a burnished glow. He stalks toward me with predatory grace, but his eyes are soft, gentle. “Clara, Clara,” he murmurs. “I could not slip away soon enough. What joy does a ball hold for me when I know you are here? And yet when I came, it was only to find you gone. Where were you? Why did you not wait for me?”

He's so dizzying, so dazzling. I lean back against the wall as he draws nearer and nearer still.

But this isn’t right! I’m his Obligate. I find a small knot of resistance in the center of my heart and cling to it. “I require employment, my lord,” I say, even as he rests one hand against the door by my head, leaning in toward me. “If I am to serve you well, I must have duties to which I may apply myself.”

“Of course, of course.” He winds a lock of my hair around his finger. When my breath catches, he smiles. “What sort of employment did you have in mind?”

I drop my gaze, focus on the cleft in his chin. “If it pleases you, my lord, I should like to return to my work in the library.”

He frowns. “What?”

For a moment, his glamour wavers. I draw a deep breath, strength returning to my limbs and soul. I still don’t dare meet his gaze, but repeat with quiet firmness, “I should like to return to my work in the library. Thaddeus Creakle could use my help. The chronologies, you see, are not well organized. And there’s the extensive catalogue of legends of the First Age which was never completed, and those old manuscripts from—”

Ivor’s teeth flash. He takes a step back, and again I find myself able to draw a deeper breath than before. My chest rises and falls with the effort, and I feel terribly exposed in this low-cut gown.

Ivor stares down at me, his eyes narrowed, his beautiful face lined. Then, abruptly: “Why do you resist me?”

I dare a glance up into his incredible golden eyes. “My lord?”

“Time and again I have offered myself to you. Offered everything I have, everything I am. Each time, you put me off. You dismiss me like some disfavored lackey.” His fists clench, and his voice drops to a dangerous rumble. “Who do you think I am?”

My throat closes tight.

“I have fought in the deadly Behemoth Wars, slaughtered enemies ten times my size by the sheer force of my will. Singlehandedly did I win victory after victory in the name of my king. I have clawed my way up from the depths in which I was born—killed, destroyed, cursed, and maimed to get where I am. And now?” His eyes flash, shimmering with a tint of greenrothilliomglow. “Now I stand before you, a king on the cusp of claiming his throne. And you dare defy me?”

I don’t know what to do. The room is so small, and he is so large, and his swelling wrath so intense. But the Obligation holds. He cannot force me. Not in matters of my heart. Nor can he harm me, at least not overtly. Even his glamours can only push me so far.

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