Page 23 of WarBride

I hate him. This man who bought me. This man who claims me as his possession, his prize. He is everything I have fought against, everything I have spent my entire life resisting. Master and monster.Husband.

I won’t give in to him. I don’t care what price was paid or to whom. I will not be possessed. I will not submit.

And yet . . . How many times did I rage like this against Father? How many times did I tell myself I would not let him make me sing again? How many times did I boldly declare that I should not be married off to whomever he wished? I vowed not to marry the Shadow King, only for all my efforts to land me in a worse situation by far. As though it is my god-ordained destiny to be someone’s captive.

The women begin to dress me next. If I cherished any lingering doubts as to where this night is going, those vanish in an instant as they wrap me in gauzy folds of translucent white. To call it a gown is laughable—it is merely a flimsy bit of fabric, the softest I’ve ever felt. I cannot fathom what it is made of. It’s like wearing flower petals. It wraps my body loosely, secured only by a little belt at the waist. Easy to tear away. Even when the belt is secured, the plunging neckline exposes most of my bosom, and the fabric is so sheer, only a few doubled-up folds offer anything resembling modesty.

The fae women inspect their work, smoothing my hair, pinching my cheeks. One speaks to the others in a rapid language I cannot understand. Her sisters shake their heads as though to say this is the best they can manage. I hate them. IfI had a dagger on me, I would plunge it straight into the tallest woman’s black heart and damn the consequences.

But I have no weapon. No recourse, no allies. So I clench my fists and tell myself that I am not submitting. I am merely biding my time. It’s a lie; and I know it. I’m just not willing to admit it.

They drape a heavy cloak over my shoulders. Not my cloak—that has disappeared along with all my other garments. This one is lush velvet, black but with a purple weft that catches the light. It is warm and shielding, and I despise myself for the gratitude I feel as I huddle into it. The trio leads me from the bathing chamber back out into the night. Hundreds of eyes turn to me, all reflecting the red light of their fires, individual faces obscured. I duck my head, afraid to meet those hungry gazes, and hasten to keep pace with the women’s long strides.

A figure steps suddenly in front of us, blocking our path. The women stop abruptly. One of them places an unyielding hand on my shoulder, fingers pinching deep. The tallest of the three speaks sharply, a note of command in her voice. The figure—a great fae man—does not move. He turns his head to me, and the glow of the nearest fire illuminates his face.

I catch my breath. It’s him. The other fae who bid on me, the massive man with the silver hair. He smiles slowly, his gaze roving over me, as though he can see right through the velvet cloak. Then he meets my eyes.

“Well, little morsel,” he says, “think of me throughout the long hours of this night. You can bet I’ll be dreaming of you and looking forward to getting to know you better come dawn.” With those words, he licks his lips, revealing a dark purple tongue and the glitter of sharp teeth.

My body starts to tremble harder than before. I feel myself ready to fall to pieces with terror, with hopelessness. With weakness. Instead, I channel it all into pure, burning rage.

“The next time you see me, sir,” I say, speaking loud and clear, “you will surely die.”

There’s little hope of my following through on such a threat. But I infuse my voice with absolute conviction and even let the smallest trace of my gods-gift, a hint of song, deepen my tone so that the meaning plunges deeper than mere words can penetrate.

The fae lord’s smile falters. He draws his head back somewhat, surprised. For a moment his glamour flickers, and a shadow of concern falls across his brow. Then he laughs. And in that laugh, I hear the echo of my father’s laugh—mocking and dismissive. Confident in his own mastery over me, both body and soul.

The foremost of the women speaks sharply again. This time there’s a glint of steel, and I wonder if she and the fae lord are about to come to blows. But he steps aside, still laughing, and sweeps a hand to let us pass. I refuse to look back at him, though I feel his eyes watching me as I trot to keep up with my escort.

Ahead of me looms a large pavilion. It dwarfs the smaller, rougher tents dotting the landscape around it. My heart lurches at the sight, but the women sweep back the flap opening, and usher me inside. A warm, luxurious space meets my eyes. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I’d stepped into a royal palace. Lush tapestries line the walls, providing both beauty and insulation from the elements. Two elegant chairs with scrollwork arms and legs of gold sit opposite each other before a central fire. This burns bright, and the smoke funnels up through a gap in the pavilion peak so precisely that it must be ensorcelled. Layers of fur rugs disguise any hint of hard ground, and burning braziers both illuminate the space and offer a delicate note of incense to tempt the senses.

But what dominates my vision is the bed. It’s massive—big enough to hold a small giant. It reminds me, in a strange way,of the sacrificial altar slab at Ashryn Shrine. Only, rather than blood, it’s draped in red velvet and white furs. Two great posts at the head of the bed support a canopy of shimmering silk embroidered in starburst patterns.

I cannot look away. Suddenly it seems very important to hold on to my rage, to grasp it with everything I’ve got. Before this wave of terror douses it, and I’m left shivering and helpless in its wake.

Without a word or look at me, two of the fae women glide across the room, navigating around the fire and the chairs. They approach the bed and, in almost perfect synchronization, affix a golden cord to each of the posts. I know at once what they intend to do.

“Oh, hells no!” I growl and whirl to plunge right back out of the pavilion, heedless of the monsters waiting on the other side. I smack into the third and tallest fae woman. She looks coldly down at me. “No!” I say, shaking my head ferociously. Then, before I can stop it, my voice shifts to pleading. “I beg of you, don’t do this. Don’t truss me up like a sacrifice!” It’s too much, too horrible. Being bought, sold, owned, possessed . . . and now the sheer shame and indignity of those ropes? I can’t bear it.

The fae woman reaches for me, but I’m just quick enough to elude her grasp, staggering back almost into the fire. The other two women close in behind me. “No!”I scream, and dart to escape them. Not fast enough. They move like cats, quick and lithe, their otherworldly grace more than a match for my frenzied fear. They catch me, drag me back to the bed, utterly deaf to the abuse I screech at them.

It takes the three of them to pin me down, raise my arms over my head, and fasten the silken cuffs securely around my wrists. They pull so tight, it hurts. I wrench against them, and they only tighten more. Kicking, snarling, I thrash on the bed. The taste of copper blooms in my mouth, and I think for a moment I’vemanaged to snap one of their hands, only to realize I’ve bitten my own tongue.

“You monsters!” I cry, spitting blood. “Witches! May the gods cast you to the deepest of the nine hells for this! May the demons suck the marrow of your bones!”

They stand silent, one on each side of the bed, one at the foot. The lefthand woman, the tallest and most severe, reaches out to smooth the hair back from my head. The woman on my right quietly dabs blood from my lips and blots it from the sheer fabric draped across my panting bosom.

Then she leans in a little closer and whispers: “Despair not, mortal. There is a knife under the cushion. Use it wisely.”

Her voice is so soft, for a moment I wonder if I imagined it. She straightens, and all three women back away, solemn, silent. They slip from the pavilion one after the other, leaving me to my fate.

I go still, heart thundering with panic. Then I scream again and yank at the bindings. While I doubt very much that I’ll find a knife under any of these cushions, what good would it do me anyway, bound as I am? Damn, damn, damn it allto the nine hells! Rage pulses in my veins, and I let out a scream, as loud and long as I can summon.

Finally exhausted, I fall back on the soft furs and stare up at the embroidered canopy overhead. All those delicate stars, wrought in shimmering threads. It’s beautiful work, I notice dimly. Expert craftsmanship. Not fae-made, of course—everyone knows the fae can work no craft of their own but must steal from other races. I wonder who made this particular piece. Some dwarf or gnome. Or a human slave, perhaps.

Closing my eyes, I breathe out a shuddering sigh. My sister’s face appears in my head. Aurae—is she out there somewhere in the night in a similar position? Sold as a bride, forced into thebed of some monster? Oh, gods, no. Spare her that much at least. She doesn’t deserve to suffer for . . . for my mistake.

Because this is all my doing. I can see it now. If I had never written to Artoris, if I had never told him where I would be, he wouldn’t have come. He wouldn’t have killed poor Captain Wulfram and his men. Then, when the fae set upon us, we wouldn’t have been defenseless. Good people are dead—the men of my escort, the priests. Maybe my sister as well. And all for what? Because I didn’t want to be married off to a stranger.

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