Page 39 of The Captive's Curse
Enzo’s jaw tensed. “I don’t need to tell you anything,” he said, tone clipped. Oh, fuck him. “Yes, fine, it’s the Mad Lord’s castle. That’s all I’m going to tell you, because it’s none of your business. He mostly shrieks, I don’t know of him eating anyone. I’m surprised you were running from him, because I didn’t take you for the nervous sort, given the way you haven’t shown one shred of fear of me or any of my men.”
“He definitely attacked me. And I’m certainly not the nervous sort!” Gods, first Finn, and now Enzo. “I may look like a beautiful, delicate flower, and of course I prefer to be treated like one, but I’m not a coward. That vile ghostly prick wanted my blood, I’d swear to it. And after nearly being ripped to shreds, I think I’m owed an explan—”
“You aren’t owed anything except my escort downstairs so that you don’t get almost eaten again,” Enzo said, going back to fastening his boots. “Get dressed and come with me, if you’re coming, Your Flowery Lordship. I don’t have time to argue about it. I’ve wasted half the day in bed as it is.”
Wasted. With me in his arms, and then under him, moaning on his cock, letting him use my body as he pleased.
The word hit me hard, too hard, and I had to close my eyes against the wobble of lightheadedness that struck me along with it. My empty stomach let out another ferocious, snarling rumble. It’d been nearly twenty-four hours since I had anything to eat, and those few gulps of water before I passed out last night hadn’t been nearly enough to drink, either. On top of everything, ghosts were sometimes hard for mages to tolerate; I’d forgotten about that, since I’d spent years trying to avoid reading lengthy books about magic full of dull philosophy, but I’d read it a long time ago.
Enzo’s unpleasant attitude was simply the last straw.
Wearily, and without bothering to answer him, I shoved the blankets back and started to grope around for my clothes, tugging my drawers into place as I did. The tunic I’d been wearing was still at the foot of the bed, and that I found easily enough, but my trousers seemed to have vanished. I nearly tipped over and fell trying to retrieve them after finally spotting them under the bed.
“Lord Cyril?” Enzo said, an edge to his voice. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” I muttered. “I’ll try to hurry. I wouldn’t want to waste any more of your time.”
Silence fell while I slumped against the edge of the bed, grimly working on getting my trousers untwisted.
“Fuck,” Enzo said, very low. I didn’t bother lifting my head to see what expression—anger, annoyance, pity—had accompanied the imprecation. “Will you—damn it. Don’t try to get dressed. I’ll put one of my men in the hall to fend off the ghost, and you go back to bed for a while. You can have all four fucking pillows.”
And now he’d gotten brusque with me. What a dick. He and the Mad Lord deserved each other, damn them.
I wanted to put my pants on and stride out of here with my head held high, just to prove to him that I could, but—honestly, I couldn’t. Moving about had shown me what a bad idea it was to try to move about; my temples throbbed, my stomach was eating itself, and my knees shook. The wet ache between my legs only underlined how utterly unfit I was to be up and around.
My trousers slipped to the floor again out of my nerveless fingers, and I crawled back into bed, burrowing under the quilt and burying myself in the pillows. All four of them, although it wasn’t as satisfying as I’d hoped.
For a moment I thought Enzo might say something else—but he only sighed, rattled around a bit more, and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.
I closed my eyes.
They popped back open again. Crumpled bedding. A stone wall. The edge of a bed curtain, hanging with its folds in a position that made it resemble an angry chicken.
Gods, I was so hungry.
Of course. Of course, this would be one of those times when I couldn’t sleep no matter how much I longed for oblivion with every fiber of my being.
After perhaps half an hour of huddling in the pillows in complete misery, I heard heavy footsteps in the hall, a shuffle, and then more silence. That would be the guard Enzo said he’d send. Ironic, really, that the first time my captor put a guard on me, it wasn’t to keep me in—it was to protect me from an angry ghost, the same ghost, in fact, that I’d thought would be the one compensation for being a prisoner here in the first place.
Stupid ghost. Stupid Enzo. Stupid gurgling stomach and dry throat. Stupid fuckingpillows.
“Morning, Beatrice,” the guard said from the hall, and then there were more footsteps, these quicker and lighter. “What’s all that?”
“For Enzo’s guest,” said a female voice, presumably Beatrice’s.
My ears perked up. For me? But…guest? Who did Enzo think he was fooling?
But…for me?
I rolled over in bed and managed to get myself sitting up by the time the knock came, followed without pause by the door opening briskly.
A tall, plump, red-cheeked blonde wearing the plain dress and large flour-dusted apron of a cook or housekeeper sailed in, bearing a heavily laden tray without any apparent effort. My ears were already on alert, and now my nose twitched: tea, definitely tea, andfood.
“Morning, sir,” she said, and crossed the room without pause, sliding the tray onto Enzo’s dressing table.
Steam rose from a pitcher on the tray: hot water, either for washing or for refreshing the tea, or both. Of course, my magic would stretch to reheating it for myself, too. A big round platter sat beside the pitcher and teapot and cup.
Were those… “Plum jam tarts, sir,” Beatrice announced, with a note of pride. And well she might. Light gleamed off the perfect lamination achieved with endless folding and rolling, and the jam filling glistened. “Enzo said the tarts would suit you perfectly. Hope that’s the case?”
