Page 43 of Caress of Fire
“Henron is the victim of a sad trick of fate.” Fedryc looked down at his plate and slowly forked up another morsel of succulent goodness. Then he looked back up at her, and she suddenly wasn’t so sure she wanted to know. “He was born without a dragon, although both his parents are Draekons. His father felt great shame about this, and even though it wasn’t Henron’s fault, they cast him out. They sent him to the Emperor’s court as a ward when he was three years old. Before he could even remember his parents. It’s only a testament to his strong will that he lived through this many years of training.”
Marielle stared open-mouthed at the horror Fedryc had described. Her mind went back to the stern-faced Draekon man who served as Fedryc’s right hand. This was too much for her.
“But your father came to visit you, did he not?” she asked, almost in denial that men could be so cruel to children they brought into the world. For her, it was unimaginable. “He didn’t abandon you.”
Fedryc’s dry chuckle erased any faith Marielle still had about Lord Aymond’s love for his only son.
“Even before being sent to the Emperor, I barely saw him. I would hide in his office just to look at him when he worked. He knew I was there, but never bothered to come out and talk to me. Or just look at me.” He shook his head. “As I was a ward, Lord Aymond came to monitor my progress with my tutors twice a year, speaking with them in front of me like I was not there. He never had a kind word, never had a kind look for me.”
Marielle opened her mouth, then closed it again. The very words out of Fedryc’s mouth made her blood run cold. He brought his faraway stare back to her and she saw the wound on his soul through those beautiful silver eyes.
“Were your parents loving, caring?” he asked in a voice heavy with the nightmares of a past that was dangerously close.
“Yes,” she whispered back, and felt her heart rip at the seams when Fedryc’s mouth curved in a sad smile. Like he was happy for her. It made her only angrier at the High Lord she hadn’t known. “My mother died of yellow fever when Devan was only two and I seven. I was fifteen when my father died in the fire that left us orphans.”
“How were they?” it was almost like he was pleading with her to find out. To know what parents should be, what a love he hadn’t known felt like.
“My mom was the sweetest, kindest person I’ve ever known.” Marielle heard the dreamy, longing tone in her own voice. “My father adored her. He worked as a peace officer—before humans were banned from the police force—and he would come home every night, then kiss my mother before saying anything. He would just walk in, then wrap his arms around her and kiss her. I remember watching them, so in love, so happy, and I thought we were safe, as long as my father would come home and wrap his arms around my mom.”
She paused under the weight of the emotions those memories brought her. “I was right. Devan was ten and I fifteen during the fire that wiped out most the slum. Our father died that day, and Devan and I were left with nothing. Nothing but each other.”
“But they showed you how to love. In a sense, they made you both richer than I ever was.”
“Yes, I would think so.”
Silence wrapped around Marielle and Fedryc. It was the first time they had really spoken, told each other about the wounds that ran deep as their souls. Fedryc watched her, his handsome, carved face like the image of a watchful God.
“I am sorry for what happened to you. No orphan should have been left to fend for themselves like you and your brother were.” Fedryc’s long fingers wrapped around the arm of his chair. “I vow to you that no child, human or not, will ever be left without protection in Aalstad as long as I am the High Lord.”
Marielle watched him and her chest swelled with an unfamiliar warmth. She got to her feet and walked to him. His silver eyes gleamed in the dim light as she bent over and kissed him.
His lips felt good and strong, and the touch sent a blaze of desire across her skin, rippling all the way to that already begging spot between her legs. His hands closed on her shoulders and he pulled her into his lap. Fire spread between them, their mouths locked on each other’s. The world and its worries faded to the background as only Fedryc mattered, only his hands on her and his mouth all over her neck, her face. She wanted this to matter. She wanted this to last a lifetime and more, just like every night since she had become his Draekarra.
A sharp knock on the door made her stop and Fedryc pulled away, a scowl on his face.
“What is it?” he shouted, his tone clearly hostile.
“Fedryc, you need to come immediately. This cannot wait.”
Henron’s voice was tense and Fedryc slowly lifted Marielle to her feet, his face suddenly sober. He looked down at her, then wrapped his long fingers around her chin.
“Don’t go out of these rooms.” His thumb traced the line of her jaw. “I mean it. The killer is still on the loose, and I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”
Then he was gone, and the cold stone within her breast ached anew.
* * *
Henron stood at the door,preventing anyone from entering. Anyone other than Fedryc and Isobel, who stood motionless over the girl’s body.
Fedryc cast a sharp glance at his aunt, her face as smooth and expressionless as if she was looking at a doll lying on the floor and not a girl who had worked all her life for the Haal family. A girl Isobel had known for years, yet whose death brought not an ounce of sadness or compassion. Her mouth was straight and two fine lines ran down at the corners of her lips. Isobel’s eyes were lined with dark circles and her skin looked parched and brittle. She looked older, more tired than on the day he’d arrived in Aalstad. Lord Aymond’s death had taken a toll on her.
“What was her name?” Fedryc looked away from Isobel to the still figure of the servant girl. She was slumped in a wooden chair, her upper body slightly leaning to the side, her hands hanging down while her head was tilted way too far back. Her empty eyes stared at the ceiling, soft, golden and beautiful, but beginning to cloud with the shroud of death. She was young, perhaps in her late teens or early twenties, slim and short, dressed in a long gray dress like all the servants of Aalstad castle.
“Asha.” Isobel’s musical voice was even but Fedryc heard the tremor at the end. Perhaps Isobel wasn’t as insensitive as he first thought. “She was born in the castle. Her mother and father died years ago. Her grandmother will be distraught.”
“Yes, she will,” Fedryc answered, kneeling in front of the dead servant girl. She was Delradon, like every other person in the castle. It seemed Isobel didn’t hire human help. The girl’s face looked so peaceful, so innocent, with her dark lashes framing eyes that looked without seeing. She would look alive if it wasn’t for the painful stillness of her chest and the faint blue tone of her lips. “She didn’t die long ago. An hour, maybe two, not much more.”
“She was so young.” Isobel stepped closer and the mask on her features cracked, revealing the woman behind. Fedryc got a glimpse of the grief that struck his aunt and it softened his anger toward the woman. “I remember her as a young child, always running into trouble, always where she shouldn’t be. She had such spirit. She was Silva’s friend, the only other girl her age in the castle.”
