11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

B y the time Emillie saw Alek again, her bruises had long since disappeared. Her father had ensured her swift healing by contacting Nikolai to perform his Elit duties and provide her with his blood. She had not seen the Captain since Ariadne stuck a blade in his thigh, but he appeared in high spirits. As always, the two Caersan men had spoken throughout her feeding, and he had turned a blind eye to her injuries.

She arrived at Laeton Park with Sul chaperoning just after midnight. The carriage journey, though not long, felt unending without Ariadne to accompany her. She had never enjoyed riding as much as her sister, and the prospect of speaking with her sullen guard was far less appealing than a lonely drive. As such, she tucked herself away from the Caersan, wishing not for the first time that it was Gracen who had survived their last excursion to Laeton Park.

Stepping down from the carriage, she thanked Sul as always and swept her gaze across the rolling lawns. She had not enjoyed the view since the night dhemons attacked while on a stroll with Ariadne and Azriel. The openness now unnerved her.

"You look well, Miss Harlow." Alek's familiar drawl dragged her attention from the swaying trees in the distance to her fiancé as he dismounted from his stallion. "How have you fared since the celebration?"

She hid her wince at the memory of his departure behind a small smile as he kissed her fingers. "I have been well."

Alek studied her face for a long moment, his coal-black eyes taking in every rise and fall. The way his mouth twitched down told her he did not believe her words, though she could not fathom why. Then he glanced at Sul and offered her his arm. Rather than speak on his suspicions, he said, "I am glad to hear that."

They started off, her personal guard trailing at a respectable distance. Sul's hand stayed firmly on the hilt of his sword, and his gaze swept side to side as they moved. Perhaps he was just as traumatized by the incident all those weeks ago as she was.

Not that that made her feel any better.

Fortunately, Alek kept his distance from the copse of trees at the far end of Laeton Park. Instead, he steered her along Lake Cypher's edge, where she could marvel at the moonlight dancing through the water's ripples. Families strolled through the grass, and small children even splashed along in ankle-deep water. The sounds of joviality and love burned like a hot iron into Emillie's heart.

What was the likelihood of having such a future with the man at her side? Seeing as she could never look at him with the devotion glowing in many wives' eyes, she doubted it possible.

"I am well aware," Alek said, his voice low enough to keep Sul's sharp ears from prying, "that our marriage is contractual at best."

Emillie swallowed and looked up at him with feigned innocence. "What could you mean?"

He chuffed. "You proposed to me, in a way. You offered your hand in exchange for my assistance in keeping…him…alive."

Him . Azriel. She had not done any of it for the half-vampire. She had done it for her sister, for if he had died…Ariadne would have, too. And Emillie was certain it would not have been figurative. She had been surprised her sister had not done something more brash following his arrest.

"That is true." Emillie nodded once. Why pretend it to be anything but what he knew it to be? "That does not mean it cannot become something more."

Something sinister slithered through his inky gaze. He devoured her with a single glance, then said, "I do not believe you wish for it to be more."

"Is that so?" She watched a stone skitter ahead of them, kicked by her toe as they moved languidly along the path. Her heart picked up its pace as surely as the rock clacked to a standstill. It hammered behind her ribs as her companion edged closer and closer to the truth she had worked so hard to veil.

The Lord Governor's mouth twitched. "You are quite the prize amongst Caersan men as the sister of the Golden Rose and daughter of the Princeps."

A shift in the conversation that made her head spin. "So I have been made aware."

"Yet you never actively sought the attention of anyone this Season." Alek raised a black brow, though he did not appear questioning. In fact, he merely seemed to search for confirmation.

"A Caersan lady does not search for what is owed her." The words rolled off her tongue before she could temper them, the phrase a common one her governess once used. She had never agreed with such a line of thinking. As though her very existence meant others should be subservient to her desires.

Alek chuckled and dipped his chin at a passing lord. Returning his attention to her, he said, "If anything, I recall you rather enthralled by Hyacinth Hooke."

Fuck .

Emillie's cheeks warmed. That had not been what she expected from him. Not then. Not ever. "She is a dear friend."

"She is beautiful." He glanced at her, his lips curling at the corners. "A wonderful dancer and has a lovely laugh."

The first time Emillie met Hyacinth, they had not yet transitioned, though were close. Emillie had been in her mid forties and Hyacinth no older than fifty. The Caersan's kinky, golden hair had stood out in stark contrast to her ebony complexion—the perfect balance of hues complemented by any dress or jewelry she wore.

Though Emillie had not realized it then, she had been quite enamored by the woman.

"Her future husband will be quite lucky," she said with a weak smile. What was the point in hiding her dissatisfaction when he had already seen through her guise?

Then her breath caught. If Alek had so easily spotted her true nature, how many others had as well? Perhaps her father already knew of her preference for women, and that was why—

"You are quite good at hiding it." Alek cut through her thoughts, tangling them more.

"Excuse me?"

He gave her a subtle nudge. "You and I were friends once, remember?"

A very long time ago, interrupted by his transition into adulthood, his position as the Waer Province's Lord Governor, and his steady descent into the rumor mill's darkest corners.

"Of course," she said, doing her best to claw her way into understanding his roundabout way of thinking.

"I do not care who you take to your bed," he said, at last speaking plainly. "So long as you remain discreet and uphold my family name."

Emillie gaped at him for a long moment. "What?"

His black eyes glittered. His voice dropped even lower as he said, "You can sleep with any woman of your choosing. Just do not let the rumors get out of hand."

As if he were one to lecture about rumors getting out of hand.

"Lord Nightingale, I—"

"Am I wrong to assume?"

She did not know how to respond. On one hand, she should uphold her guise by denying his accusations. On the other, he did not seem upset about her preferences. If anything, he seemed intrigued.

When she did not speak right away, Alek slowed to a stop and shot a glare over his shoulder—a silent warning to Sul to stay away . "Unless I am incorrect and you are so very eager to see if any gossip around me is true."

Her heart stuttered. The very idea had her stomach twisting into knots. "N-no!"

His smirk grew. "I thought not."

They started off again. The silence between them grew. If it were not for others who shared their walking path, mumbling their greetings and the laughter from a group of Caersan women playing a game of Bowls, they would have been subject to listening solely to the gentle slosh of the lake along the sandy beach.

With her blood pounding in her ears, Emillie swallowed back the sick rising in her throat and said so low, she was not certain Alek would even hear her, "I do prefer women. I have no attraction to men…you included."

At first, Alek did not respond. Neither, however, did he appear angry. Perhaps he had not heard her correctly. His face remained calm and contemplative as he digested her words. Then he spoke, matching her volume, "I quite understand. I am impartial to men and women alike. I am quite confused about one thing, however."

She was going to be sick. Not trusting herself to open her lips, she merely hummed in question.

"How could you possibly not find me attractive?" He grinned down at her and winked. "I am certain I outrank most lords across Valenul, yes?"

Something heavy lifted from Emillie's chest, allowing her to breathe again. She blinked up at him in surprise at his humor, then returned his smile. "If I must marry a man, I suppose I could have done worse in terms of appearance."

"You still do not trust me." It was not a question but an observation.

He was correct, of course. She did not trust him based on the dark gossip surrounding him. Perhaps she merely married into a home she was not meant to leave again. "Hard to say, if I am honest."

Alek shook his head. "Do not listen to everything you hear. Have I not done my duty as your fiancé in keeping you safe?"

"You have," she agreed and meant it. He had protected her from her own father for as long as he could the other night. "Thank you."

"I heard it was not enough."

Emillie almost tripped over her own feet. "Excuse me?"

"You think for one moment I did not hear what happened after I left?" Alek's black eyes darkened—something she had not thought possible. They roamed across her face, lingering on the precise place the bruise had formed. "He barred me from seeing you this last week because of what he did. We had words."

"He was angry about what we did."

He scowled. "As if hurting you was an appropriate response. No. It will not happen again. You have my word."

"Why are you doing all of this?" Emillie frowned at him, unable to piece together why he would ever agree to this farce of a marriage. Aside from a wife to bear his future brood, he gained nothing.

"First and foremost," he said, refocusing on the path ahead, "you are my friend."

An uncomfortable guilt settled in her gut. She had never been a very good friend to him. He had always pined after Ariadne, and in turn, she was the first to write him off as a rake and the center of scandal.

"Secondly," he continued, "Caldwell is also my friend. He and I had several conversations about how we would change this kingdom into something far greater than it has become. I was not surprised by his heritage, and though I was disappointed he had not trusted me with such information, I understand why he chose to keep it a secret. Letting the General kill him outright would have been a waste of a great man."

How he had pieced together Azriel's lineage prior to her exposing him, she had no idea. Despite all her wonderings and questions about his fae father, she had not once gleaned that he could be a dhemon.

"Finally," he pressed on, still not looking at her, "I am in no position to truly pursue courtship with any Caersan women. Not while people continue to speak of me as they have these last years. Your proposition was, in short, an ideal way for us both to benefit from a tragedy. I continue as I have, and you gain status and protection while you pursue your…interests."

Emillie hesitated before throwing caution to the wind. "Are the rumors true, then?"

"No." Alek glanced at her. "Not entirely."

"Do you say this to ease my worries?"

Another grin spread across his face. "A bit. I will show you the truth of it all one day, and I hope you will understand."

A good enough answer, even if it did not ease the anticipatory knot in her chest. "You know what I wish from you as my husband, but what do you expect of me as your wife?"

Yet again, the Lord Governor fell into a thoughtful silence. He let out a long sigh, his smile fading, and he tilted his head to the side when he finally looked back at her. No mischief shone in his eyes, just cool understanding. "Children. That is all."

Though Emillie did not find the idea of bedding Alek Nightingale enticing—the idea of bedding any man failed to arouse her the way it did for many women—she could accept that as his one and only stipulation. So long as he did not seek such activities often. She took his hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. "I can do that."

His answering smile almost broke her heart.

Two days after his first fight in the Pits, Azriel stood in the quiet, solemn training yard, counting the heads of the survivors as he drank a ladle of water. Three did not return, though he hadn't yet heard what happened to them. After his own victory over the lycans, he'd spent the following day unconscious in his cell, where a healing mage had been permitted to keep him from losing his arm.

A fortunate outcome. He didn't want to match his brother.

Unfortunately, Melia's kindness only went so far—just far enough to keep him from dying or becoming infirm. So while his arm was no longer mangled from the lycan's jaws, his shoulder had yet to heal fully, and the wounds on his stomach were shallow enough to not pose a serious problem. As it were, none of them had yet scarred, and any sudden movement caused the scabs to reopen.

Around him, not many of the other prisoners fared much better. With the magic inhibitors on the mages and other fae, they had no way to heal themselves any more than he did, and no one walked through the yard unscathed.

Raoul hobbled from his place near the archery targets, his leg in a splint. How many injuries had the human incurred since arriving in the prison? If he had been scarred before, it was going to be nothing compared to what would become of him if he continued in the Pits. A fresh scar cut down the length of his jaw on one side of his face.

"You look like shit," the human said and prodded at Azriel's shoulder.

Biting back a wince, he glowered instead. "One could say the same of you."

"The splint isn't even necessary at this point." Raoul pat the wood holding his leg straight. "But it allows me to sit out of training for the day without repercussions."

Ah, yes. The punishment for not sticking to the training regiment meant having the evening meal revoked. And if that were the standard punishment, Azriel couldn't help but note that he rarely partook in the evening meal. Neither did Sasja.

Not being able to stomach the food had already caused a degradation of his strength. Perhaps Sasja wasn't typically as thin as she appeared within the confines of the prison. She just couldn't eat anything without getting sick and, therefore, lost much of her muscle mass.

He had no idea how he would survive Algorath, and the Pits were the least of his concerns.

"When will you take it off?" Azriel stepped back into the narrow strip of shade provided by the awning to stave off the sun's rays. "The Desmo won't believe your leg is broken after the healer came through."

Raoul chuckled. "This afternoon. Before the party."

Stilling, Azriel frowned at him. "Party."

"She has one every time she wins."

His frown deepened. "She hardly won if three of her prisoners died. Is this some sort of game to her?"

Of course it was. Such a ridiculous question to be asking, but he couldn't help himself. No sane person would consider the Pits to be a game of sorts. Not one in which they could win, anyway.

"Yes and no." Raoul dipped the ladle into the water and brought the edge to his lips. It was a good thing Azriel had no issue with sharing, or he'd have been dead the first day after seeing how many people drank from the same damn spoon. "All the Desmos place bets on their fighters. Gods, they likely rig the matches to get their desired outcome. Whoever walks away with the most coin wins and throws a party to gloat."

Rattan swords clacked as a pair of prisoners worked on their skills, coaching one another through different techniques and defenses. Azriel watched them for a long moment, leaning his uninjured shoulder against the wall beside him. His body ached nonetheless, particularly at the sight of one of the mages taking the rattan to his ribs with a loud crack.

Those who weren't as injured or receiving more healing continued their training as well. A fae slumped against the outer wall in the sun, either asleep or soon-to-be dead if no one woke him up. The desert sun was as deadly as the Pits if not treated with care. Sasja kept to herself as always, with minor injuries, though one eye was swollen shut.

"Does she require us to be in attendance at these parties?" Azriel looked in the direction of the chateau as though he could see it through the awning.

Raoul scrunched his nose as he followed Azriel's gaze and blinked into the sun. "We are her prize winners. All the Desmos like to show us off when they get the chance."

Something oily slunk through Azriel's gut at that. He didn't like the idea of being surveyed like an animal at the market. And that, he was certain, would be the least of the worries. "What will she have us do?"

"Now that's the interesting bit…" Raoul leveled a hard stare at him. "They can make us do whatever they want."

"Are there no laws protecting us?"

Now he chuckled, though Azriel didn't find his question amusing. Raoul sighed, his mirth fading, and said, "We're here for breaking the law. The law no longer protects us."

Gods. He knew being here would be awful—and it had been—but he hadn't anticipated such moral nihilism.

If he walked into that chateau, he'd become subject to whatever Melia or one of her minions wished of him. Between his status as a prisoner and the collar around his neck, he had no rights. They could order him to do… anything …and he'd be forced to do it or face whatever consequences they desired.

For too long, he'd shoved down the memories of his time wrapped around Melia's finger. Such thoughts belonged in a closet in the dark recesses of his mind, locked away forever. Now they broke free, and he could feel her fingers running through his hair—her lips across his skin—

Azriel batted the memories away. She could do any of that to him without his consent. The worst part was that he'd do anything she wished of him.

Because if he didn't, she'd kill him sooner, and he couldn't let that happen.

"It's not usually too bad," Raoul reassured him after noting the look of disgust on his face. "Most of the time, the other Desmos and their guests will gawk and speak about you as though you're not standing right in front of them…then they move on."

Azriel didn't believe it for a second. Melia wanted him to suffer, and she'd do everything in her power to ensure it happened.

So when Paerish arrived several hours later flanked by more guards, Azriel watched warily as all of the prisoners gathered around. Tensions heightened. Everyone knew what was happening. Many, like him, were not pleased.

"You are to wash and report to the back doors within the hour," Paerish proclaimed and pointed toward a building Azriel hadn't yet been to. "The Desmo requests you wear the clothes provided at the bath house."

Getting clean would not be the worst of the evening, at least. Azriel started off with the others and made it three steps before being stopped, a hand on his chest. He turned to Paerish without saying a word.

"The Desmo would like to thank you for your cooperation," Paerish said and held out a large vial filled with deep red liquid. "A gift."

In an instant, Azriel's mouth watered. He hated the idea of drinking anyone's blood but Ariadne's, but now was not the time to be picky. If he ever wanted to see his wife again, he'd have to survive. Drinking blood would ensure his body recouped after fights.

Yet anything from Melia came with a price. Azriel didn't take the offered vial and asked, "What does she want?"

Something flashed in Paerish's eyes, and they shook their head. "Nothing. Only for you to be well enough to fight again."

Unlikely. Still, Azriel took the vial and popped the cork. He tipped the blood back into his mouth and, as always, didn't swallow. He tilted his head forward, forcing the metallic liquid toward his hollow fangs, where he pulled it directly into his body.

It was only after he'd ingested the blood that he realized something was wrong. Metallic though it was, it was strange and not typical of any blood he could recall drinking. It left a bitter aftertaste that made his mind go numb.

No.

No, it was like thinking through a fog worse even than that of a severed bond. One moment, he stood with the captain of the guards…the next, the vial had shattered at his feet. He stared at Paerish, not quite remembering what they'd last said. Not quite recalling why he'd even needed to speak with them.

He blinked hard to clear his head. Someone spoke to him, but their voice was muffled. It didn't matter anyway. His body felt lighter than it had in years. As though someone had stripped away every care in the world.

It felt wonderful.

No.

No .

It felt horrible. She had done something to him. She had tricked him. Again. Made him believe she would not leave him crying in the foyer—

Wait. That had been Ariadne, not Melia. His wife had left him. Where had she gone? Was she safe?

Azriel shook his head, then fell against the wall behind him. Two sets of hands grasped his arms and hauled him back to his feet.

Why had he been on the ground?

Someone pulled him back into the sunshine. He groaned and shielded his eyes from the brightness. His feet dragged in the sand, forcing him to his knees for a heartbeat before he was hauled back up again.

But if it'd only been for a second, why was there sand on his face?

The door of his cell shut behind him. Azriel stared at the tattered shreds of his bed and fell onto it, his horns clacking against the stone floor. His head throbbed.

By the time he fell asleep, he couldn't recall how he'd gotten there.