Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy, page 5
I glance up at a head and shudder. “How can murdering a woman be so great a conquest? There is no honor in this.” I wrap my shawl about me as if it might somehow protect me from the horrors of my new home. Nothing could have prepared me for this sight.
“Honor is determined only by the one taking it,” Lucien says in a clipped tone. He whistles to the horses and they eagerly attack the final incline. They bray and dip their heads as the wagon levels off and we roll through the gates of Castle Bran.
The doors close behind us. I turn to watch as two men, draped in dark hooded cloaks, push the giant-sized doors. A wooden beam booms as it falls into place to seal out intruders, reverberating through my chest, though no one in their right mind would dare come here willingly.
Alamesia bangs on the side of the wagon, her rings giving off a metallic rap against the wood. When Lucien pulls on the reins, she leaps from the straw-covered carriage and lands lightly on her feet. With a final glare cast in my direction, she rises up beside Lucien and whispers something in his ear before sinking back to the ground and trouncing off in a flurry of skirts.
“Be careful with that one, brother.” Vladimir warns. “Many men have awoken beside her with a dagger at their throat.”
I catch Lucien’s smile from the corner of my eye. “I am not most men.”
“Indeed you are not.” Vladimir claps him on the back and leaps from the seat. He lands soundlessly and comes around to the back of the wagon. He holds out his hand to me.
When I do not accept, his lips press into thin white lines. “I am not a patient man, Roseline, nor am I commonly forgiving.”
“My apologies,” I whisper meekly, thinking back on the fright I saw in Alamesia’s eyes when Vladimir’s tone dropped similarly. Although terror seeks to root me in place, I know to refuse would bring far greater pain. “It is my leg. I fear I shall not be able to move easily.”
He casts a glance down and frowns at the obvious swelling. My ankle is double the size and discolored with bruising. “This will not do.”
He turns abruptly. “Atticus!”
A tall, dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes and light stubble along his jaw appears from an open doorway at the base of the castle. His steps are controlled and his swagger pronounced. I noticed a slender sword at his hip and a matching dagger tucked into the top of his calf-high boot.
“You have returned,” he calls with an air of exaggerated welcome. He approaches with his arm outstretched to clasp Vladimir in a familiar greeting.
“My lady needs help to her room. See to it that she is mended and prepared for the feast. I am sure she is weary from her journey.”
Weary from the journey? Not from being stabbed in the chest, mauled through the night, and dragged halfway across the country while my family’s embers still burn? Bitterness rises high within my throat, though I swallow it back down as the man turns to acknowledge me.
“My lady.” His bow is low and forced. “I had not expected you so soon.”
“And when were you to expect her?” Vladimir snaps as the man rises in a sweeping flourish.
“I only meant that I presumed you would extend your stay in Brasov,” he amends quickly. Atticus is a sly one. I can see the cunning within the depths of his carefully guarded expression. I will have to mind myself about him. He turns and offers me an abbreviated bow to the one he offered Vladimir. “Come, my lady. I will see to your preparations.”
He scoops me effortlessly into his arms and I am forced to be carried yet again like an infant. The thought makes me shudder and draws forth a smile from his lips. “I vow that I will not bite.”
“Why does that sentiment not bring me any comfort?” I mutter. He snickers and holds me close to his chest. Close enough to feel the rigid definition beneath.
“Atticus?” He turns swiftly, and I see Vladimir marching back toward us. His face clouds over with barely concealed animosity. “I requested that you take her to her room. Nothing more. Is that understood?”
Atticus’s finger flinches ever so slightly against my waist as he nods. “Of course. I would never think upon doing anything more. I will send Verity to attend to her more personal needs.”
“No.” Vladimir shakes his head. For the first time I realize he has begun to show signs of weariness. Perhaps the journey was more arduous for him than I originally thought. “Send Emeline. I do not trust Verity with her.”
“As you wish.” He turns only after Vladimir spins on his heel and marches into the castle.
I do not feel comfortable in this man’s arms. His grip is tighter than necessary, boasting of an intimacy that I am sure Vladimir would not approve of. It is difficult for me to focus on my surroundings as we weave through the darkened interior of the castle.
“Should I be wary of this Verity?” I ask, counting the steps as we mount higher into the stone building. The draft flowing down from above feels delicious against my flushed skin.
He smiles, though there is a tightness to it that concerns me. “Verity would toy with you as a cat toys with a meal. She is cruel, though that description would be fitting for most who live within these walls.”
I cast a glance at him. “Even yourself?”
This time his smile is instantaneous and broad. “Especially myself.”
I can hear several voices behind closed doors as we pass on the second floor. However, Atticus does not leave me in one of the spare rooms. Instead, he begins to ascend to a third floor.
No sounds come from these heights and my heart rate begins to increase with doubt. Why is he taking me away from everyone else? Does he plan to attack me? Will Vladimir come if I scream?
I am surprised by a chuckle that rumbles deep in Atticus’s chest. I glance up to find him smirking down at me. His sharply handsome features are dulled by the dim flickering of candlelight at the top of the stairs. “You look as a little lost lamb being led to the slaughter.”
“Perhaps I am.”
His smile broadens as he ascends a set of stone steps so narrow he is forced to hold me upright, almost to the point where I am staring eye to eye with him. I see the slight darkening of his eyes and the widening of his pupils. His scent shifts and I tense in his arms.
It is too dark here, too remote. “My husband seems rather protective of me,” I comment purposefully
Atticus blinks and nods slowly, his grip loosening minimally as he reaches the top step. “He always is… in the beginning.”
“And after?”
When he shrugs, I come dangerously close to his lips. I press down on his arm as we slip through the narrow doorway into a wide hall and he concedes, letting me settle back in against his chest, a safe distance from his lips. “Vladimir has fine tastes in women, though over time they wane.”
“Do they always?” I pray he does not notice how I hold my breath in anticipation of his answer. Is it possible that Vladimir will tire of me? That I will be cast aside? That I can be free once more?
There is a flickering of torch light at the top of the stairs, and I feel hope. Surely this was prepared for my arrival, yet if that is so, then why was Atticus so surprised to see us return today?
“Vladimir has yet to remain with one woman.” He lifts me so my head does not connect with the doorway as we enter another small hallway with low-hanging wooden beams. The ceiling above is vaulted into a peak, and I realize with a start that we have entered the tallest turret that I spied from below.
Atticus pauses before a wooden door and looks down at me. “Eventually you will be given over to us when he tires with you.” He leans forward to whisper into my ear. My skin prickles at his touch. Fear nestles firmly into my heart. “I look forward to that day.”
I feel numb as he kicks at the bottom of the door and carries me across the threshold into a darkened room. A chill is on the air and the hearth lies cold and dormant. The only light to see by is from the moon that spills in through a glass-paned window on a far wall. “I will send for someone to stoke the fire for you, if you would like.”
Thinking back on the heat of the noonday sun, I shake my head. “That will not be necessary.” He sinks low to place me atop the bed. A small puff of dusts rises around me. “This is to be my room?”
“Indeed.” Atticus rises and dusts off his hands, as if needing to erase the memory of me in his arms. “As I said below, I had thought Vladimir would take his time with you. He does so enjoy the first night.”
I look up. “There have been other wives?”
“Many.” He laughs and moves toward the door, pausing with his hand upon the latch. “And I have bedded every one of them.”
SEVEN
The moon is high overhead. Its light pools on the floor beside the bed. I stare at it, blinking sleep from my eyes as I realize that it is nearly transparent on the wooden floor in the light of the crackling fire nearby. I groan, rubbing my hands over my face, feeling beads of sweat that cling to my brow.
I sit upright, wincing at the throbbing pain in my ankle. Lifting the hem of my dress, I see it is wrapped in cloth and the pain has lessened.
“Just a few more spoonsful and all will be well again,” a singsong voice says from beside me. I shriek and fling out my arm to push the strange girl aside yet feel as if my hand connects with a stone wall. She is nothing more than a wisp of emerald silk and snowy hair. However, I hardly make her bat an eyelash, though she does curl her lip with disapproval. “It is rude to try to strike someone attempting to heal you,” she scolds and rises from the bed.
A bowl stained with a thick crimson liquid sloshes as she sets it on a small wooden table beside the bed. A wooden spoon rattles around the edge of the dish. “Finish this, then call when you need help dressing.”
With her nose lifted high into the air, she turns and slams the door behind her. No name given. No kind word. I assume this must be the Emeline that Vladimir mentioned earlier. She is merely doing Vladimir’s bidding, like everyone else around here.
I stare at the door for several moments after I hear her steps trail off in the hall beyond. There are no other sounds in the turret, though I can hear plenty of action in the castle below. It would appear that a grand feast has been prepared, no doubt in Vladimir’s honor.
Thrusting myself back onto the bed, I sink into the soft blanket. It rises around me, offering comfort where the straw bedding beneath does not.
The blood collecting in the corner of my mouth makes my stomach turn sour. I wipe at my lips until they are raw and aching, spitting to the side until the taste of blood diminishes. Even as I appreciate the fading pain in my ankle, I cannot help but wonder to whom the blood once belonged.
I roll my head to the side and look about my room. Now that there is fire in the hearth, I can easily see my surroundings. The room is nearly as large as the bottom floor of my childhood home. Richly woven tapestries line the stone, giving the dreary walls a splash of color. Wide wooden beams run from wall to wall overhead, the wood a dark mahogany.
The table beside me rises to the top of my thigh, with an intricate carving to match the design that spirals about the four posts of my bed. The linens atop my bed are the finest material I have ever felt, soft and extravagant. Everything about this room boasts great wealth and lavish tastes.
I wonder which of the former wives chose this décor. I turn away from my thoughts as I stare at the dress that has been laid out for me. It is unlike anything I have ever seen before. The design is foreign to me even though my father insisted I remain in the height of fashion when out on parade in Brasov.
The dress is two toned, a soft green of a beautiful spring meadow and the other in rich gold. The tightly fitted corset has been replaced by flexible stays to enable breathing and maneuverability. Flowing lace collars have replaced the stiff ruffles that my sister so dearly loathed.
I reach out and touch the fine material and realize the golden skirt is layered and slightly padded at the hips, producing a full, flowing look. The overskirt opens at the front to form a small train at the back.
The neckline plunges deeply, crisscrossing with delicate golden ribbons. The sleeves are large and gathered just below the elbow. The lace cuff is turned back to expose my wrists and forearm. Rosette ribbons and lace drape from the waistline of the dress. A strand of pearls lies beside.
I run my hands down the front of my soiled corset and feel lost. This place, this dress, these people all feel alien to me. Tears dampen my lower lashes as I turn away to the window and let the arm of the dress fall. The moon is high in the cloudless sky. A frost clings to the glass. I stare at the spider web-like crystals, longing to be outside in the cold, to be free of the sweltering heat within my room.
Only a gentle throbbing now rises from my ankle. I know I will not taste the remainder of the blood to ease my discomfort. I will never willingly accept blood again.
The door opens behind me and Emeline steps through. A look of consternation is firmly planted on her pale-rose lips. “I thought I told you to call when you were ready to dress.”
I look down at myself, noting each speck of grime under my cracked fingernails, each splatter of family blood that tarnishes my beautiful dress. “I am not fit for entertaining.”
Her dark eyebrows rise with surprise. “Do you honestly think you have a choice in the matter?”
She laughs and steps into the room with a rustle of fabric. Her small, pointed shoes tap loudly against the wooden plank floors. “Come.”
When I hesitate, she hisses and points a finger at a low-backed wooden chair that has been placed at the end of my bed. “He is not a patient man.”
“So I hear,” I mutter as I approach the bed once more with great tenderness. She frowns her disapproval, however says nothing. Her silk dress brushes against my arm as she moves past with a fresh bowl of water and cloth in hand.
She does not say a word as she begins removing my corset. I clutch to the front of it as she grows weary of the lacing and tears it apart. “Modesty is unbecoming of a new bride.” She tsks and yanks the corset from my hands.
I cover myself with my hands as she dips the rag into the water and begins scrubbing my flesh with such intensity I fear there will be nothing left. “I am not your bride. You are a stranger to me.”
Her hand clasps down hard onto my shoulder. I gasp in pain as her nails dig into my muscle. “Do you think I enjoy this? I intended to dine with Marcus at the feast. Instead, he is left to the cunning wiles of Verity while I am here tending to the likes of you. If he takes her to bed this night, I will make you atone for this grievance.”
I wrench out of her grasp and spin to glare at her. “I do not care about your love affairs. I want to be left alone. Nothing more.”
A cruel smile tugs at her lips as she leans in and shoves me back into place. Her whisper unsettles the hair at the nape of my neck as she dips low. Her nails draw blood as she increases her grip on my arm. “Vladimir has a taste for pain. How long do you think you will manage to endure before he breaks you, just as he did the others?”
“Are you all so contemptible?”
Emeline laughs as she rises and scrubs flakes of blood from my back. “I am one of the nice ones.”
“Brilliant,” I mutter and clutch my arms tighter beneath my armpits.
She forces me to rise and remove my underclothes. My skin feels feverish from the fire as she works, making sure not to miss a single spot. By the time she helps me ease into my dress, I feel laid bare, violated.
I see the way she smirks at my chest and feel her mockery like a swift kick in the stomach. Her own dress does little to hold back the ample flesh attempting to spring free. While she may have more depth to her curves, I have grace on my side. I am taller than her and my body is clothed in lean muscle that she will never possess.
Yes, she is strong, though it is a mirage of the soft, curvy girl before me. Perhaps men prefer that. I sincerely hope they do so they will leave me be.
“You will have to work hard to make up for your… shortcomings.” She gives my chest a pointed look as she adjusts the fabric overtop. It feels cool against my skin, a pleasant contrast to the hearth fire.
“Perhaps you overestimate the value of your own assets,” I spit back at her. Emeline flushes red and yanks me by the hair until I am seated on the chair once more. She combs through my wet strands with merciless vengeance. I bite down on my lip to stave off my cries. Many strands detach from my head as she hits snag after snag.
Emeline twists my hair at the base of my head with enough force to snap a human’s neck. I gnash my teeth as she jabs a pearl comb into my hair to hold it in place. “Do that again and I will speak with Vladimir of this.”
She grips my face and turns me so I can see her from the corner of my eye. I had anticipated the same fear that Alamesia and Atticus displayed earlier, though what I see is haughty confidence.
“Do you really think he would take your word over mine?” She runs a long fingernail down the side of my cheek, grazing just deep enough to part the skin.
“Do you?” I grab her finger and snap it backward. Pain flares in her eyes as she yanks away her hand, hissing at me like a viper.
Crimson blotches her cheeks as she lurches upright. Her dress is wrinkled and her hair falling from her combs, though she takes no notice of it as she trounces to the door. She turns back in the threshold with a savage grin. “Vladimir will take you tonight and the whole castle well revel in your screams.”
She slams the door behind her and I am left with fear nestled firmly in the pit of my stomach. I know he will come… and pain will surely follow.
EIGHT
I can hear the laughter from below, raucous and bellowing, as the moon begins to shift in the sky. I pace my room, wringing my hands at my waist as I wait, pondering what awaits me.
My ankle throbs only a little, hardly enough to distract me from my anxiety. The shoes Emeline left for me are a tight fit. My toes curl painfully in the pointed tips. The heels are higher than my usual slippers and I find walking in them to be very trying.
