Once Upon a Forbidden Desire, page 11
“I didn’t mind about yesterday at all,” he heard himself say.
What was he doing? That wasn’t the plan. The plan was winning her trust, flattering her until she allowed him to take her outside, and then fade her into Raghnar’s greedy hands. But her eyes lit up with such vivid excitement, such warmth, that he didn’t have the heart to take it back.
It hadn’t been a lie anyway.
“We could … repeat it?” she suggested, her berry-red lips twitching into a mischievous smile so alarmingly alluring that he forgot to breathe. “That would be a better present than that dagger of yours.”
Egill glanced down. Now that he looked at the dagger again, he wasn’t sure why he had thought it worth a handful of gold.
“Clearly,” he said, shoving it aside, “it would be dangerous to refuse you anything, my little treasure.”
“Very dangerous.” She bit her lip—another gesture that really had no right looking so damn attractive. “You’d better promise to bring me something better tomorrow and make up for it now.”
He promised, in long and flowery sentences, until she swatted the tip of her braid at him. Then he fucked her over the table until they were both breathless and bone-tired and the tea had gone cold in their cups.
HE THOUGHT A little longer the next day and brought her a painting.
Just a quick sketch of the Elderburg market square, barely worth a single silver coin. But Rapunzel danced around the room with it for minutes and then asked two dozen questions about the tea shops and the cobblestone streets and the stands where they sold the world’s tiniest pancakes, until at last Egill couldn’t help himself in the face of so much elated joy and kissed her.
One thing led to another. He was missing several pieces of clothing when he returned home that afternoon.
At dinner he told Raghnar about his valiant efforts to lure the little diamond out, the riches he’d seen, the wars she could win them … but the next day he brought her jars of scented honey from the phoenix markets on Phurys, and licking the fragrant sweetness from her fingers was entirely too enjoyable to bring up the topic of leaving.
He gave her another painting the next day and made sweet love to her as she mused on ocean landscapes. He brought her flower crowns from the nymph isles and found her in nothing but a flower crown the next morning. He showed her blood amulets from the vampires on Rhudak and ended up being chased around the tower, trying not to trip over her braid or choke on his laughter as she threatened to bite him, too.
She did, in the end, and he didn’t mind much.
And with every day that passed, going home seemed a little less relevant. With every night that passed, the stories he spun Raghnar tasted closer to lies.
AFTER A MONTH and a day, he felt it for the first time. A little tug at his chest when he climbed out, like his heart skipping a beat in the wrong direction—the sensation small enough for him to tell himself he’d never felt it at all.
It didn’t return the next day, and he congratulated himself on having imagined it. But two days later it was back, a scratch on his heart when he left for another evening of lies and betrayal, and blaming his own imagination became significantly harder.
He still managed to ignore the matter for an entire week. He made sure to be lucky, after all, and this … this would be some terrible luck.
But eight days after that first disconcerting flutter—after a most enjoyable morning spent tying Rapunzel’s hands to a bedpost with strands of her own hair—the yank on his heart was so violent that he winced in the windowsill and nearly dropped eight feet into the grass.
“Egill!” The concern in her voice was worth another sting of pain. “Are you hurt?”
Oh, fuck.
“Nothing worrisome,” he managed. “I strained a few muscles on the stairs yesterday.”
She giggled, blushing rosily. “I’ll take good care of you tomorrow, then.”
Tomorrow.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He faded while he grabbed his sword from the grass and stumbled straight into a bedroom wall at home. That gnawing at his heart. A feeling he’d never felt before, that he didn’t recognize … but it was described in such painstaking detail in every alf ballad ever composed that he didn’t need anyone’s confirmation to know what was happening.
He was bonding.
To her.
Which would have happened sooner or later, of course, if he’d continued these tower visits—it was the nature of alves to end up irreversibly linked to any partner coming close enough. But in a month? Bonding took years. Decades, sometimes. Hell, Raghnar’s bloody daughter inspired such an utter lack of interest in him that it might have taken centuries and several heirs. For this to happen so soon …
Orin help him. She had to be perfect.
She was perfect. He rested his forehead against the wall and drew in the scent of pine and resin—the bloody gods knew she was not so much delightful but rather delight itself, his precious little nemesis, his most beloved downfall. But if he bonded to her, if he allowed himself to follow that insistent tug that would always lead towards her …
There would be no way back.
He’d be a lost male without her—that, too, was the nature of alves. He wouldn’t be able to stand Raghnar using her for his selfish ends, wouldn’t survive it, perhaps; wouldn’t look at the bride he’d been promised ever again. Which would make him a dishonorable bastard at best and an oathbreaker at worst.
The gods-damned opposite of what he had set out to be. Of what he’d given his heart and honor to become: head of his own house, commander to his own warriors.
Why would I need daggers to tell the world how wonderful I am?
He reached over his shoulder without thinking, settling his fingers around Heartfall’s familiar hilt, the leather shaped by his fingers over the years. Naming that sword, still young and reckless, he hadn’t assumed it was his heart that would be falling.
But all wasn’t lost yet.
He repeated that to himself, gripping his blade like the last log of driftwood between him and drowning—there was a way out of this mess. If he put a stop to it now, if he simply ceased visiting that bloody tower and told Raghnar that Gothel had been too cunning … well, he’d still not have his bride and his house, but at least he wouldn’t be the laughingstock for generations to come. He’d find another way. He’d find his luck again.
If he went back to Rapunzel’s tower, on the other hand …
He was in too deep. He could feel it in his bones, that truth he’d tried to deny—so, so close to falling and never getting up again. A single day more might be too much.
Hell. He had to think. Had to make some hard and clear decisions and make them fast, because if he continued like this … the decisions would soon make themselves.
THE HORIZON WAS empty.
Rapunzel sat in the windowsill and stared out over the plain, the lake, the mountain ridges—at the world she now knew to lie beyond, in smells and tastes and colors. The gems in her hands crackled as she thoughtlessly changed their shapes and textures.
He should have been here by now.
He should have been here an hour ago.
Had something gone wrong? Had he been hurt? Nonsense, she tried to tell herself, he was the champion of Linne and Raghnar of Svirla’s favorite—but if nothing had happened to him, she had to draw other unpleasant conclusions.
If he could have been here, she had no choice but to assume he didn’t want to be.
That odd wince yesterday … Had she said anything wrong? Called him an idiot once too often? But that didn’t make sense. He liked it when she called him an idiot, didn’t he?
Didn’t he?
She turned away, flung her gems aside, and hurried up the stairs to her bedroom wardrobe. Egill’s many gifts lay hidden behind piles of dresses and socks and coats. They felt reassuring in her hands, the dried flowers and the food and the many paintings and drawings—no, he would come back. Of course he would. No one would make all this effort for nothing, would they?
But the plain remained empty.
The hours crawled by like years; she moved from window to wardrobe and back again, running every gift through her hands, arranging them in her blankets as if they would magically pull him back to her. Gods, why was she sitting here stuck in this stupid tower, unable to find out whether he was even dead or alive? Perhaps he’d been called away for other missions … but what would be so urgent he couldn’t fade by to let her know he’d be back tomorrow?
“Rapunzel?”
She dropped her painting as her heart slammed into her throat.
And then—one heart-wrenching moment too late—she realized it hadn’t been Egill’s voice.
Gothel. Had so much time gone by already? She rushed to the window to find that unmistakable head of black curls at the foot of her tower. Oh, Orin help her. No time to shove the pile of gifts back into the closet—not without raising suspicion.
“Coming!” she got out, her voice too shrill, and raced down to the living room. She’d have to be clever, she resolved as she flung her hair down. How hard could it be to keep Gothel from her bedroom?
She was still blinking the bitter tears away when Gothel clambered over the windowsill with catlike grace, the knives at her belt shining in the sunlight. One look at her, and Orin’s priestess sharply said, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing!” Rapunzel blurted. Everything. Reeling in her hair, glad for the excuse to look away, she sheepishly added, “I just … accidentally looked into the sun.”
Gothel raised a slender eyebrow as she shook the usual bag of food from her shoulders. “The sun’s on the other side of the tower, Rapunzel. What is it?”
“A … a headache?” Gods be damned, she was bad at this. She’d never needed to lie to her guardians before. “I’ve slept poorly, perhaps. I’ll feel better tomorrow.”
“I told you so many times you shouldn’t sleep with the windows closed,” Gothel said with an exasperated sigh. “Let me make sure you get some fresh air in …”
“No!” Rapunzel lunged forward, then realized dragging the other woman away from the stairs wouldn’t be any less suspicious. “I mean … there’s no need for that, Gothel. I’ve been airing the room all day!”
Gothel stared at her. “Rapunzel. What are you hiding?”
“Hiding?” She swallowed. “What would I be hiding?”
“That’s exactly what I’m wondering,” Gothel said. Before Rapunzel could stop her, her guardian was climbing the steps two at a time, far too fast to stop her—
“What is this?”
Oh, no.
“Good gods, Rapunzel.” Was that anger or bewilderment? “Where did you get all these things? It’s—Orin help us, is this Phurys honey? That stuff costs a fortune these days!”
Rapunzel stood paralyzed, shivering, squeezing her eyes shut.
“Who’s been bringing you this?” Gothel jumped down in a single supple motion, Egill’s wolf dagger in her hand. “This is an alf weapon, little turnip. And not a cheap one, either—whoever gave you this, what did they want?”
“Nothing!” Well, except her gems—but he no longer cared about those, did he? “Really, Gothel, it was just a present from—from a friend—he’s been visiting me—to chat—”
“Who, Rapunzel?”
She swallowed again, her throat all thorns and thistles.
“Rapunzel.” She knew that tone. “I will find out, girl, and if you don’t tell me yourself, I’ll assume the worst about this friend of yours. So who was it?”
The worst.
Rapunzel glanced at those knives—bearing the magic of Orin himself, against which even the champion of Linne wouldn’t stand a chance—and breathed, “Egill.”
Gothel stiffened.
“But he’s been very friendly!” She looked up, words spilling over her lips. “Honestly, Gothel, there’s no need to hurt him!”
“Oh, Rapunzel.” Gothel let out an exasperated laugh as she flung the alf dagger into the couch and sank down at the table. “Oh, you poor, silly little turnip—Egill of Gjalheim, you say? Arrogant alf bastard?”
“You … you’ve heard of him?”
“Of course I’ve heard of him,” Gothel said sharply. “According to our informants, he’s been promising you to bloody Raghnar of Svirla in return for the bastard’s daughter’s hand.”
Rapunzel gaped at her.
“I didn’t think to warn you about it,” Gothel added, rubbing her fingers over her temple. “There are ten different idiots scheming to abduct you at any given time, you’d never have a calm day—and I assumed you’d warn me if any sweet-talking alf warriors showed up.”
Sweet-talking. The … the hand of Raghnar’s daughter? Rapunzel felt her own voice crack as she muttered, “But … but what if he changed his mind about it?”
Gothel scoffed. “Since the day before yesterday?”
“Since … what?”
“That’s when he was last telling Raghnar about his plans to lure you from this tower. I had no idea he was already … did he get in, Rapunzel?”
She no longer knew what to answer.
She no longer knew how to speak.
He got in, yes. He got far further than that. He’d made her think … hell, that he loved her? All those gifts … Had he just been preparing for some backhanded proposal to show her the beauty of the world outside?
So he could go marry some other damn girl?
“Oh, Rapunzel,” Gothel said again, the disappointment in her voice so thick Rapunzel felt like withering on the spot. “I thought you’d be wiser than that.”
“But … he …” The floor swayed. “But …”
“I’ll talk about this with Orin. Until then …” Gothel got up. Rapunzel, gaze fixed on the table, couldn’t look at her. “Until then, I shouldn’t leave the key to this tower in your hands.”
“The … what?”
Metal shrieked behind her.
A knife? Rapunzel tried to whirl around and found she couldn’t. Gothel’s hand had locked around her braid, and before she could process what was happening, there was a tug at her hair …
And lightness.
Rapunzel stumbled forward, the familiar weight suddenly gone. Her hair.
Her hair was gone.
“Gothel!” What was happening? What had she done? She staggered around, voice cracking, “Gothel, what are you—”
“I’m taking matters into my own hands,” Gothel interrupted, tying a ribbon around the ragged end of those feet and feet of hair—her hair. Tears sprung in Rapunzel’s eyes as she felt the back of her head and found only frayed plucks where her braid had been.
“How—how could you …”
“How could you allow some alf into this home without telling me?” Gothel said sharply. “We wouldn’t have been in this mess if you had been sensible, girl. Now go upstairs and let me deal with that liar, will you?”
That liar. Egill. “But … but …”
“It wasn’t a suggestion, Hadewych.”
Rapunzel stared at her guardian, her sight suddenly misty. But he should have been here already. But something is wrong—so very wrong. She didn’t dare to speak the words anymore. All she wanted was to crawl beneath her bed and wait for everything to be over—Gothel’s wrath and her hair and Egill’s betrayal.
Lure you from this tower.
A sob escaped her lips. She turned without another word, fled upstairs, and huddled below her blankets like when she was six years old and plagued by nightmares.
In return for the bastard’s daughter’s hand.
How could he? How could he! And yet, even sobbing into the darkness, she found herself wishing he wouldn’t come back at all. At least then she could tell herself he’d changed his mind. At least then he wouldn’t have to face Gothel’s magic.
Hours went by as she lay curled up in the darkness, wishing she would just stop existing.
Then …
“Rapunzel?”
Oh, no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
Dusk had fallen when she peeked out below her blankets. She wanted to reply, wanted to tell him she hated him, wanted to warn him to flee … but Gothel would be furious.
Orin might be furious.
She clenched her fingers into her blankets and bit her tongue.
“Rapunzel?” He sounded exhausted. “Rapunzel, let down your hair. Please. I have to tell you something.”
Her hair. She let out another sob. She’d never let down her hair again. She’d …
“Oh, thank you,” Egill said hoarsely outside, “thank you, thank you,” and only then did she realize what must have happened.
Gothel had let down her hair.
Her hair.
She shot straight up in bed, breath shallow, fury and fear mingling to a sickening whirlwind in her chest. Why must Gothel be the one to deal with the bastard’s betrayal, damn it? Why couldn’t she tell him he was a monster and a sorry excuse for a champion? And why did he have to … to …
To get hurt?
Why did she still want him?
Rapunzel closed her eyes. He deserved it, she told herself. He’d lied to her. He’d used her as a means to an end, toyed with her while he wanted some bloody alf girl instead, and …
A cry sounded downstairs. Alarm and shock and pain.
And she was running.
She hurtled down the stairs without thinking, stumbling and staggering without the familiar weight of her hair. No. No. Her living room emerged in flickering candlelight, the flames reflecting a thousand times in the crystals covering the walls, illuminating …
Blood.
So much blood.
And Egill’s body on the floor, his sword nowhere to be seen, his shirt torn to shreds by Gothel’s knives, his torso more wound than skin.
“Rapunzel.” Gothel’s voice was a whiplash. “I told you to stay—”
“No,” she cried, staggering forward. No, her thoughts echoed. There was blood in his hair, too—those silken locks she’d played with so many times. “No, you can’t—”
“Rapunzel, step aside.”
She didn’t step aside.
