Page 52 of Thorns and Echoes

Drantar had been his home. The Night Courts, the House of Shadows, his friends, and… the palace. He had slept in the palace. He had slept with–

Frances dabbed at his chest with a wet cloth. Sucking in a breath, Castien held still.

A line of sharp claw tips scraped his inner thigh. “You told me she loves you. Do you love her, my pretty toy?”

“… No, Mistress.”

He felt nothing. Not even fear.

Her lips curved into the beginnings of a smile. “Good. You shouldn't. She’s a traitor, a tyrant, a murdering whore.”

No, Anais was none of those things.

He blinked.

Mistress leaned in. “Say it. The bitch Queen Anais is a whore.”

His lips parted. A shaky breath drew into his lungs. He wanted to say the words. No – not exactly. He wanted to please her, which meant obeying her. Mistress was happy when he obeyed. The tip of his tongue touched his teeth.

A muffled voice called through the door. “Your majesty!”

Her head snapped to the door. “What is it?!”

“The spy. We found him.”

When her attention released him, Castien breathed a soft sigh. Beside him, Frances narrowed his eyes.

Mistress straightened, then peered down with a crooked, cruel smile. “Bring him here.”

The door opened. In walked a guard dragging an old man. The mute who brought his dinner. Pity shone in elderly eyes. Curious that he could easily read other people's emotions when all he felt was hollow.

His Mistress twitched her fingers, beckoning the guard and his captive closer. She scowled, then glanced sideways at Castien. “Do you recognize him, toy?”

Castien lowered his gaze. “Yes, Mistress.”

She hissed, “Friend of yours, is he? Not for long. Watch.”

The moment he lifted his eyes, her claws swiped across the old man’s neck. Red spilled in gurgling waves. The man tumbled to the floor.

The Queen turned and caressed his cheek. Blood trickled down his face in cooling lines.

“No one is coming to save you this time. You are mine – forever.”

—

His skin itched. The bandages on his back and chest were uncomfortable beneath a too-tight silk shirt. His legs felt constrained – not by leather or chains, but by the pants that hugged his body. He was grateful for the freedom of movement, however.

It was only that he hadn't worn clothes in such a long time. Everything itched. But he had to stay still. Back straight, head down, don't move from the pillow. Mistress said so.

Her claws sifted through his hair. Risking her anger, he tilted his head slightly into her touch. His shoulder leaned against the cool metal of her throne. It was soothing. As long as she was near, he'd be fine.

The voices in the throne room quieted. He stifled an urge to scratch his wrists. No one was looking at him now, but theycould at any moment. He must be still. He must not embarrass her.

Tall marble pillars held up a vaulted ceiling where crystal chandeliers cast an orange glow down the white columns. It reminded him of a sunset, and that he hadn’t seen one in a while. Sunsets from the Queen’s balcony were particularly lovely. The lake glowed like molten gold. The green of her eyes–

Mistress’ eyes weren’t green. He blinked and refocused on the room.

Down rows of seats filled with courtiers sauntered a man bearing two curved swords at his hips. A long coat swished as though blown by the wind. Gold and precious gems sparkled across his attire. Behind him strode a pair of tall, beautiful women wearing similar but less ostentatious clothes. They carried a small chest between them.