Page 13 of Shadows and Roses (The Dark Queens #1)

Castien

His first week in the Queen’s Wing involved unlearning everything from the last moon.

Combat training was mandatory for everyone in the Inner Circle. There were different tutors for different skill levels. During his assessment, a group of youths trained in the same room. They stole glances at him, whispered and giggled to each other, overall exasperating their tutor. The children seemed to be having… fun.

Again, he was struck by their innocence. They reminded him of his own childhood—in the streets with his friends, not in his House.

One of the children suddenly darted to the door. "It’s the Queen!"

Castien’s hand tightened on his blade.

All the children turned and ran. Toward her. He waited in the back, watching their bright smiles and little bows, listening to their chorus of a respectful greeting and clamor of childish nonsense.

"Joane said you promised her a puppy. Can I have one, too?"

"Are green roses real? I couldn’t find one in the garden."

"Anais, look! Look! I learned this lunge today!"

He watched her smile at their antics, answering their questions patiently, gently, while also casually dodging the wayward wooden sword. She lifted her eyes and greeted him with the same easy smile despite his brusque nod in return.

The children, thinking him shy, tugged and herded him until he stood before her.

"My Queen." He bowed stiffly. Correctly, of course. Precisely correctly.

"Hello, Escort," she said in the same warm voice she'd been using with the children.

One of the girls piped up. "Show her that spin with the sword you just learned!"

Anais looked interested. "Oh? Learning quickly, are you?"

Despite his unease, a corner of his lips lifted. "Best I not try to show you; it would be embarrassing to drop it now."

Her eyes twinkled. He stared at that emerald-to-forest spark of amusement, the warmth that was never present in the court. So strange. So beautiful.

"Keep practicing, Castien."

He blinked. "I will, my Queen."

Then a young girl smacked her in the leg with the flat of a wooden blade. He tensed.

"Sorry!" The girl blushed.

"It’s alright, Lady Destra. Here, try it like this…"

The children took over the conversation.

It was impossible to reconcile this motherly, loving woman with the icy, cruel Dark Queen. But none of this seemed to be a facade; she appeared to truly enjoy this interaction. She didn't swat the small hands gently tugging at her dress to get her attention. They knew she was their Queen, but she was also their friend.

Her words might never have convinced him, but he wasn’t certain how the reactions of these children could be anything but genuine.

The court was utter madness, and he’d assumed her Inner Circle—her family—must be even worse. They were a sort of madness: the alluring sort.

—

Dinners were casual. The dining room in the Queen’s Wing was as utilitarian as everything else, with stone floors and simple but solid wood tables. Perhaps militant was more accurate—the barracks was similarly arranged. Various Escorts and other Inner Circle wandered in and out of the room throughout the evening. The Escorts seemed to alternate meals in the court. Today, he joined a few of them.

"Captain Jerome. Lord Darius. Milady—"

Darius snorted before bursting out in laughter. Madeline covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking as she gestured for Castien to sit. "Oh, please, please don’t call him Lord anything. We don’t stand on ceremony here, and he hates it."

Recovered from his outburst, Darius grinned. "Besides, you’re one of us. You’ll never hear me call you Prince ."

Taking a seat beside Darius, Castien gave a cautious smile. "Fair enough." Then he turned to the captain. "Is the Queen about? I’ve never seen her without you."

"She is bathing."

Curt, as usual.

Darius laughed again. "Oh, he’s learning! He tried to follow her into her bathing chambers once. She pushed him out with her sword at his navel."

Jerome's lips tightened briefly.

Madeline interjected, "Be fair, Darius. There was an assassination attempt just that day prior. Our captain had reason to worry more than usual."

Jerome's unease seemed to grow, his shoulders stiffening. He ate without looking at them.

"I'm sure she appreciates your vigilance, Captain," Castien offered.

Jerome favored him with an irritated flick of his eyes.

Darius leaned closer and muttered loudly, "Don’t worry. He doesn’t much like me either."

Castien glanced between Darius and Jerome. "Is there… a leader of the Escorts? Besides the Queen."

Darius shook his head. "No. Well, Vern maybe, but he never pulls rank. The Escort thing is mostly for the nobles. We don't care about station here."

Because they were family. It was impossible not to see, and if it was an elaborate game, Castien couldn't fathom the purpose.

Out of curiosity, he asked Darius, "You’re officially a courtesan, correct? Are you and the Queen… lovers?"

Darius shrugged. "You could say that, on occasion. The courtesan thing is never a requirement."

Madeline’s eyes twinkled. "She calls it stress relief."

Darius choked and coughed, then laughed. Jerome gave them a faintly disgusted glance and walked off.

Castien smiled, hiding a twinge of guilt. They were much like his own friends—normal. Normal, happy people who seemed to care for each other. No hint of cruelty behind their playfulness. No threats, no guile. If this was real, perhaps there was hope.

After combat was lessons in court behavior—what he could and could not say or do, how to react and deflect from the activities in the Queen's Wing. Mostly, he should say nothing and react not at all.

Easier said than done.

The Escorts alternated this task, drilling him whenever they had time. Even the Queen joined on occasion, a shard of familiar ice in her voice when she advised him to never stop a whipping .

"They cannot think you weak," she said. "No matter what you said or did before, you are not that person any longer. After a week under my tender care, you are an extension of me. Nothing else."

There did not need to be a discussion of him keeping this all a secret. They both knew he would not see harm come to children. But to trust him to behave correctly, to not break the illusion even unintentionally—it seemed a great leap of faith. He said as much.

She smiled. "The nobles will see what they want to see. What I’ve trained them to see. If you falter, that is only to be expected of a broken toy."

A broken toy.

It chilled him to hear her say the words. This court broke people— she broke people. The slave girl. Whispers of others, a game of returning tortured souls to their nations. That the Escorts were not truly broken was of little comfort. The memory of the dead servant boy warred with the laughter of children, and the warmth of family.

His doubts wouldn’t prevent his return to court. He should pay attention.

"They’ll expect you at my side," Anais was saying. "My newest conquest, tamed to my hand. It will not be pleasant."

"Is the court ever pleasant?" Castien raised a brow.

Laureline sipped her tea and laughed. "Oh, they can be quite charming if they wish. In fact, now that you’re someone of note, they’ll bow and scrape and absolutely adore you—if they think that will get them what they want."

But Castien was watching Anais and her crossed fingers, her placid smile. She appeared, in all ways, calm. Something in him recognized the mask. She always wore a mask, didn’t she?

"They’ll expect me to be a proper Queen’s toy," he murmured. Her chin dipped.

If she wanted reassurance, he wasn't certain what to say. The thought of returning to that cesspit was unpleasant enough on its own. To be the center of attention, even with protection—his body tensed.

She placed her hand over his. "Jerome still sometimes almost stabs people, but you were already doing well. Trust me, and yourself."

Her hand was so small, dainty and gentle but for the sharpened claws and thick calluses against his skin. Castien looked into the soft forest-green so at odds with the unyielding ice of the Dark Queen.

Trust her?

By the end of the week, he did.

—

He shouldn't have worried about the nobles.

He sat at the Queen’s left, her claws occasionally using his arm as a resting place, petting him absently like he belonged to her.

The darkness inside him purred.

It was a good thing he was forced to be aloof, to bite his tongue and not react to the nobles, or shocked stillness would surely have shown on his face. The part of him that liked to play wanted to feel the stroke of her claws on his back, wanted to lean into her neck and drag his tongue—

He caught himself almost parting his lips, quickly readjusting to a grimacing scowl at the nobles who sulked, taunted, and jabbed at him, letting their infuriating nonsense distract him. After a week free of their acerbic personalities, he found that he hated them more than ever. It was a good distraction .

In turn, Anais grounded him from his hatred. The cold, possessive looks she threw at him also contained a hint of amusement, as though this was all a joke they shared at the court’s expense. When she took his hand for a kiss, it was easy to be enraptured by her sultry gaze, to pretend they were lovers.

They’d prepared him for this too, asked him what he was comfortable with, and told him what she might do.

Unnecessary.

His body didn't care that the Queen burned her subjects alive, murdered children, allowed her court's atrocities. No. In focusing on her, his body did what it was trained to do—react and please.

Two hours into their performance, as her claw stroked down his cheek and drew him to her lips, he’d forgotten the nobles, wanting only to taste her. Lost in the heady scent of roses, he wouldn’t have cared if she’d shredded his shirt then, as her other hand threatened to do. The hand that was stroking down his chest until she was gripping his thigh.

An inch to the right and she might —

Her fingers brushed him.

He hissed into her mouth, his muscles tensing. She released him and leaned away.

It was not disappointment he felt when her attention returned to the court. That would be juvenile—as juvenile as the intense desire she’d awakened in him. He fought to control his expression. Not for the court—they wouldn’t find it amiss that the Queen’s toy was left wanting. Not for her either; he could tell she didn’t mind his touch.

No, he needed to control his body’s desire to dive headlong into disaster.

He needed to remind himself that she was the Queen, that no matter how different she seemed in private, she was still capable of terrible, horrible, sadistic cruelty—else she wouldn't be Queen for long. Necessity might— might— dictate her actions, but they were still her choices, her will.

Every day that they spent in her protected halls made it harder to remember his wariness. Every time she smiled at him, even in that cold, possessive way, made him want more than a taste. When she brushed against his unmistakable desire today, he would have let her take him then and there.

And regretted it the moment his sanity returned. This ridiculous lust was making him a fool. Apparently a week or two without sex was all it took for him to be panting after anyone who gave him a second glance. But that was a lie—the courtiers did more than glance and they still disgusted him. Thankfully.

Later, after they entered the privacy of the Queen's Wing, she turned to him with a distant expression. "I apologize for the need to display you."

He matched her neutral tone. "It was tolerable."

She winced.

More than tolerable, if he was honest. He offered, "I apologize for my… reaction."

A faint, amused smile. "It made it more genuine. And flattering besides."

Flattering? His eyes fell to her lips. He could do more than flatter.

She took a step closer, her lips parting.

Her dutiful guardian cleared his throat. "My Queen. Your meeting."

A flicker crossed her brow, and she stepped back again. "Good evening, Escort," she said before leaving him wondering if he was going mad.

He was the most celebrated whore in the nation. The Prince of the Night. A Queen’s ransom for his life. Yet he fell apart at a glance from her. He’d kept the black rose, its dried petals invading his dreams. Perhaps the court was breaking him, after all. It was a sobering thought.

—

Away from her, in the soft silence of the night, he remembered the Dark Queen. Her Inner Court may not be a lie, but why was it so disparate? Why could she not enact change amongst the nobles, in the nation? Damon— His friends would follow her, once they understood. She could change the world.

So why hadn’t she?

With his reintroduction to court, the royal court gave Castien a wider berth. Calculating wariness instead of cruel amusement colored their watchful gazes. He could go where he pleased. No one stopped him. No one questioned him.

He strode toward the kitchens. Pausing, a scuff of his boot rubbed the doorframe. He continued in, requested a fresh tray of pastries and a servant to follow him. A young girl with a bruise on her cheek balanced the tray carefully as they walked away. She made a small noise when she saw where they were going.

Castien turned to her. The hall was empty. "I’ll take that from here. You may return."

She paled. "It’s not a problem, sir, I can—"

"Return."

"...Yes, Escort."

He watched her scurry back toward the kitchens. Sighing, he stepped through the rose-scented passage and into the courtesan’s hall.

Jesamin sat on a bench near the entrance, braiding her hair. She looked well. Wearing a white, translucent dress, Castien could see no bruises, no scars. Small blessings. As he approached, she hopped to her feet.

"Castien! Oh— I mean, E-Escort…" Jesamin swallowed, her eyes falling to his bracers, to the coiled whip on his wrist.

How he hated fear. Extending his arm, he offered the tray. She hastily grabbed it with both hands. His fingers circled her right wrist. The tray wobbled, the girl froze.

His deft fingers twisted, snapped, and lifted, leaving a strip of leather binding her wrist. Jesamin stared at it unmoving still. She seemed unable to breathe.

"You are mine. Escorts are allowed a companion—" Castien began.

"I know," she whispered. Her hands trembled. "I mean… yes, sir. Should I go with you now?"

He stepped back. "No. This is to repay a debt. Nothing more."

She stared and stared. Did she understand? Her eyes finally met his, slowly. "This is too much…"

"Then I will take it back when I wish."

The fear lessened—not entirely, but better. She bowed over the tray, then took it to their communal table.

Standing beside the bathing hall, the Master of Courtesans inclined his head just slightly.

Castien’s eyes lingered on Jesamin. It was too little. But if he could do this much, why couldn’t the Queen do more? He wanted to believe there was good in her. The children laughed and played. The warning with the hawk, the little slips in her mask.

He turned to leave. In the middle of his conflicted musings, he didn’t notice the lady approaching until she’d stepped right up to him.

"Marissa," he greeted with no amount of affection.

The lady smirked at his chest before flicking her eyes up. "Why, hello, Escort. If you didn’t find your pleasures here, I’ll be more than happy to tend to your needs." Her claws reached out, just barely not touching him.

Castien refused to step back. "I have no needs or wants that you could possibly satisfy."

Her smile faltered, then sharpened. "You’re still just a whore. The Queen will tire of you eventually." Brushing him as she moved past, she snapped, "Jesamin!"

The girl rushed over, bowing. "My lady—"

"This is new. Why do you have this?" Marissa snatched the girl’s hand, glaring at the leather on her wrist.

Jesamin glanced at Castien. "I…"

Marissa followed her gaze and chuckled. "I see. Mmm, you do have fine taste, Escort. She’s a sweet girl. Very different from the Queen." Laughing brightly, the lady dropped Jesamin’s hand. Instead, the leather of a whip encircled her other wrist. "You’ll serve me in the gardens today. Unless the Escort protests?"

He very nearly did. Jesamin shook her head slightly, and this time, he deferred to her more experienced judgment.

Mostly. "Take care of her, Marissa. I don’t like my toys broken any more than the Queen does."

The lady grinned wider, her laughter cruel as she left the courtesans’ hall.

Castien watched them go. Had he truly helped, or only made the girl more of a target?

As much as he wanted to ensure Jesamin’s safety, he feigned disinterest and returned to the kitchens. He needed to trust the bracers instead of gifting the nobles a way to provoke him.

The same man was already there, dressed as a messenger this time. Interesting. Castien passed him a slip of paper. Appropriate. "Tell him I’m safe. If I know him at all, he’s preparing a rescue mission. Please refrain from being an idiot, my words exactly. He’ll recognize my signature."

The man nodded. "Is that all?"

Castien hesitated. "For now." He was still too uncertain. His friends would have to be satisfied.