Page 14 of Shadows and Roses (The Dark Queens #1)

Castien swept his blade in a graceful arc. Octavius scowled and shook his head. Graceful, but not practical. Castien shrugged, shifted his stance, and tried again.

Ringing steel made him pause.

Anais strode into the otherwise empty combat circles. Castien's tutor slowly lowered his blade.

She snapped, "Octavius. Spar with me." Her eyes flicked impatiently to the courtesan. "He can observe."

Castien backed away while Octavius frowned. "Jerome—"

Her blade sliced the air to point accusingly at her guard, who stood still at the entrance. "My captain refuses to spar. Escort. Now."

The Master-at-arms grumbled and raised his practice sword.

"Live blades," she snapped. With a glance at Jerome's dark glower, Octavius complied.

She struck a moment after he declared his readiness.

Castien wasn't sure what he was supposed to learn. The speed, fluidity, and efficiency of her movements were beyond his ability to follow, much less emulate. Octavius managed to keep up, with somewhat less impressive sword work, but still effective.

Mesmerized by their deadly dance, he fell into the encroaching desire to touch her taut muscles, soothe the tension that was evident in her voice.

"The bitches want a war we can't win. They can only see an inch beyond their noses and don't care what happens next."

Their swords clashed with every few words. Her speed increased while she spoke, his heart beating faster as well. This was the Queen speaking, not the warm, kind woman who hugged children. This was the Queen of the Escorts, the Queen of the Inner Circle, a Queen he could respect.

"They're provoking Nadraken. Not just raids on villages. They're attacking forts and pushing further."

Her words hardly mattered to him. They were moving at dangerous speeds. A misstep in a dance might lead to a strained ankle. A misstep with live blades? Castien held his breath.

"Nadraken bolstered their defenses, of course. Our idiots want reinforcements. It's all a waste. Lives thrown at nothing!"

They stopped. The tip of her blade hovered at Octavius' neck, the Master-at-arms holding his hands far apart in surrender.

She breathed rapidly, but it seemed more from anger than exertion. Soft hair curved around her neck. He wanted to brush it back. Her form was still perfect, still—

"Beautiful," Castien exhaled, the word escaping his lips.

She blinked and jerked her sword back, the first awkward motion she'd made. Octavius slowly lowered his arms.

"My apologies, Master Octavius. Thank you. There will be a council in two hours, we will discuss this then." She glanced at Castien. "Escort." Then strode back out of the hall.

The Master-at-arms rubbed his throat and shook his head. His sword slid back into its sheath. "Be careful interrupting her in that mood. Surrender is the best way to snap her out of it. You got lucky."

Now that she wasn't here to distract him, his suspicion returned. "She could've killed you."

Octavius shook his head. "She wouldn't. She would never hurt any of us. And if she needed to, our lives are hers."

"That's a remarkable amount of trust for someone who behaves the way she does."

Octavius paused. "Boy. Do not insult that which you do not understand."

Castien looked at him warily. That was the same tone he'd threatened to use a whip with.

The man's lips thinned when Castien's eyes flicked to his wrist. "The whips aren't used here. You won't be punished for a mild insult—our disappointment should be enough."

Castien bowed his head in apology. "I don't know how to be two people." It wasn't an accusation. He struggled to maintain distance at court, to not lash out at the nobles' cruelties, to not intercede every time a servant was abused.

Octavius considered him. "Hm. Do you not behave differently for your House clients?"

Castien shrugged. "No. My Master once said I'm so effective because I am my House persona. Most of it wasn't an act."

Octavius snorted, mumbled something unintelligible. Probably about his arrogance; he’d heard that often. Then the healer looked amused. "You'll figure it out. But Anais? She's been doing this all her life, since the moment she could form the smallest sentence. She is incapable of hurting us."

"Then why were you afraid of her?"

Octavius frowned and didn't speak for several moments.

"Not fear, boy," he finally said. "She hates losing control. We know she won't harm us. She doesn't have that same faith in herself."

—

Combat training continued. To his surprise, Anais joined them several days every week. She was so small, it was easy to forget how deadly she was. But watching her fluid, agile movements reminded him that she was born a fighter .

Slick sweat gleamed on her supple muscles. A goddess . Inhaling sharply, his mind backed away from that thought, but he didn't stop watching her.

What was it about her that made him want to touch, caress, knead those muscles into relaxed surrender? He could, so easily, if she lay spread out before him, his oiled fingers working her skin until she fell into blissful sleep. Or playing along her curves and brushing sensitive strokes until she moaned his name.

He blinked, almost failing to block a basic strike from his irritable tutor. Octavius’ perpetual scowl seemed darker in the training circles. The Master-at-arms would be even more aggravated if he knew Castien’s thoughts.

Especially the image of her naked and writhing beneath him while he barely held back. Chasing his own pleasure wasn't the goal, usually. But with her, it might be difficult to restrain himself.

"Dead." The tip of a blade pressed against his chest and Master Octavius glowered at him. "You're daydreaming again. Get it out of your system before it gets you killed."

Castien glared back, batting aside the dull blade. "I'm fine. You can't expect me to be a swordsman in two weeks." But maybe Octavius was right—this obsession was just from his recent lack of bedroom activities. Yet no one else drove him to distraction.

"I can expect you to pay attention, boy. Since you clearly can't, go do a few laps in the lake and cool off."

"Splendid idea." Castien tossed his sword into the rack and stripped off his leathers.

The lake was a short way up a hill behind the palace. It fed their multitude of bathing chambers and was in turn fed by several streams. The walk was pleasant with a cool breeze that promised the end of summer.

Two guards trailed him to the lake. He'd gained his own shadow whenever he left the palace. For his protection, yes, but they were a reminder of the gilded cage he lived in.

For a moment, he had the impulse to run from the guards, to see if they'd chase. Probably.

You belong to me, and a Dark Queen does not relinquish that which is hers.

Yesterday, he'd asked if she would consider releasing him. She could not—Escorts didn't leave her, especially not so quickly. Though he had to admit that some part of him had enjoyed hearing those words on her lips. The mad bastard inside him wanted to curl up around her, bask in the feel of her body against his.

The lake spread out before him as he shoved those whispers out of his mind. Further along the shore was a pavilion with a small dock and a gathering of nobles. He walked in the opposite direction. A pity the lake wasn't very large; he'd still be able to hear murmurs from that group.

Stripping off his clothes and bracers, he quickly submerged himself in the cool water. No murmuring underneath the water.

You belong to me . Except his own traitorous thoughts. He shivered and rose, gasping for air. Right. Time to get in the exercise that was supposed to clear his mind.

A few laps almost helped.

Cruel laughter drifted to his ears and he coughed, startling a guard into approaching. Castien waved away the guard. He was drowning, but not from this lake. Out. He had to get out. Of this lake, of this court, of this palace, of his five years' contract.

Five years . Water dripped down his face, not tears. No, they would have his anger, not his tears.

The contracts were immutable; the House held all the power and they had no interest in making changes. In his special case, the Queen held his leash—and clearly she would not let go. He had tried.

He swam another lap, thinking. His stipend. A small fortune was waiting for him, more than enough for a comfortable life. Since he was technically free, he could access it now. The beginnings of a smile curved is lips. It was time to take his friends up on their offer and vanish.