Page 34 of Shadows and Roses (The Dark Queens #1)

Anais

Anais sat back, nodding as Damon concluded his speech to her Escorts. It was odd seeing anyone new on their private council, but it was time.

"...thousand new recruits are adjusting well. We’ve upheld our end of the bargain."

Around the table sat Laureline, a colorful splash of red and blue feathers fanning the air above her head; Vern, whose posture was far too still for her liking; Trishve, the general quietly assessing every word out of Damon’s mouth; and Jerome, just quiet.

Anais added, "And the council has approved additional payments for clawed girls born to commoners."

Laureline made a disbelieving noise. "A concession from them is worth more than a thousand untrained troops."

Damon’s crooked smile aimed to charm. He’d have better chances flirting with a stone wall. "They are not untrained, my lady. They are some of the best and smartest fighters we have, and they will make the transition easier for the next batch."

Laureline smiled back prettily, the feathers in her hat dipping. "That’s wonderful to hear, dear."

Anais suppressed a snort. Good thing the lady was already predisposed to like him.

Vern said, "Nadraken will hear of this and wonder if all of Castien’s claims were truthful."

"They can wonder," Anais waved absently, glancing at the door. "We’ve always played the game. Nothing has changed."

This meeting was primarily to incorporate Damon as one of her advisors. Her Escorts hadn’t all been pleased by her announcement, but they hadn’t liked Castien at first either.

Today was also the day Castien was expected to arrive at the palace. He could be walking in the halls right this moment. She'd been surprised at Octavius' letter. A part of her had accepted that Castien would never return, would take the freedom he’d always wanted, probably now needed.

But he was here—or would be soon. She wanted to pace the halls, stand at the gates, and wait for him. Instead, she was here, in this cramped meeting room next to her chambers.

Her lips twitched, remembering Damon’s curiosity when she’d led him down this hall.

" Are you finally inviting me to your bed, my dear? " Damon had murmured as they neared her chambers, taking hold of her hand. She hadn’t bothered shaking off the blatant flirtation, only giving him an exasperated look.

" See that door there? " She’d pointed at the small side door next to her chambers.

" Let me guess. Is it full of strange and intriguing implements of pleasure? Going to tie up an unsuspecting, innocent, inexperienced peasant and make him beg for mercy? "

He’d waggled his eyebrows at her. She’d burst into unexpected laughter and took her hand back to swat at him. " Damon! You terrible man! "

"Oh, my apologies. I should have said, please spare me, my sweet lady…"

The rebel was absolutely shameless. She might have found him a pleasant distraction if her heart wasn’t set elsewhere.

Shaking off her distraction, Anais waited for a pause in the discussion. "There is something your people may be able to help us with, Damon. "

Vern scowled. He would rather not be beholden to the vagabonds in the least, but she was willing to use all her resources.

At Damon’s curious expression, she gestured for Trishve to speak. The General didn’t like the idea either, but she was practical. "Squads of rogue soldiers have been spotted all over the countryside. We thought them unusually organized highwaymen at first, but they appear to be friendly with the local castles. When questioned, the nobles insisted the troops are their personal guard. We don’t believe them."

Damon raised a brow. "So you want us to, what, spy on your own nobles?"

Anais nodded. "Yes. Our network is spread thin across the other nations. Your people are better suited to this, I think."

"Servants hear everything." Damon smirked. "I’ll tell them to keep an ear open."

And when they inevitably found valuable information, there would be a debt to pay.

—

The familiar, intricate carvings under her fingers slowly soothed the ache in her chest. Eyes closed, she traced the rose at the center. It had taken nearly half a day to coax out the shape of the vines curving around the edges. The Consort’s ring and bracelets were still inside.

She rubbed absently at the matching pair circling her wrists.

An hour after the meeting with her Escorts and Damon, she’d found the box in her room. Still hopeful, she’d opened it and had been sitting here since. Perhaps she’d made the offer too soon. Or perhaps he now found the touch of a woman unbearable. Octavius had reported that his charge had made physical advances, though with no passion behind his touch.

Speculating would get her nowhere.

The council meeting had gone well, at least. Damon’s charm was infectious amongst both her courts, winning over the nobles and slowly becoming friendlier with her ever-suspicious Escorts. Jerome and Octavius refused to trust him, and without unanimous support, Damon would not be welcomed into the ranks of her Escorts. He hadn't asked yet, but she'd seen the way he eyed the bracers.

If she was being honest, she didn’t quite trust him either. He said and did everything correctly, he didn’t participate in the cruel games any more than necessary, and his brazen flirting wasn’t unwelcome. There was still something that made her uncomfortable.

But there was no need to invite him into her Escorts; that had never been a concession. With the rebel recruits progressing as they’d hoped, perhaps the world could return to its uneasy truce, for now.

She slid the box into a cabinet and prepared for bed.

—

The soft, rhythmic spinning of a blade drilling into the table interrupted her breakfast.

"Escort." Anais extended her claws.

Vern flicked the blade to her without looking. His attention was locked on a man delicately painting a lady's claws.

"Don't." The quiet but forceful word barely moved her lips.

Her father went cold and calculating when he picked a target. She'd seen that look directed at Castien in the last few days .

His hard eyes frowned at her now. "He's hurting you."

Castien didn’t object to a woman’s touch. Neither had he sought her out. At first, it had hurt. Octavius reported that they were not making any more progress in the cabin. She’d hoped anyway. They were always fragile, and a few moons were too short a time for the state he’d been in. A lifetime might be too short.

She murmured, "You know why." Castien was a courtesan. He was doing what he knew best, what was most familiar to him, what he thought would help.

Anais spoke again, "I do not force Viara from the library. I do not tell Jerome to sleep no matter how exhausted he is. He needs this. Stand down, Vern."

The cold reluctantly withdrew. "As you command, my Queen."

"And Thakris as well."

He smiled faintly and bowed his head.

Still, she couldn’t help but watch as Castien sauntered through the hall, as arrogant as his first day in the palace. He drifted from noble to noble until he chose one, seemingly at random. At least he kept his activities out of the bedroom. So far. But she saw that brittle cold in his eyes. It was all a performance.

Knowing this did not help.

Castien

His ‘additional training’ proved more brutal than the time he’d spent at the cottage. Arriving late to the combat circles earned him a cold bucket of water to the face and several extra laps. The Master-at-arms paired him with a guard who he kept up with, much to everyone's surprise.

"I was beginning to think Octavius went easy on you," Master Hedric mused, taking the guard's place. The Master-at-arms was far more skilled. He tested Castien, shouting corrections and insults. Fumbling once too often, the courtesan found himself disarmed and shoved to the ground, the Master's sword at his chest.

"If you're going to dance with the court, you’ll learn to defend yourself, boy," Hedric said, his voice hard and eyes cold.

Castien slapped the blunted practice sword aside, picked up his weapon, and responded with a matching expression. "Fine with me." It would give him something to do, keep his mind off the Queen and whoever was sharing her bed.

Each day both crawled and rushed into the next. Every night was seared with memories become nightmares. He indulged in drink to numb his mind. Mingling with the cruel courtiers left him irritated, and he made more and more mistakes in the training circles. The nobles knew better than to whisper secrets to an Escort. At least the Masters-at-arms never went easy on him. Pain and pleasure , some tiny corner of his mind whispered. He ignored it.

Nothing helped.

Beaten and bruised, he lay staring at the ceiling as the early sun’s pale yellow light brightened his room. If you need pain, choose someone you trust. The words hadn’t left his mind. And somehow, the first person he thought was always… her. Did he trust Anais? Yes, undoubtedly, though he had no interest in evaluating that instinctive response.

What he wouldn’t do to touch her again, even if she only agreed out of a sense of obligation. He hadn’t spoken to her yet. She hadn’t summoned him. When he passed the Queen in the halls or accidentally met her eyes, he simply displayed the minimal polite gesture before finding a reason to leave. She excused him from a regular schedule, which was apparently normal for his condition.

She didn’t want him.

Oh, this dance could cut deep. And wasn’t that exactly what he wanted? Pain and pleasure.

He rose from the bed, bathed, dressed. It had been a while since he’d taken this much care with his appearance. He didn’t bother to hide his bruises or his scars. If she didn’t turn him away, she’d see every one of them.

But the black lining his eyes, the rose pins on his sleeves, the open shirt that displayed his toned body—those were his tools, his weapons, his mask. Leather pants that hugged his ass. He’d noted the way her eyes once followed him. Seduction was a dance he knew very well.

He ran a hand through his hair and hesitated. That their first time together would be so heartless—well, it was the only path left to him. He’d thank her for a drop of pity if that was all she offered.

The only obstacle was her faithful-to-a-fault guard. Jerome stood by her door, which meant she was there, possibly still asleep. The knight stepped in front of the door.

Castien glided silently closer and lowered his chin. "I just want to speak to her." Contrite. Respectful.

Jerome was tense, examining him carefully, likely looking for weapons despite the impossibility of concealing anything on skin-tight clothing. Castien almost laughed. It was a miracle they hadn’t taken his bracers yet. Perhaps today.

"Do not move," Jerome gritted out. Another glare and he turned, entering her room. His low rumbling to her was far more polite.

Castien stared at the doorway. Her reply was too quiet, if she made one at all. She could refuse to see him. He hadn’t considered that. He may as well strip off his bracers himself if she didn’t—

Jerome reappeared and, reluctantly, stepped to the side.

The courtesan inhaled and strode in.

Anais sat alone at her vanity, dark hair flowing down her back, a red and black nightgown falling loosely to her feet. The scent of roses was heavier in here, the scent of her soothing something inside him. His feet carried him closer.

Her eyes met his, the contact halting him. "Castien."

He flinched. That soft whisper of his name was like blade scraping his heart. He couldn’t let her see that. A performance. He’d managed it before he knew her; he could do so again.

"My Queen. Anais," he murmured as he glanced at her bed. The sheets were still ruffled. He couldn’t resist drawing nearer, letting his fingers tangle in the soft silk. "Thank you for seeing me."

Her lips curved gently. "It’s good to see you. You look well."

She looked like a lake in a desert.

Matching her smile with a small tilt of his own, he shoved his hand beneath the sheets. Still warm. Temptation called and he was powerless to fight it. Castien casually fell into her bed, soaking in her scent and heat as he forced his lips to hold that playful smile.

"I have a favor to ask, if I may," he said with an arm beneath his head.

She turned from the mirror, and he inhaled at the sharp neckline of her gown. The breath didn’t leave his lungs as she moved to stand beside him. "Tell me how I can help."

Talk to her. Octavius had suggested it more than once .

He exhaled slowly. Words and thoughts were too complicated, too tangled. This was easier.

"I’d like, if you don’t mind…" He couldn’t say it, but he reached out for her hand, her claws, and brought the sharps tips to the scars on his chest. Tingling fear caressed his skin. His heart pounded. Blinking, he focused on her. On his Queen. Her warmth. The shock in her eyes. Slowly, fear faded to an ache beneath his skin. This was his Queen, the Queen of his heart.

Even if she wanted nothing to do with him.

He let her hand rest there and raised his arms above his head. Holding her eyes, he found the words, though his voice was harsh. "I want you to hurt me. Octavius suggested…"

Uncertainty and wariness darted in her forest-green gaze. "I understand. Are you sure?"

Relief that she didn’t immediately deny him.

"Yes."

She lightly traced a white line on his chest, one of the longest marks. Something decided her, because she said, "I refuse to make you bleed. But anything else, if you’re absolutely certain."

He didn’t trust his voice, so he only nodded.

Smiling slightly, she asked in an almost light tone, "Then I suppose I’ll need your cease phrase."

No one had ever asked him that. He’d never needed one, but it was easy to think of something. He smiled back.

"Roses."

He had no idea what that look in her eyes meant. A forest in a storm. Surprise? Sadness? It was gone too quickly.

"Very well. Then this," she paused, holding his eyes as her claws sliced through his shirt, "comes off." He didn’t dare move. Shreds of white silk fell away. She gathered the fabric and wrapped it around his wrists, swiftly tying a knot that bound him to her bed.

His heart was in his throat, thrumming in his ears. "Tighter."

Sharp clawtips pinned his chest. Emerald ice glared down. "You won’t fight me."

He’d never heard this Queen before. No, not the Queen. Anais, and her darkness that sang to him.

He trembled. Nodded.

Her shoulders seemed to relax slightly. "Good." Flattening her palm, her claws only scraped lightly as she rubbed his chest.

His head spun at the nearness of her skin, her body. Her massaging felt good, seeping into his muscles, making him tremble harder. He didn’t want to feel good. He wanted—

Sharp dragging pinpoints burned his chest as her fingers curled inwards and down, slicing him the same way he’d been sliced so many times before. His spine arched, his mouth opened. Pain shot along his veins, twisted into tense heat low in his stomach. But he didn’t bleed. His chest throbbed, his muscles tensed, but he didn’t bleed.

"Look at me."

His eyes snapped up.

"Keep your eyes on me," she ordered. Not ice in her tone, but steel. There was a whip in her hand now. His hands gripped his shredded shirt.

"Look at me, Castien," she snapped.

How could he do anything else while she shrugged out of her gown, the fabric falling off her shoulders and revealing the soft mounds of her bare breasts, pooling at her waist, at the muscles of her stomach?

The whip brushed his skin. He shivered.

And slowly relaxed.

A beautiful woman willing—eager—to please him: that stopped his breath more than the sight of her breasts or the whip trailing down his chest. He’d never given control to his clients. He’d never had a true partner in the sheets. Giving Anais control had been a risk—and his reward was calm. Peace. The chaos in his mind muffled. Not silent. Not so easily, but better.

For a moment, for now, he could pretend.

As she let her gown slip to the floor, and her legs straddled his thighs, he could pretend.

When her whip lashed a beautifully excruciating line of red on the muscles of his belly, he could pretend.

While she peeled off his pants, dug her claws into his sides, and mounted his painfully hard cock, he hissed and he could pretend.

Every slow roll of her hips was accompanied by a new red line on his flesh. Marked by his Queen. He could accept that. He reveled in it, in each jolt of pleasure from the pain, from her liquid heat; they were the same.

And finally, at her unyielding command, he let go. For this moment, he didn’t need to pretend. For this moment, he was free. He was hers.

Anais panted, her arms locked on both sides of his rapidly rising and falling chest. Pleasure and pain receded.

Leaving only a growing need to rip out of his bindings, roll her over beneath him, crush her firm body against his, and never let go. He harshly reined in his fantasies.

Her head lifted. She sat back, letting the softening length of him slip out. Reaching to her nightstand, she brought out a jar and began to gently rub a cool ointment onto his abused skin.

But her eyes… Cold. Her eyes were so cold.

"Anais…" he whispered.

She blinked. Again. Sharp emeralds melted to dark, wary green. Her hands paused. "Are you alright?"

Alright? The faintest smile curved his lips. His chest felt feathery light. Languid exhaustion melted his muscles. He was so much better than ‘alright’.

The scent of roses lay heavy in his lungs, lulling him under their soft embrace. His eyelids felt heavy. Perhaps he could sleep without dreaming tonight.

"Castien?"

He looked into her eyes again. Cold, hard emeralds. He wanted to tell her she was nothing like Yelena. He wanted to thank her. To hold her.

But she only wanted to heal him. Nothing more.

"I should go," he said. Twisting his wrists out of the cloth bindings, he shifted beneath her.

She didn't move for a moment. The cold in her gaze seemed to crack.

Then she blinked and ice smoothed her face. "Of course. Anything you need. Take this, it’ll help." She placed the jar in his hand.

The heat of her body seared his skin like a brand until she moved away. He sighed in relief. Sliding off the bed and putting on his pants, he bowed to where she sat at her vanity, her back turned to him, her eyes lowered.

"Thank you, my Queen."

"You’re welcome." Cold. Polite, but cold.