Page 8 of Shadows and Roses (The Dark Queens #1)

Castien

He dreamt of roses—a garden exploding with full, dark red blooms, and a bed of nothing but their soft petals. Thorns pricked him from beneath the bed but they didn’t hurt—not yet. Then he fell through the petals, awakening before his skin met the sharp tips.

The scent of roses lingered. It was oddly soothing, perhaps because none of his courtly clients had smelled of roses. Most of them wore vanilla, sandalwood, or citrus if strong drink didn’t overwhelm their preferred fragrance.

He inhaled deeply, roses still drifting in the air. Strange. When he shifted, a soft object brushed against his cheek. His fingers closed around it and he cursed, something biting into his skin.

Not a creature. A black rose, his fingers nipped by its thorns. The Queen's summons. Sparks skittered down his spine, curling his toes. Finally. He was beginning to think she'd forgotten him. Even the fact that someone had crept into his room while he slept was merely a minor irritation as he caressed the flower.

Then dread settled in his chest.

She'd left the thorns. The others gossiped, though Marlow discouraged it, and Castien preferred his own finely honed instincts. But this was the Queen. Would she think him foolish for ignoring the experienced members of her courtesans, who whispered that thorns meant pain? Pain for whom? He'd been too proud to ask .

The image of the Queen with a whip in hand sent ice after the sparks. If that's what she wanted, he wasn't sure he could perform. Strong women were wonderful, but his specialty was control, the freedom and ability to coax pleasure from soft, yielding flesh. Even the nobles had accepted that, to an extent.

Idly twirling the stem, he stopped with a fingertip on a thorn. Unless they had been ordered not to break the Queen’s new toy, so that she could. It would explain why they hadn’t harmed him yet.

He scowled. The court’s whispers were messing with his head. He set the rose aside and threw off the sheets, beginning to dress himself. Understanding his clients’ needs came with the side effect of thinking like them. They’d be delighted with the idea of priming a victim—a toy—for an entire moon. And this speculation, his fear, would be precisely what they wanted.

Today was his thirtieth day at the palace. Even if he hadn’t been keeping track, the nobles certainly wouldn’t let him forget. Their whispered taunting was actually becoming tedious.

But this rose wasn’t a whisper, it was a promise.

His hand tightened on the rose, a thorn puncturing his palm. If she wanted to break him, she was in for a fight, Queen or not. A few of his patrons had tried, demanded he submit and be a good whore. More than once, a whip would've left scars on his back if a guard hadn't responded; that patron paid a steep fee for his misuse.

Another bound him to the bed and teased him for several hours, bringing him to the edge of release and painfully keeping him there, demanding he beg for her. His temper eventually snapped and he broke the poorly tied knots, then the spoiled brat’s hand. After the girl whined that he wouldn't play with her, his Master made him apologize for the violence, then threw her out without even setting her broken bones.

The fools had purposely requested a dominant male so they could play their twisted games, but a House had rules. Memories of cruelty flashed in his mind as he straightened his shirt. The crown allowed the Houses to govern themselves, but the Queen didn't visit a House, and he’d never heard of her summoning one of them before. Now here he was. Did the rules still apply?

When he exited his room, a guard greeted him . Well, there went any fleeting thoughts of escape. At least he wouldn’t need to explain anything to nobles who weren’t likely to listen.

The few people they passed caught one look at his black rose and turned aside. Rumors invaded his thoughts. Murderous Ice Queen. Butchering Bitch. Sadistic Slut. She'll use you and dye her rugs with your blood . As much as he disliked rumors, they were all he could think of now. Could he submit if she demanded it? What would she do to him if he didn't? What would it cost him if he did?

His overactive imagination was fueled by the tapestries lining this hall. Gold and silver thread highlighted primarily dark colors—scenes of fire and death, war and chaos. A dark red carpet began halfway into the hall, softening their steps. Dimmed, claw-shaped torches were spaced just far enough apart that their light didn’t overlap.

The guard leading him stopped a few steps onto the carpet and left him, but there were more guards by her chambers. An imprint of roses adorned the metal on their shoulders—the Queen’s personal guard, he supposed. One spotted his rose and slipped inside. A few moments later, he reappeared and stepped back to his post, leaving one of the doors open.

Castien froze. The darkness beyond that door hinted of screams and horrors that belonged in a dungeon, not a bedroom. He shook his head; this was why he ignored rumors—his imagination liked to get away from him. One of the guards watched him with narrowed eyes. Grimacing slightly, he mused that he would at least not suffer the indignation of being dragged across that threshold.

He took a steadying breath, rolled tense shoulders, and strode inside.

Numerous candles lit the corner where the Queen sat, leaving the entry dim. Two young women attended her in front of a sprawling vanity. One brushed her hair, the other massaged a hand. The informal setting did nothing to reduce her imperious presence. A trailing red dress flowed from her straight and proper back. Gold and jeweled claws clasped her shoulders, linking a thin gold chain that lay lax across her otherwise stark collarbone. Her chin was always tilted so that she looked down at her subjects, as she did now in the mirror's reflection.

Dark green eyes latched onto him, and he forgot to breathe. His neck tingled, his chest tightened. This wasn’t like that only time she’d invited him to sit beside her at court. She’d been distracted then, her eyes often falling to the nobles. Nothing was distracting her now. Those intense eyes raked a part of him that wanted to return the threat. Because it absolutely was a threat. Bow. Kneel. Show obeisance — or else . A growl rose in his throat as he fought to avoid baring his teeth at her.

He bowed a moment later than was strictly decorous. Breaking her gaze reminded his body it needed air, especially now as his pulse sped too quickly. Inhaling a soft breath, he murmured, "At your service, my Queen." He should have said more. There were protocols, an entire book on decorum and greetings for nobility, not to mention royalty.

Those few words were all he could manage.

Drip .

The rose was drawing blood again. His hand had clenched around a few thorns while he'd been trying to curb his aggression. He hadn't even noticed the pain. The sharpness of her gaze eased, replaced by amusement crinkling the corners of her lips. Already bleeding and she hadn't even moved.

"Tend his hand, Madeline," she commanded. Her voice was the same as always: hard, cold, accustomed to obedience—except for the sound of the maid's name, spoken fondly. He'd probably misheard.

The maiden massaging her hand turned without pause and passed by a drawer holding bandages, selecting two with the familiarity of a common task. She approached him with her head down, extended a palm, and waited.

He gritted his teeth and wrenched his eyes from the Queen, settling on the diminutive girl in front of him. Thick, light brown hair parted down a young woman's face, soft almond skin accentuating full red lips. Her eyes remained lowered, though there was nothing in her posture of fear, only calm subservience. The maid’s gentle presence soothed his ruffled feathers, letting him rein in his temper.

His eyes caught on the studded leather around her wrists. An Escort. It almost put him on edge all over again, but she was gentle—entirely different from that healer. She didn’t have claws, she didn’t wear a whip. Perhaps those close to the Queen followed different rules.

She carefully pried the thorns out of his skin and set the rose aside, then wiped the wounds with a wet cloth before firmly bundling up his hand. Her motions were efficient. An air of curiosity surrounded her, though nothing like the nobles’ crude sniffing. She finished, tying the bandage firmly.

"Thank you, my lady" he murmured. She offered him a shy smile .

"That will be all for now, Madeline." The same kind tone. So she didn't mistreat her maids; that was easy enough and inconvenienced her not at all. The girl bent gracefully at the knees before leaving the room. The other girl had also left.

They were alone. He stared into her reflected eyes, his anger rising once again. This time, he recognized the reaction—the same way he’d hated those who abused him. His forced presence here, his complete lack of control. It was grating.

Silently, she lifted an arm to the side, the posture expectant of his response. Catching himself grinding his teeth, he relaxed his shoulders and glided towards her, quiet and graceful. He was a courtesan. He would damn well act like one. Her eyes dropped to the muscles of his legs, to the skintight leather highlighting his stalking movements. Better she leer at his body than stare into his soul.

He placed a hand below hers, regaining eye contact with her mirrored image as she stood with the barest pressure to acknowledge the polite but required gesture. Lavender and rose lightly brushed his senses when she moved; such delicate scents for such an intense woman. Her callused palm and sharp, unsheathed tips of her claws were a warning he didn't need.

She faced him with the smooth grace of a warrior who knew how to use every muscle in her body. A small, practiced smile settled on his lips, his experience and training finally calming rattled nerves. Seduce, sex, leave. Simple. He'd done this dance a thousand times, with nearly as many different partners. A Queen was not so very different from other women. They all thought they were special, all wanted something more; he only needed to convince them that what he provided was what they wanted.

Her eyes wandered like any other woman, landing on his full lips, appreciating his partially exposed chest, taking an extra moment at the bulge between his legs. Then she flicked an amused glance towards a small table set against a wall.

"Sit." Perhaps she was only able to speak in commands.

She sauntered to one of the two chairs, flowing into a relaxed pose with her legs idly crossed, her dress falling around a bare leg. Emulating her casual disposition, he leaned back into his chair, letting his open shirt show a bit more skin.

"How may I serve you tonight, my Queen?" he purred, stretching the long fingers of his uninjured hand lazily on the table. Her eyes laughed at him. Did she find him amusing? A pretty toy to play with? He clamped down on that flash of anger, but her eyes widened slightly. She leaned forward.

"You don't like me," she said with a curious tone, her amused little smile spreading on her face. "Why?" The question was a command.

He flinched and growled, then cut himself off. Why? His Master had told him the Queen requested him by name. She knew him, knew what he was. What game was she playing?

"There is nothing to mislike. You are the Queen," he attempted delicacy. "I am yours to do with as you see fit." The last word came out too low, too close to a growl.

"That angers you," she said, her eyes softening. She tilted her head. "Do you not serve in the Night Courts?"

He wished she would be more direct. "My skillset is specialized. If you wish for my House's particular offerings, may I ask your cease phrase?" A word or phrase that stopped all activities immediately. It was usually written into the contract, but he hadn't seen it, and the nobles only laughed when he asked. He could read people well enough, and had learned after a single whip’s strike, but it would not do to make assumptions with the Queen.

Her smile gained a dark yet somehow playful edge. "Umbra. "

His name was a poor choice for a phrase, but he didn’t correct her. Instead, he was caught by the way her lips formed the word, her darkness brushing against something inside him. There was a spark of recognition, almost as though… but no, his instincts must be wrong. This was the Queen. Still, that she had given a word at all settled the ground beneath his feet.

"Very well. And what do you desire?" A low, husky tone in answer to her darkness. Establish another stone in his foundation and perhaps he could play with this dangerous creature.

The amusement in her eyes brightened, then faded. She leaned back, her smile leaving her face.

"I had a conversation with Master Iberius," she said.

The unstable stones vanished. Off balance, he held his breath. The heads of the Houses weren't exactly kind, but compared to her? Benevolence embodied.

"He and I came to an arrangement. You will serve the Night Courts for another five years."

The words made no sense at first.

Five years?! He should have gained his freedom in five moons . A thin breath hissed out of him.

"You have no right." The words slipped out of his mouth, but they were the truth. Once freed of his bond, it should be his choice to offer services to the Houses, or walk away and live his life as he pleased.

Ice slid into her eyes. Her clawtips rapped a cascade on the table. The threat wasn't enough to stop his glare.

"Tell me," she began, her cold disdain shoving his anger into a corner. "How does Iberius punish your insolence? Nothing so crass as to harm that soft skin, I imagine."

That cleansed his remaining anger, even his fear chilled. No, pain wasn't the usual punishment.

"The Houses use various methods," he said casually. "Menial labor. A night in the cold. And for the more extreme discipline, we are forced to serve." It sounded simple and not so terrible. A bonded courtesan serves anyway. But everything in the House of Shadows was about choice. Every courtesan voluntarily walked into the bedroom, and pleasure was mutual if not equal. The Houses trained them for years—it wouldn't be a sensible investment to break them. An occasional harsh reminder that the Houses were in control was enough to instill restraint, to remind them that willing service was preferable.

Her expression closed entirely, no ice or warmth, just an unreadable blank wall. "You mean rape."

He paused. The House never referred to their punishment as anything so crude.

"A reminder." He shrugged slightly, attempting to match her indifference, but no doubt she could see him seethe under his thin layer of calm. Against her depraved court, how dare she judge his House’s methods?

She stared at him a minute longer, until he realized fire had crept into her blank wall. It was but a single flickering flame that vanished when she blinked. Was that what her anger looked like? Not ice, but fire?

Her anger couldn't be for his House's chosen punishment. You can't rape a whore . He'd heard that enough in his life, and in the palace, it was commonplace. Servants often protested. The Queen never spared them a glance.

Perhaps that fire wasn't anger, but desire.

Her fingers settled on his hand, stroking lightly up and down his wrist. Fascinating. Her claws scratched at his skin, yet beneath the dread filling his mind, the part of him that liked to play with his clients purred at the sharp touch. The Houses insisted on gloves for all noble ladies. He liked to oblige the women’s preferences, who in turn invited his taunting, pleasurable punishments for the fabricated misbehavior.

But this was the Queen. He dared not punish her, even in play. Would he?

She paused. "You’re not afraid of me. Angry, wary, but not afraid. Curious."

"I know my worth," he drawled out of habit. Perhaps his worth was diminished, but if she procured him to break him, he’d rather she show her hand sooner than later. A little provocation was in order.

He flipped his hand, ignoring the slight scratch across the back as he gripped her claws and fingers in his palm. Bending over the table, he kissed her knuckles, warmed her skin with his breath, all the while holding her eyes.

There it was again. He knew—he always knew—how far to push his clients, when cries of pleasure became pain, when that pain was intolerable. That fine line he could draw around each and every one of his bedmates. Often it was a fluctuating thing, changing by the season, the day, the person’s mood, but he could begin to sketch anyone’s desires with a simple conversation.

The Queen’s outline was a frustrating mix of power, danger, and, if she were anyone else, vulnerability. It called to him, that hint of warmth beneath the ice. He wanted to touch her, to feel her curves beneath him.

What game was she playing? How had she manipulated the instincts he’d developed over a lifetime of experience?

His tongue traced her fingers. Were his instincts simply useless here? It hadn’t been with the nobles. They prodded his pride, but once he controlled his temper, he could read them as easily as any.

Ah , so that was it. Lack of control. He was too angry to see her clearly. Of course.

He wanted her to be vulnerable. He wanted her to have a weakness. That would be simpler.

The lack of surprise in her eyes made sense. Like she was examining a strange insect. His fingers loosened. He’d been mistaken. There was no warmth beneath the ice. Only more ice.

She withdrew her hand. "You're of no use to me today. That will be all."

He frowned at the sudden dismissal. "My Queen—"

"Take the rose with you."

He glared at the flower, snatched it up, and strode out the door.

Did she want him to be afraid? No doubt only fools weren’t afraid of her. He felt a fool.

Fine, he’d play her game. But if she pushed too hard, he was going to do something that would get himself executed. The thought thinned his lips as he passed the smirking guards. Bastards probably heard and enjoyed every scream.

His temper sharpened his fluid movements into a predator's silent stalk, startling a maid who had just turned a corner in the hall. She glanced at his face and went white, scurrying in the opposite direction. His breath hissed out of him as he pulled in his aggression again. Carefully closing his door lest he break it, he set the rose down and leaned over the table on stiff arms.

This place was getting under his skin. With any other patron of the House, he would have followed her lead. She hadn't done anything intolerable—had barely done anything at all. Except his contract—that was infuriating. Even that, he could have put from his mind for the day. But she was not any other patron and he was just another one of the Queen's toys.