The Princess's Servant

80. Uncertainty

He made the humping motion a few times, but Sybil's blood ran cold. Something was wrong. She looked to their shadow. He was moving but she was not. Sybil shot Holden a panicked look. He offered only confusion.

"You have to move me." Her voice was fainter than a whisper. "Press into me," she said.

"I can't touch you," he responded, which Sybil took some offense to.

"You have to or it won't be realistic." Sybil scooted up closer until the heat of her legs met his. She paused before their skin could touch.

"How do you know what's 'realistic?'"

"What do you care? Just shut up and do what I say." The princess had seen people do this at the tavern, but she was angry enough with Holden to let him draw his own conclusions.

Holden resisted a sigh and he did his part. He closed the distance between their skin and—

Hot. White hot. Like burning iron. He suppressed a flinch as his legs touched her. Sybil felt the jolt and shot him a 'you're going to get me killed' glare as he remembered his situation.

He didn't want to touch her. Every piece of him screamed this was sin. A crime against her humanity. A crime against his. But he knew that if he bowed out, her people would suffer. And so, in a affront to comfort, desire, and his own personhood, Holden pressed into Sybil and allowed their skin to touch. Despite the cold air of the cathedral (or perhaps because of it) she felt warm. And Holden felt wrong. He feigned his humps again — pressing into her as she asked. This time, she moved with him.

Sybil growled under her breath as he did, irritated that it took this long.

Seconds peeled away like minutes. Minutes slogged by like hours.

These were the longest moments of their lives and they both knew that this moment would stretch far beyond it's false conclusion.

They both knew that this moment would live in their memory and wriggle and writhe for seconds and minutes and hours and days after this was over. That years from now, this feeling of horror and helplessness would still be burrowed in their hearts like worms. But the both of them endured, as Holden played his part and Sybil played hers. And after what may have been enough or what may have been too little, Holden offered a few final (not entirely unbelievable, Sybil thought) mimed thrusts and he collapsed into the bed with the woman to whom he was husband.

The darkness of the great, high ceiling swirled and danced as Holden felt his balance wane. Vertigo. Lightheadedness.

"Well," came a gruff voice from the other side of the screen. "Not much of a performance."

"No, but the ceremony has come to its completion," said another.

"A quick hymen check and we can wash our hands of this whole burdensome affair," said a third.

'Hymen check.' Those words rung in Holden's mind. They only added to his wooziness. He had heard those words before — but where? 'Hymen.' His mother. Something to do with invasion. He heard shuffling of feet from the crowd. Holden sat up straight.

The footsteps neared. He had to say something. Do something. This was the worst thing that could happen. This was the worst thing that could happen. He couldn't let it happen to her— not now, not ever. Not only would a check reveal their charade, but it would be invasion beyond invasion. Holden tried to form the words. He did not have the breath.

The footsteps were as loud as his heart, and almost as near.

"Stop."

The word rang out like the clanging of a bell. Holden listened as the steps obeyed.