Heir of Death

Ch. 9: Plaything

Etain stood before the door, frowning, her heart quivering in her chest. There was nothing sinister about the door, which seemed unfair. The lair of a monster should look the part.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when it was jerked open.

Marcus took half a step forward then stopped dead, a fierce scowl drifting into a puzzled, gentle frown. He looked at Etain as though he didn't know who she was.

"You sent for a meal." She hefted the heavy tray up off her hip, arms trembling slightly under the weight of all the food and silver. 

Marcus blinked, his expression smoothing into nothing. A perfect, blank mask. Then, a smile. A lovely, ruthless smile that made Etain ill to see. That odd, shivery feeling deep in her guts started up again, and she wanted nothing more than to use the heavy tray to smash that expression off his face. 

"Mostly," he said on a sigh, "I believe I am damned. And then, well, then there are times like these."

Without another word, he took the tray in one hand and grabbed her wrist with the other. Etain bit hard into the inside of her cheek, the taste of copper on her tongue. Or maybe it was fear that tasted so awful and metallic.

The prince put the tray on a low table, not so much as flinching when it slipped from the edge and crashed to the ground. Etain gaped at the food spattered across the flagstones, stumbling in the prince's wake as he dragged her through his rooms. 

"Your--Your Highness," she managed, hating how weak and breathless her voice was as he jerked her through the door leading into the bedchamber. Fear and confusion had sucked all the strength from her words. 

"Don't call me that," he said, somewhat off-handedly, releasing her hand. "Stay there."

Etain's breath puffed out in a shaky cloud of steam. It was freezing in the prince's quarters. 

"Put this on."

She barely lifted her arms in time to catch what the prince threw at her. It was soft and smelled sweet. It was heavy. Etain slowly lowered her arms, staring at the crushed velvet. The soft burr of a match drew goosebumps on her arms as candlelight fell over the fabric.

Red. Glistening like rubies. Like blood.

Small diamonds twinkled there, sewn into the folds of the fabric. 

"What--"

"There will be time for questions later." He laughed, sending a chill up her spine. "Perhaps not for answers. Put it on, lovely. We have someplace to be. Slippers are by the door."

Then he left the room, muttering something about hair.

The slam of the door made her flinch. All of the little scraps of rumor and gossip and information she had gathered over the last three days slipped to the back of her mind. There, but...forgotten in the wake of this new madness of the prince's.

Swallowing against a chalk-dry throat, Etain placed the dress on the messy bed. That shivery feeling was still there in her chest, making her hands shake as she undid the laces of her shirt and pulled it over her head. She undid the strip of cloth binding her breasts, then slipped out of her trousers.

The cold made her shiver and she hurried into the gown, sighing in exasperation when she realized it did not lace up the front. She fought with the stays until at least her lower back was covered, then gave up with a soft curse. She couldn't reach any higher. 

How she hated him. 

After muttering a prayer and one more curse, Etain stalked out of the bedchamber. Marcus stood before the window, staring out at the snow, still talking rapidly under his breath. Etain closed the door and the prince jerked around, eyes wide like he had forgotten she was there.