Soul of Ice

Chapter Eighteen

Pascal had the decency to at least wait until an hour after dinner the next day.

She'd been enjoying the act of forgetting her troubles by playing a game of cards with Jemma, Ciril, and Anya when someone tapped her lightly on the shoulder. It was an effort in exercise not to tense up in anticipation of danger.

"Yes?" she asked. It was a guard that had tapped her shoulder. The silver whistle that all the guards had hung from his neck; she could reach it if she lunged, and she eyed it as the guard spoke.

"I need you to come with me." The sense of danger came back again.

"What for?"

The guard was stoic as he repeated his request, then said, "Don't make me ask again."

Astra huffed as she got up while Jemma gave her a concerned look and an uncertain wave. The guard grabbed ahold of her bicep immediately, and she tensed again.

He guided her out of the dining hall and into the hallways, where they ended up—surprise of all surprises—in front of the doors of Pascal's suite. Astra swallowed. Perhaps she could plead a hangover.

The guard pushed the door open, but he didn't let go of her arm. Instead, he marched her in.

"Captain," he said, announcing their presence to Pascal, who was studying the battle painting that hung over the loveseat.

"Ah, yes, my pretty... Calayne." Unease snaked through her—he'd used her false name. The Captain gave a curt nod to the guard. "Thank you. You're dismissed."

The guard saluted before quickly exiting the room and closing the door.

"My dear, dear Astreia." Pascal turned to enter his lounge, motioning for Astra to follow. Slowly, she forced herself to move her feet. "You must imagine my surprise when I came in here in the middle of the night only to find the couch wet." He paused. "With champagne."

Astra remained impassive, but she cursed soundly in her head. She'd known there'd be risks with freezing the wine and hiding it under the cushions of the couch, of all places, but she hadn't had any better ideas at the time. The lounge was devoid of furniture save for the huge couch, the table, and lanterns lining the walls.

She should have... she should have...

There was nothing she could have done, unless she wanted to lay in bed with the Captain—intoxicated.

"Sit." Not a suggestion. Astra crossed to the couch and sat down in the middle, the cushion slightly damp underneath her, while Pascal circled her, a frown on his face, but a dangerous glint in his eyes. Stealthily, he crawled onto the glass table and sat on the edge, bare inches away from her, his uniform slightly rumpled, but still commanding. Astra watched him carefully—his jugular was just a hand's grab away from her.

"You've disappointed me very much with not following my orders."

There was no doubt about it. There was some sort of punishment coming, some sort of torture. Astra knew how these things worked.

"I don't want to damage you," he mused as he studied her face, his brown eyes looking almost black in the dim room as they flicked back and forth, always in a different position every time he had blinked.

She shoved her hands under her thighs in an effort to hide the uncontrollable tremors that had begun to travel through her arms. The action didn't go unnoticed by Pascal, whose lips slowly turned upward in a smile.

"His Majesty has just sanctioned an experiment a few weeks ago, although only one wraith has been through it so far." The Captain reached out to touch her chin, skimming his nails across her cheeks. "I think you'll do beautifully.