“It was unnecessary.”
Vern's calm tone was driving her insane.
“Maybe I just want to hurt her.”
His voice lowered further. “If you walk into the castle like this, you will get him killed.”
Cold seeped into her veins. She turned a courtly smile toward him. “Isn't that what you want? Enough, Vern. I'm fine. I won't torture the bitch again.”
A small flicker twitched his brow. His chin dipped, and he fell back.
The Queen existed for her court, but also for the world that needed to see her ruthless strength. The Queen would walk into Coriante Castle. The Queen would retrieve what belonged to her.
Chapter 19
Castien
Pinprick tapping on his chest numbed his mind. It was an incessant, almost maddening sensation, except that it went on for so long that he floated above the pain. The burn became strangely pleasant. A warm, steady rhythm.
Her presence helped, hovering over him as her claws traced his scars. His back would have new scars soon. He could feel the wounds tightening as they healed.
She hadn't whipped his chest, or taken a little curved knife to his flesh, or stabbed under his nails – he hated that last bit the most. Thin needles piercing his fingertip, pain lancing like bolts of lightning through his hand and up his arm. Every slight tremble made the digging worse. And he couldn't help but tremble. His fingers twitched just thinking of it.
Castien’s mind felt clearer. He remembered more, though his memories were strange – they didn't feel like his own. He knew he had lived in the House of Shadows, but couldn't recall his favorite clients. He knew he liked to dance, but didn't miss the lack of it. His muscles knew what to do with a sword, but his only motivation for improvement was his Mistress’ command.
However, he did appreciate that the irritating voice had faded to an erratic whisper. He could ignore it most of the time. And his dreams only left him with a faint sense of fear. He must be getting better.
“How is my pretty toy?”
Mistress wasn't speaking to him. On the other side of his cot sat Frances, who had been attending him daily. One of the servants had called Frances the royal alchemist. Perhaps it was the Nadraken term for a healer.
The tapping desisted. Frances brought a cup into view. Castien lifted his head. Today, the normally bitter brew was sweet. Cloying. He drank it all. There had been no more regrettable accidents.
“He is progressing nicely. No complaints from the weapon masters. They trained him well.” Frances took the empty cup.
Thick liquid coated the back of his throat. He swallowed. A meal normally came after the brew. They fed him better this time. Other than the bindings, he was comfortable.
Mistress caressed his sore wrists, smiling when he winced. “When can we take these off? He seems plenty docile. My tame, obedient toy.”
“One more week, my Queen, and he's all yours. No longer than two. He… could be used gently now, if you wish.”
Her hand dragged down his arm, claw tips scratching through the trail of warmth left by her palm. Tracing the sides of his ribs, she rested her hand atop his thigh.
Mistress hadn't used him like she did before. Perhaps today. He wanted so much to please her. He was a courtesan; it was his purpose. And when she was pleased, she hurt him less. There would be no knives, at least.
“Would you like that, toy?” She spoke to him. “Do you miss me?”
For a moment, his head spun, and the sickeningly sweet taste filled his senses. The dizziness slowly receded. Painful clarity made the air in his lungs cold. His chest was on fire. She must have dug in her claws deeper than usual.
He blinked. She had asked him something. “I… yes, Mistress.”
Her head angled to the side. A claw circled his hip, dipped into the valley between his leg and his pelvis.
Softly, she asked, “Do you remember Queen Anais?”
Behind his eyes passed a fleeting image of green eyes and black roses. “Yes, Mistress. Of Drantar.” Where he had lived before Mistress summoned him home.
Home. This wasn’t home.
