To my utter shock, warmth pangs between my thighs as I think about him and recall the tenderness he’s shown me thus far.
Yes, he hunted me down and kidnapped me, and he announced that I’m his war prize and says he has no intention of letting me go. But he hasn’t raised a hand to me. He hasn’t hurt me in any way physically. Instead, he healed my injuries. More than once. And he seemed eager to do so.
He also gave me my memories back, for which I’m grateful. Having only vague recollections of the strange experience at the Sorsston castle has been bothering me for months.
My breath catches when I consider the general’s reasons for keeping me here. He’s drawn to me and wants to get a better understanding of why that is. He says he wants to get to know me.
Though there’s no denying that I’m General Dalgaard’s captive, I suddenly realize that I just slept deeply and peacefully for the first time in ages. I didn’t have to worry about Lord Nevel’s soldiers tracking me down, nor did I have to worry about Lord Nevel himself bothering me. At his manor, we had separate rooms, but he frequently visited me so he could try to…
A shudder courses through me as I attempt to push the dark memories away. But it’s no use. The memories keep coming. I force in a few deep breaths and try to focus on the ever-present scent of lavender and the repetitive, calming sound of the nighttime insects.
After a few minutes, the panic dissipates, though the memories don’t.
To his great frustration, Lord Nevel had struggled to consummate our marriage. During the five months I remained at his manor, he entered my room now and then in the middle of the night, but each time he failed to remain ready long enough to complete the act. Well, long enough tostartthe act, now that I think about it. His member rarely became stiff for more than a few seconds. Each time it returned to its natural soft state, he would become furious, and he tended to blame me for his inability to consummate our marriage.
Filthy witch. You’ve cursed me with dark powers, haven’t you? I bet you want me to die soon so you can inherit my estate. Godsdamn witch. I ought to turn you over to Warden Xall and ask for you to be burned at the stake.
His accusations and threats had terrified me, though I don’t know if the fae warden of Sosstorn would’ve actually burned me at the stake. Surely fae, with their magical abilities, would be able to sort out the matter and determine whether someone is truly a witch or a mage.
I won’t lie. More than once, I’d hoped Lord Nevel would die, though not because I was keen to inherit his sizable estate. I simply wanted out. I wanted to be free.
I study my current surroundings. Fireflies continue dancing around the tent, and I’m not able to see anything beyond the structure, not a shadow outside the thick fabric, or even a hint of the moon or sun.
It’s rather disorienting not knowing what time it is, but it’s also pleasant in a way. Because at the moment, I don’t have anywhere to be nor any tasks awaiting me. Best of all, I don’t have to worry about my husband’s soldiers snatching me away and dragging me back to the cold, cavernous manor that never felt like home.
I’m still wary of General Dalgaard, but there’s something about him that makes me believe he’s more trustworthy than the average fae.
Despite my previous suspicions that he might’ve hurt me in the Sorsston castle, I don’t think he lied about what happened that night. The detailed narrative he supplied fits with the flashes of memory and feelings I’ve been experiencing related to the highborn fae who helped me.
It's shocking to learn General Dalgaard himself stayed with me,in secret, while I conversed with Prince Lucas.
Just because he wanted to ensure my safety.
As though summoned by my thoughts, the general himself steps into the tent, instantly filling up the spacious area with his formidable presence.
I peer at him in the semi-darkness, my heart pounding in my chest, my palms sweaty as my breaths become rapid and shallow.
Our eyes meet and his visage softens.
I push the blanket off myself and stand up, though I keep my head slightly lowered in a show of submission. I’m not certain whether it’s because of the power that emanates from him or my wariness around all males (that logically, I know is a result of Lord Nevel’s brutal treatment), but I can’t help the display of obedience. Even though I’m also calculating the distance to the tent flap and whether I could dart around General Dalgaard and escape before he caught me.
But, knowing what I know about fae powers, particularly the powers of highborn fae such as the general, I suppose he’s warded the tent to keep me inside. Part of me still wants to try though. Am I a coward if I never attempt to flee this tent?
“Amelia.” His deep voice vibrates through me, inciting desires I’m not certain I can put a name to. All I know is that Ilike the way he says my name, as though he’s savoring it, and it’s causing a reckless, wanton feeling within me.
“Good evening, General Dalgaard,” I say, only for my face to heat a second later. “Tristan. Good evening, Tristan. Um, is it evening? I’m not certain. The magic makes it difficult to tell.” I glance around the tent.
He lifts a hand briefly, and the magic fades. The fireflies disappear, the sound of nighttime insects and trilling frogs fades, and the room becomes illuminated. Shadows appear outside the tent, and I’m surprised by the number of soldiers that are marching past. They seem to be in a hurry. My stomach performs a quick somersault. Has something happened?
“Well, it would appear it’s still daytime,” I say.
“It is, though evening isn’t far off.” He approaches me, and the warmth in eyes deepens as he continues holding my gaze. I cannot look away. “Did you sleep well?” he asks.
“Yes, I did. Thank you for the blanket, and thank you for the pleasant, nighttime atmosphere.”
“You’re very welcome, sweet human.” He smiles. “I would be happy to summon the same magic every time you wish to sleep.”
I’m about to thank him again when I stop myself. I press my lips together and remind myself that he’s my captor. I’m not free to walk out of this camp. I should be fighting him, not thanking him for providing small comforts and kindnesses. A cage, however gilded, is still a cage.
