He yanks the belt hard enough that I slam into his side. “What do you think, Pearce?” He says and that name makes my blood run cold.
No. Please no. Please let me be mistaken, let this be a coincidence or…
My heart slams into my chest as I see him stood, staring at me. He doesn’t look shocked, but he doesn’t look proud either. My anger rages as I stare back at him because he’s the one who put me here, he’s the one who did this, who ensured this.
Does it not give him pride to see his handiwork, is that it?
Does it not make him happy to see the reality of what my life is because of his machinations?
He’s wearing his usual suit, and yet, something about his attire, about his hair, looks off. He’s not his usual immaculate self. He looks unkempt. He looks like he’s been dragged here, rather than invited.
“Well?” Gunther asks. “Do you not think your niece makes a fine wife?”
Pearce narrows his eyes slightly and shrugs as if I’m no consequence to him, as if I mean nothing. “She’s good breeding stock.” He replies. “As long as she’s satisfying you…”
“Satisfying?” Gunther spits. “What would be satisfying is when I receive the money owed to me as the bride-price.”
Pearce frowns. All the men around us do. What the fuck is he talking about? A bride price is paid by the groom to the bride’s family, not the other way around. It’s a way lesser Lords can buy their way into a more prestigious standing.
“Chapter Lord…” Pearce begins but the look on Gunther’s face seems to silence him.
“You Heseltine’s owe me.” Gunther snaps. “You owe me big time and I want my money.”
I note that no one points out that Pearce is not technically a Heseltine. That he’s my mother’s brother and therefore, he doesn’t have an ounce of Founder blood in his shitty veins.
Pearce squirms, stupidly muttering something under his breath, and though none of us can hear the words, Gunther doesn’t miss it.
He lashes out, sending a load of glasses smashing to the floor. I hiss as tiny little shards cut into my skin, as they bury themselves into so much of my exposed flesh.
Gunther pushes me aside, pushes me hard, and I land in a pile of nasty little fragments.
His fingers snatch at something beside me and he’s too quick for me to see, too quick for anyone to react.
Pearce howls, covering his face as Gunther slices through the air.
“Give me my money.” My husband spits. “Give me what I am owed.”
Blood streams out through Pearce’s fingers, it pours down, onto that crisp silk shirt. He stumbles back, falls down onto his arse.
“I’ll, I’ll sort it.” He stammers, for once losing that overconfident, arrogant drawl.
“You better.” Gunther replies, before he sinks back into his throne and takes a long, languid sip of his drink.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I stay where I am, watching my uncle scramble for the door, There’s a deep wound now splitting his face in two, and I’ll admit, there is a sense of satisfaction in seeing him hurt, in seeing him cut up, and maimed.
It’s not nearly enough to feel close to revenge but this moment here is a start.
Pailtyn
“It is late.” Gunther says. “My wife and I will retire.”
It’s all I can do not to let my jaw drop in shock. Yes, he’s humiliated me, yes, he’s abused and shamed me, but I can’t help but feel like I’ve gotten off lightly.
Am I tempting fate by thinking that?
I let him lead me out. The only sound is all the footsteps, his, mine, and the dozen guards that follow.
When Gunther pulls me down a corridor instead of up the stairs all the fear turns to something uncontrollable.
