Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy (7 page)

“Do
they always?” I pray he does not notice how I hold my breath in
anticipation of his answer. Is it possible that Vladimir will tire of
me? That I will be cast aside? That I can be free once more?

There
is a flickering of torch light at the top of the stairs, and I feel
hope. Surely this was prepared for my arrival, yet if that is so,
then why was Atticus so surprised to see us return today?

“Vladimir
has yet to remain with one woman.” He lifts me so my head does
not connect with the doorway as we enter another small hallway with
low-hanging wooden beams. The ceiling above is vaulted into a peak,
and I realize with a start that we have entered the tallest turret
that I spied from below.

Atticus
pauses before a wooden door and looks down at me. “Eventually
you will be given over to us when he tires with you.” He leans
forward to whisper into my ear. My skin prickles at his touch. Fear
nestles firmly into my heart. “I look forward to that day.”

I
feel numb as he kicks at the bottom of the door and carries me across
the threshold into a darkened room. A chill is on the air and the
hearth lies cold and dormant. The only light to see by is from the
moon that spills in through a glass-paned window on a far wall. “I
will send for someone to stoke the fire for you, if you would like.”

Thinking
back on the heat of the noonday sun, I shake my head. “That
will not be necessary.” He sinks low to place me atop the bed.
A small puff of dusts rises around me. “This is to be my room?”

“Indeed.”
Atticus rises and dusts off his hands, as if needing to erase the
memory of me in his arms. “As I said below, I had thought
Vladimir would take his time with you. He does so enjoy the first
night.”

I
look up. “There have been other wives?”

“Many.”
He laughs and moves toward the door, pausing with his hand upon the
latch. “And I have bedded every one of them.”

The
moon is high overhead. Its light pools on the floor beside the bed. I
stare at it, blinking sleep from my eyes as I realize that it is
nearly transparent on the wooden floor in the light of the crackling
fire nearby. I groan, rubbing my hands over my face, feeling beads of
sweat that cling to my brow.

I
sit upright, wincing at the throbbing pain in my ankle. Lifting the
hem of my dress, I see it is wrapped in cloth and the pain has
lessened.

“Just
a few more spoonsful and all will be well again,” a singsong
voice says from beside me. I shriek and fling out my arm to push the
strange girl aside yet feel as if my hand connects with a stone wall.
She is nothing more than a wisp of emerald silk and snowy hair.
However, I hardly make her bat an eyelash, though she does curl her
lip with disapproval. “It is rude to try to strike someone
attempting to heal you,” she scolds and rises from the bed.

A
bowl stained with a thick crimson liquid sloshes as she sets it on a
small wooden table beside the bed. A wooden spoon rattles around the
edge of the dish. “Finish this, then call when you need help
dressing.”

With
her nose lifted high into the air, she turns and slams the door
behind her. No name given. No kind word. I assume this must be the
Emeline that Vladimir mentioned earlier. She is merely doing
Vladimir’s bidding, like everyone else around here.

I
stare at the door for several moments after I hear her steps trail
off in the hall beyond. There are no other sounds in the turret,
though I can hear plenty of action in the castle below. It would
appear that a grand feast has been prepared, no doubt in Vladimir’s
honor.

Thrusting
myself back onto the bed, I sink into the soft blanket. It rises
around me, offering comfort where the straw bedding beneath does not.

The
blood collecting in the corner of my mouth makes my stomach turn
sour. I wipe at my lips until they are raw and aching, spitting to
the side until the taste of blood diminishes. Even as I appreciate
the fading pain in my ankle, I cannot help but wonder to whom the
blood once belonged.

I
roll my head to the side and look about my room. Now that there is
fire in the hearth, I can easily see my surroundings. The room is
nearly as large as the bottom floor of my childhood home. Richly
woven tapestries line the stone, giving the dreary walls a splash of
color. Wide wooden beams run from wall to wall overhead, the wood a
dark mahogany.

The
table beside me rises to the top of my thigh, with an intricate
carving to match the design that spirals about the four posts of my
bed. The linens atop my bed are the finest material I have ever felt,
soft and extravagant. Everything about this room boasts great wealth
and lavish tastes.

I
wonder which of the former wives chose this décor.
I
turn away from my thoughts as I stare at the dress that has been laid
out for me. It is unlike anything I have ever seen before. The design
is foreign to me even though my father insisted I remain in the
height of fashion when out on parade in Brasov.

The
dress is two toned, a soft green of a beautiful spring meadow and the
other in rich gold. The tightly fitted corset has been replaced by
flexible stays to enable breathing and maneuverability. Flowing lace
collars have replaced the stiff ruffles that my sister so dearly
loathed.

I
reach out and touch the fine material and realize the golden skirt is
layered and slightly padded at the hips, producing a full, flowing
look. The overskirt opens at the front to form a small train at the
back.

The
neckline plunges deeply, crisscrossing with delicate golden ribbons.
The sleeves are large and gathered just below the elbow. The lace
cuff is turned back to expose my wrists and forearm. Rosette ribbons
and lace drape from the waistline of the dress. A strand of pearls
lies beside.

I
run my hands down the front of my soiled corset and feel lost. This
place, this dress, these people all feel alien to me. Tears dampen my
lower lashes as I turn away to the window and let the arm of the
dress fall. The moon is high in the cloudless sky. A frost clings to
the glass. I stare at the spider web-like crystals, longing to be
outside in the cold, to be free of the sweltering heat within my
room.

Only
a gentle throbbing now rises from my ankle. I know I will not taste
the remainder of the blood to ease my discomfort. I will never
willingly accept blood again.

The
door opens behind me and Emeline steps through. A look of
consternation is firmly planted on her pale-rose lips. “I
thought I told you to call when you were ready to dress.”

I
look down at myself, noting each speck of grime under my cracked
fingernails, each splatter of family blood that tarnishes my
beautiful dress. “I am not fit for entertaining.”

Her
dark eyebrows rise with surprise. “Do you honestly think you
have a choice in the matter?”

She
laughs and steps into the room with a rustle of fabric. Her small,
pointed shoes tap loudly against the wooden plank floors. “Come.”

When
I hesitate, she hisses and points a finger at a low-backed wooden
chair that has been placed at the end of my bed. “He is not a
patient man.”

“So
I hear,” I mutter as I approach the bed once more with great
tenderness. She frowns her disapproval, however says nothing. Her
silk dress brushes against my arm as she moves past with a fresh bowl
of water and cloth in hand.

She
does not say a word as she begins removing my corset. I clutch to the
front of it as she grows weary of the lacing and tears it apart.
“Modesty is unbecoming of a new bride.” She tsks and
yanks the corset from my hands.

I
cover myself with my hands as she dips the rag into the water and
begins scrubbing my flesh with such intensity I fear there will be
nothing left. “I am not your bride. You are a stranger to me.”

Her
hand clasps down hard onto my shoulder. I gasp in pain as her nails
dig into my muscle. “Do you think I enjoy this? I intended to
dine with Marcus at the feast. Instead, he is left to the cunning
wiles of Verity while I am here tending to the likes of you. If he
takes her to bed this night, I will make you atone for this
grievance.”

I
wrench out of her grasp and spin to glare at her. “I do not
care about your love affairs. I want to be left alone. Nothing more.”

A
cruel smile tugs at her lips as she leans in and shoves me back into
place. Her whisper unsettles the hair at the nape of my neck as she
dips low. Her nails draw blood as she increases her grip on my arm.
“Vladimir has a taste for pain. How long do you think you will
manage to endure before he breaks you, just as he did the others?”

“Are you all
so contemptible?”

Emeline
laughs as she rises and scrubs flakes of blood from my back. “I
am one of the nice ones.”

“Brilliant,”
I mutter and clutch my arms tighter beneath my armpits.

She
forces me to rise and remove my underclothes. My skin feels feverish
from the fire as she works, making sure not to miss a single spot. By
the time she helps me ease into my dress, I feel laid bare, violated.

I
see the way she smirks at my chest and feel her mockery like a swift
kick in the stomach. Her own dress does little to hold back the ample
flesh attempting to spring free. While she may have more depth to her
curves, I have grace on my side. I am taller than her and my body is
clothed in lean muscle that she will never possess.

Yes,
she is strong, though it is a mirage of the soft, curvy girl before
me. Perhaps men prefer that. I sincerely hope they do so they will
leave me be.

“You
will have to work hard to make up for your… shortcomings.”
She gives my chest a pointed look as she adjusts the fabric overtop.
It feels cool against my skin, a pleasant contrast to the hearth
fire.

“Perhaps
you overestimate the value of your own assets,” I spit back at
her. Emeline flushes red and yanks me by the hair until I am seated
on the chair once more. She combs through my wet strands with
merciless vengeance. I bite down on my lip to stave off my cries.
Many strands detach from my head as she hits snag after snag.

Emeline
twists my hair at the base of my head with enough force to snap a
human’s neck. I gnash my teeth as she jabs a pearl comb into my
hair to hold it in place. “Do that again and I will speak with
Vladimir of this.”

She
grips my face and turns me so I can see her from the corner of my
eye. I had anticipated the same fear that Alamesia and Atticus
displayed earlier, though what I see is haughty confidence.

“Do
you really think he would take your word over mine?” She runs a
long fingernail down the side of my cheek, grazing just deep enough
to part the skin.

“Do
you?” I grab her finger and snap it backward. Pain flares in
her eyes as she yanks away her hand, hissing at me like a viper.

Crimson
blotches her cheeks as she lurches upright. Her dress is wrinkled and
her hair falling from her combs, though she takes no notice of it as
she trounces to the door. She turns back in the threshold with a
savage grin. “Vladimir will take you tonight and the whole
castle well revel in your screams.”

She
slams the door behind her and I am left with fear nestled firmly in
the pit of my stomach. I know he will come… and pain will
surely follow.

I
can hear the laughter from below, raucous and bellowing, as the moon
begins to shift in the sky. I pace my room, wringing my hands at my
waist as I wait, pondering what awaits me.

My
ankle throbs only a little, hardly enough to distract me from my
anxiety. The shoes Emeline left for me are a tight fit. My toes curl
painfully in the pointed tips. The heels are higher than my usual
slippers and I find walking in them to be very trying.

“It will not
do to fall flat on your face, Roseline,” I scold as I turn back
from the window and freeze.

Standing
in the door is a man of breathtaking beauty. His chestnut hair is
long, as is the custom, and drawn back by a leather thong. Hues of
copper appear as he steps into the light of the fire. His shoulders
are broad, his arms thick with muscle, stretching the fine fabric of
his shirt until the seams strain. His nose is rigid, his dark eyes
deeply set. His brow shows not a hint of wrinkle; his eyes do not
boast laugh lines.

“I
startled you.”

It
irks me that he is amused by this fact. “I did not hear you
arrive nor open the door.”

“Indeed.”
He steps closer, his gait heavier than most. The ruffles at the neck
of his thigh-length crimson coat hardly hide the contours of his
chest. “You should have caught my scent before I approached
your stairwell.”

I
can feel a blush rising into my cheeks as I lower my gaze against his
mocking disapproval. I take a breath for the first time and feel
heady as his scent washes over me: ginger and a dash of clove.

Why
do these men all smell so wonderful?
I
silently swear as I realize the firm set of his lips has relaxed into
a knowing smile. I clear my throat and take a step away from him. “I
will remember your scent in the future.”

He
leans in. My breath catches as his lips peel back from his teeth in a
sultry smile. “See that you do.”

My
skin feels slightly flushed as he leans back and offers a hand. “I
am to escort you to the feast.”

Panic
rushes in to steal away my embarrassing flush. I glance to the door
and know that I am not ready to face what lies below. I look back to
the man and scramble for some form of delay while I gather my wits
about me. “I am afraid I do not yet know your name, sir.”

To
my great surprise, the man tosses out his hand and dips into a deep
and very formal bow. I have never seen a man do this before. It is
customary for a lady to curtsy in the presence of a highborn male,
but to see a man do the same catches me off guard. “My name is
Amadeus of Wallachia. I am one of Vlad’s counselors from long
ago.”