Page 56 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

“Marrying the General…” Ariadne swallowed hard and sucked in a deep breath with a shake of her head. “Marrying the General is everything I have ever wanted. I have said it before, remember?”

“Yes, but–”

“Please.” Ariadne squeezed her hand in response, harder than usual. She stared at Emillie with wide, pleading eyes. “Please, Emillie…”

“Ari, what did Father say to you?” Her knees shook, and she looked over her shoulder at their father again. His hawklike eyes found them and narrowed almost imperceptibly. “What happened?”

For a long moment, Ariadne did not reply. Her gaze remained focused over Emillie’s shoulder as though having a silent conversation with their father before returning to her. She smiled again and shook her head with a light, false laugh. “Nothing!”

“Do not lie to me.”

Ariadne loosened her grip, patted the back of Emillie’s hand, then let it go. “Why would I ever lie to you, Em? You are my sister.”

“Ari—”

“Do not speak of this again.” Her sister’s voice turned dark and stony with warning. She cleared her throat, returning the next words to the airiness they had had a moment before. “I am honored the General wishes to marry me. I will be saying yes, and that is the end of it.”

Emillie opened her mouth to speak, but Ariadne turned and disappeared into the throng of party guests. The sudden departure spoke volumes more than her sister’s words. She avoided an uncomfortable conversation and took to the one thing she hated most to escape it: walking through a crowded room alone.

Whether her sister admitted it or not, something was wrong, and it had to do with their father. Moreso, Ariadne’s interest in marrying Loren, though evident several weeks ago, had waned after the public lashing. Her avoiding the General’s requests only highlighted her discomfort at the very notion of being alone with him—chaperoned or not.

So why did she claim to want the proposal so badly?

Emillie looked to her father again. He followed Ariadne’s path through the ballroom while maintaining the conversation he engaged in. If he had frightened her sister enough to make her agree to marry a man she no longer found interest in, then what was he truly capable of? She had seen him lose his temper in the past, even witnessed him slap Ariadne with all his strength, but Emillie never imagined him to threaten his own family.

Snatching a wine glass from a passing servant’s tray, Emillie downed the entire thing in one fell swoop before setting it on the nearest table and pushing into the crowd. If she could not get Ariadne to listen, maybe Revelie or Camilla could talk some sense into her.

Everything hurt. Azriel stood as still as possible in the corner of the ballroom, ignoring the disgusted whispers not hidden from him. Word of his lashing spread fast to those who hadn’t been present, and more officers than usual lingered uncomfortably close, no doubt told to keep an eye on him. Being at the manor of Captain Nikolai Jensen’s parents only worsened matters.

Why Markus didn’t just fire him, Azriel had no idea. It would’ve made both their lives easier. Instead, it appeared the Princeps enjoyed torturing him mentally just as much as the General reveled in his pain.

If it weren’t for Madan’s diligent care, Emillie’s aid of Algorathian salve, and the generosity of Rusan servants sharing their blood, he would’ve succumbed to his wounds. Night after night of bandage removal had put him in such agony, he’d half-wished they’d let him die. That no one in the household above heard or said anything about his screams had been a miracle unto itself.

Returning to work, however, put Azriel in a new waking terror. At least when he’d been forced to remain on his too-small bed he’d been distracted by the pain of his injuries. Back on his feet, he could no longer ignore the pain in his heart.

Stuck under the vicious, leering gazes of the Caersan vampires, Azriel did his best to shrink into the corner of the ballroom. Too much movement pulled at the scabs on his back. Too little, and his muscles grew stiff. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. So was his life.

As if his physical agony were not enough, Azriel couldn’t bring himself to stop watching Ariadne. The General had made himself clear before: stay away or die.

“Do not forget your place,” Loren hissed as he’d unfurled the whip all those nights ago. “You are a bastard.”

The first crack across his back had hurt, certainly, but it hadn’t broken the skin. It’d been easy to bear. The second sent a shock through his body. The third, laced with Loren’s next words, burned red hot.

“I see the way you look at her.” Crack. Four. Five. Six. “She would never lower herself to give you a second thought.”

It was true, of course. She’d never so much as given him a reason to believe otherwise. He couldn’t help it. The bond still dragged out the best—and worst—of him.

“You are nothing.” Fifteen. Sixteen. “And your pathetic pining will only cause more trouble.”

Azriel closed his eyes and angled his face away from the dance floor where Ariadne twirled with Nikolai. She wore that dusty rose fabric he’d found so beautiful, and as he’d imagined, it made her ethereal. His heart ached as much as his back.

“If you recall nothing else of this lesson,” Loren had hissed in his ear as his wrists were unshackled and his knees threatened to buckle under him, “remember this: I will not stop next time. If I see you so much as breathe in her direction, I will kill you and everyone you love.”

Oh, Azriel remembered the threat. Even if the latter half of the lashings faded in and out of memory, he wouldn’t forget the way the General squeezed his face between his fingers and sneered, almost nose to nose. The crowd, a distant roar behind him, did not see when their military’s leader spit in his face. All they saw was the bastard guard receiving the punishment he deserved for his insubordination.

Opening his eyes again, Azriel grit his teeth as he studied Ariadne’s movements. Each step appeared stiff and more uncoordinated than usual. She clung to the Captain’s arms to steady herself, eyes fixed on their feet.

Then her gaze snapped up to him, her brows pinching together as her mouth turned down. His stomach flopped over, and he swallowed hard. Something was wrong. He could see it in her eyes—a silent, desperate plea. For what? He didn’t care. If she needed him, then he’d be there.

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