Page 27 of Shadows and Roses

When he exited his room, a guard greeted him . Well, there went any fleeting thoughts of escape. At least he wouldn’t need to explain anything to nobles who weren’t likely to listen.

The few people they passed caught one look at his black rose and turned aside. Rumors invaded his thoughts.Murderous Ice Queen. Butchering Bitch. Sadistic Slut. She'll use you and dye her rugs with your blood. As much as he disliked rumors, they were all he could think of now. Could he submit if she demanded it? What would she do to him if he didn't? What would it cost him if he did?

His overactive imagination was fueled by the tapestries lining this hall. Gold and silver thread highlighted primarily dark colors—scenes of fire and death, war and chaos. A dark red carpet began halfway into the hall, softening their steps. Dimmed, claw-shaped torches were spaced just far enough apart that their light didn’t overlap.

The guard leading him stopped a few steps onto the carpet and left him, but there were more guards by her chambers. An imprint of roses adorned the metal on their shoulders—the Queen’s personal guard, he supposed. One spotted his rose and slipped inside. A few moments later, he reappeared and stepped back to his post, leaving one of the doors open.

Castien froze. The darkness beyond that door hinted of screams and horrors that belonged in a dungeon, not a bedroom. He shook his head; this was why he ignored rumors—his imagination liked to get away from him. One of the guardswatched him with narrowed eyes. Grimacing slightly, he mused that he would at least not suffer the indignation of being dragged across that threshold.

He took a steadying breath, rolled tense shoulders, and strode inside.

Numerous candles lit the corner where the Queen sat, leaving the entry dim. Two young women attended her in front of a sprawling vanity. One brushed her hair, the other massaged a hand. The informal setting did nothing to reduce her imperious presence. A trailing red dress flowed from her straight and proper back. Gold and jeweled claws clasped her shoulders, linking a thin gold chain that lay lax across her otherwise stark collarbone. Her chin was always tilted so that she looked down at her subjects, as she did now in the mirror's reflection.

Dark green eyes latched onto him, and he forgot to breathe. His neck tingled, his chest tightened. This wasn’t like that only time she’d invited him to sit beside her at court. She’d been distracted then, her eyes often falling to the nobles. Nothing was distracting her now. Those intense eyes raked a part of him that wanted to return the threat. Because it absolutely was a threat.Bow. Kneel. Show obeisance—or else. A growl rose in his throat as he fought to avoid baring his teeth at her.

He bowed a moment later than was strictly decorous. Breaking her gaze reminded his body it needed air, especially now as his pulse sped too quickly. Inhaling a soft breath, he murmured, "At your service, my Queen." He should have said more. There were protocols, an entire book on decorum and greetings for nobility, not to mention royalty.

Those few wordswere all he could manage.

Drip.

The rose was drawing blood again. His hand had clenched around a few thorns while he'd been trying to curb his aggression. He hadn't even noticed the pain. The sharpness of her gaze eased, replaced by amusement crinkling the corners of her lips. Already bleeding and she hadn't even moved.

"Tend his hand, Madeline," she commanded. Her voice was the same as always: hard, cold, accustomed to obedience—except for the sound of the maid's name, spoken fondly. He'd probably misheard.

The maiden massaging her hand turned without pause and passed by a drawer holding bandages, selecting two with the familiarity of a common task. She approached him with her head down, extended a palm, and waited.

He gritted his teeth and wrenched his eyes from the Queen, settling on the diminutive girl in front of him. Thick, light brown hair parted down a young woman's face, soft almond skin accentuating full red lips. Her eyes remained lowered, though there was nothing in her posture of fear, only calm subservience. The maid’s gentle presence soothed his ruffled feathers, letting him rein in his temper.

His eyes caught on the studded leather around her wrists. An Escort. It almost put him on edge all over again, but she was gentle—entirely different from that healer. She didn’t have claws, she didn’t wear a whip. Perhaps those close to the Queen followed different rules.

She carefully pried the thorns out of his skin and set the rose aside, then wiped the wounds with a wet cloth before firmly bundling up his hand. Her motions were efficient. An air of curiosity surrounded her, though nothing like the nobles’ crude sniffing. She finished, tying the bandage firmly.

"Thank you, my lady" he murmured. She offered him a shy smile.

"That will be all for now, Madeline." The same kind tone. So she didn't mistreat her maids; that was easy enough and inconvenienced her not at all. The girl bent gracefully at the knees before leaving the room. The other girl had also left.

They were alone. He stared into her reflected eyes, his anger rising once again. This time, he recognized the reaction—the same way he’d hated those who abused him. His forced presence here, his complete lack of control. It was grating.

Silently, she lifted an arm to the side, the posture expectant of his response. Catching himself grinding his teeth, he relaxed his shoulders and glided towards her, quiet and graceful. He was a courtesan. He would damn well act like one. Her eyes dropped to the muscles of his legs, to the skintight leather highlighting his stalking movements. Better she leer at his body than stare into his soul.

He placed a hand below hers, regaining eye contact with her mirrored image as she stood with the barest pressure to acknowledge the polite but required gesture. Lavender and rose lightly brushed his senses when she moved; such delicate scents for such an intense woman. Her callused palm and sharp, unsheathed tips of her claws were a warning he didn't need.

She faced him with the smooth grace of a warrior who knew how to use every muscle in her body. A small, practiced smile settled on his lips, his experience and training finally calming rattled nerves. Seduce, sex, leave. Simple. He'd done this dance a thousand times, with nearly as many different partners. A Queen was not so very different from other women. They all thought they were special, all wanted something more; he only needed to convince them that what he provided was what they wanted.

Her eyes wandered like any other woman, landing on his full lips, appreciating hispartially exposed chest, taking an extra moment at the bulge between his legs. Then she flicked an amused glance towards a small table set against a wall.

"Sit." Perhaps she was only able to speak in commands.

She sauntered to one of the two chairs, flowing into a relaxed pose with her legs idly crossed, her dress falling around a bare leg. Emulating her casual disposition, he leaned back into his chair, letting his open shirt show a bit more skin.

"How may I serve you tonight, my Queen?" he purred, stretching the long fingers of his uninjured hand lazily on the table. Her eyes laughed at him. Did she find him amusing? A pretty toy to play with? He clamped down on that flash of anger, but her eyes widened slightly. She leaned forward.

"You don't like me," she said with a curious tone, her amused little smile spreading on her face. "Why?" The question was a command.

He flinched and growled, then cut himself off. Why? His Master had told him the Queen requested him by name. She knew him, knew what he was. What game was she playing?

"There is nothing to mislike. You are the Queen," he attempted delicacy. "I am yours to do with as you see fit." The last word came out too low, too close to a growl.

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