Page 26 of Shadows and Roses

She smiled and closed her eyes. "Did you read the section about his friends?"

The bed shifted as he propped himself back up. "I saw the names. Do you think Castien is part of the movement?"

"I’m not sure. But he could be useful, if he trusts us." Another reason to bring him into her circle.

Darius absently massaged her calf. "Fair enough." He paused. "The nobles aregoing to push for war."

Not over a courtesan, not even this one. The Queen opened her eyes. "They always do."

"They are hiring more mercenaries, training more guards."

Not something the hedonistic fools usually spent their coin on.

"I see. Anything else?"

"Not yet."

"Thank you."

The bright glint returned to his eyes. "Care for my sometimes pleasant company, my Queen?"

She couldn't quite return the warmth. "Not tonight, Darius."

Again. She'd abstained for nearly a moon now. It was frustrating, particularly since she couldn’t understand why. Except that she didn't want Darius or any of her lovers. Whenever her thoughts meandered toward the bedroom, she kept remembering firm fingers on her hand, wondering how that expert touch would feel elsewhere. Pointless daydreaming—the Dark Queen wouldn’t play games with this courtesan, and Anais never played games at all.

Darius waited a beat, then removed himself from the bed, bowing. "As you wish. Good night, Anais."

Chapter 7

Castien

He dreamt of roses—a garden exploding with full, dark red blooms, and a bed of nothing but their soft petals. Thorns pricked him from beneath the bed but they didn’t hurt—not yet. Then he fell through the petals, awakening before his skin met the sharp tips.

The scent of roses lingered. It was oddly soothing, perhaps because none of his courtly clients had smelled of roses. Most of them wore vanilla, sandalwood, or citrus if strong drink didn’t overwhelm their preferred fragrance.

He inhaled deeply, roses still drifting in the air. Strange. When he shifted, a soft object brushed against his cheek. His fingers closed around it and he cursed, something biting into his skin.

Not a creature. A black rose, his fingers nipped by its thorns. The Queen's summons. Sparks skittered down his spine, curling his toes. Finally. He was beginning to think she'd forgotten him. Even the fact that someone had crept into his room while he slept was merely a minor irritation as he caressed the flower.

Then dread settled in his chest.

She'd left the thorns. The others gossiped, though Marlow discouraged it, and Castien preferred his own finely honed instincts. But this was the Queen. Would she think him foolish for ignoring the experienced members of her courtesans, who whispered that thorns meant pain? Pain for whom? He'd been too proud to ask.

The image of the Queen with a whip in hand sent ice after the sparks. If that's what she wanted, he wasn't sure he could perform. Strong women were wonderful, but his specialty was control, the freedom and ability to coax pleasure from soft, yielding flesh. Even the nobles had accepted that, to an extent.

Idly twirling the stem, he stopped with a fingertip on a thorn. Unless they had been ordered not to break the Queen’s new toy, so that she could. It would explain why they hadn’t harmed him yet.

He scowled. The court’s whispers were messing with his head. He set the rose aside and threw off the sheets, beginning to dress himself. Understanding his clients’ needs came with the side effect of thinking like them. They’d be delighted with the idea of priming a victim—a toy—for an entire moon. And this speculation, his fear, would be precisely what they wanted.

Today was his thirtieth day at the palace. Even if he hadn’t been keeping track, the nobles certainly wouldn’t let him forget. Their whispered taunting was actually becoming tedious.

But this rose wasn’t a whisper, it was a promise.

His hand tightened on the rose, a thorn puncturing his palm. If she wanted to break him, she was in for a fight, Queen or not. A few of his patrons had tried, demanded he submit and be a good whore. More than once, a whip would've left scars on his back if a guard hadn't responded; that patron paid a steep fee for his misuse.

Another bound him to the bed and teased him for several hours, bringing him to the edge of release and painfully keeping him there, demanding he beg for her. His temper eventually snapped and he broke the poorly tied knots, then the spoiled brat’s hand. After the girl whined that he wouldn't play with her, his Master made him apologize for the violence, then threw her out withouteven setting her broken bones.

The fools had purposely requested a dominant male so they could play their twisted games, but a House had rules. Memories of cruelty flashed in his mind as he straightened his shirt. The crown allowed the Houses to govern themselves, but the Queen didn't visit a House, and he’d never heard of her summoning one of them before. Now here he was. Did the rules still apply?

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