Page 47 of Shadows and Roses

A broken toy.

It chilled him to hear her say the words. This court broke people—shebroke people. The slave girl. Whispers of others, a game of returning tortured souls to their nations. That the Escorts were not truly broken was of little comfort. The memory of the dead servant boy warred with the laughter of children, and the warmth of family.

His doubts wouldn’t prevent his return to court. He should pay attention.

"They’ll expect you at my side," Anais was saying. "My newest conquest, tamed to my hand. It will not be pleasant."

"Is the court ever pleasant?" Castien raised a brow.

Laureline sipped her tea and laughed. "Oh, they can be quite charming if they wish. In fact, now that you’re someone of note, they’ll bow and scrape and absolutely adore you—if they think that will get them what they want."

But Castien was watching Anais and her crossed fingers, her placid smile. She appeared, in all ways, calm. Something in him recognized the mask. She always wore a mask, didn’t she?

"They’ll expect me to be a proper Queen’s toy,"he murmured. Her chin dipped.

If she wanted reassurance, he wasn't certain what to say. The thought of returning to that cesspit was unpleasant enough on its own. To be the center of attention, even with protection—his body tensed.

She placed her hand over his. "Jerome still sometimes almost stabs people, but you were already doing well. Trust me, and yourself."

Her hand was so small, dainty and gentle but for the sharpened claws and thick calluses against his skin. Castien looked into the soft forest-green so at odds with the unyielding ice of the Dark Queen.

Trust her?

By the end of the week, he did.

—

He shouldn't have worried about the nobles.

He sat at the Queen’s left, her claws occasionally using his arm as a resting place, petting him absently like he belonged to her.

The darkness inside him purred.

It was a good thing he was forced to be aloof, to bite his tongue and not react to the nobles, or shocked stillness would surely have shown on his face. The part of him that liked to play wanted to feel the stroke of her claws on his back, wanted to lean into her neck and drag his tongue—

He caught himself almost parting his lips, quickly readjusting to a grimacing scowl at the nobles who sulked, taunted, and jabbed at him, letting their infuriating nonsense distract him. After a week free of their acerbic personalities, he found that he hated them more than ever. It was a good distraction.

In turn, Anais grounded him from his hatred. The cold, possessive looks she threw at him also contained a hint of amusement, as though this was all a joke they shared at the court’s expense. When she took his hand for a kiss, it was easy to be enraptured by her sultry gaze, to pretend they were lovers.

They’d prepared him for this too, asked him what he was comfortable with, and told him what she might do.

Unnecessary.

His body didn't care that the Queen burned her subjects alive, murdered children, allowed her court's atrocities. No. In focusing on her, his body did what it was trained to do—react and please.

Two hours into their performance, as her claw stroked down his cheek and drew him to her lips, he’d forgotten the nobles, wanting only to taste her. Lost in the heady scent of roses, he wouldn’t have cared if she’d shredded his shirt then, as her other hand threatened to do. The hand that was stroking down his chest until she was gripping his thigh.

An inch to the right and she might—

Her fingers brushed him.

He hissed into her mouth, his muscles tensing. She released him and leaned away.

It was not disappointment he felt when her attention returned to the court. That would be juvenile—as juvenile as the intense desire she’d awakened in him. He fought to control his expression. Not for the court—they wouldn’t find it amiss that the Queen’s toy was left wanting. Not for her either; he could tell she didn’t mind his touch.

No, he needed to control his body’s desire to dive headlong into disaster.

He needed to remind himself that she was the Queen, that no matter how different she seemed in private, she was still capable of terrible, horrible,sadistic cruelty—else she wouldn't be Queen for long. Necessity might—might—dictate her actions, but they were still her choices, her will.

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