Page 38 of The Crownless Prince

His mouth dry, Marcus bowed to his liege again. “I’m sorry—”

“Youfool!” Thorne roared. “You’ll pay for your carelessness.” The back of his hand smacked across Marcus’s face.

The force snapped Marcus’s head to the side, and he stumbled sideways, bumping into the edge of someone’s bed and tripping. His tunicand belt fell from his hands as he blinked away the dark spots dancing in his eyes.

This was the man Adriana’s father wanted her to wed? With a short temper and penchant for violence at such a slight provocation?

It grated against Marcus’s sense of pride, but he dropped to his knees and raised his hands in supplication. The last thing he needed was to anger Thorne so much that he was thrown out of the castle. “I was careless, my lord. I beg for your forgiveness.”

Thorne’s upper lip curled. “You think you can grovel a little and avoid any punishment?”

Marcus blinked. Was being struck not a punishment?

“You spilled my finest wine. Your yearly wages wouldn’t purchase another jar that size.”

“I’ll forfeit two months’ wages—”

“That wouldn’t even cover the cost of what you wasted.” Thorne sneered. “Even if it did, I can’t exactly traipse across the sea to Mesti to replace the wine. Nor do I think merely foregoing your wages, when you still have food and shelter, will teach you proper care in your tasks.”

A few paces away, Edwin leaned forward, his pale expression strained and eyes wide. Jacob shrank back against the wall, as if afraid of earning a punishment by simply existing in the same room as an irate Thorne. Marcus’s heart thudded. What did Thorne have in mind? How worried should he be?

Thorne tapped his chin, his gaze wandering around the room. “How best to remind you, to truly sear into your memory the importance of serving with utmost care for your master’s belongings…ah.” A wicked smile darkened his face. “Sear.” He strode toward the fireplace.

Marcus didn’t understand, but Edwin’s complexion took on a green tinge, and he looked ready to interfere. Marcus shook his head. No sense in them both getting into trouble. Thorne would mete out his punishment, and it’d be over with.

A dull clang came from near the fireplace as Thorne seized the iron poker and shoved it into the fire.

Sear.

Marcus’s mouth went dry, and his stomach twisted. The pain hadn’t even happened yet, and he was already trembling. Should he beg again? Or would that only make the punishment worse?

Thorne turned back toward him, the tip of the poker red-hot. He stalked forward with a gleefully savage grin. “Take your shirt off. Unless you want it melted to your skin.”

His heart hammering with a more acute fear than when his father had discovered his clandestine meetings with Adriana, Marcus removed his undershirt with shaking hands. Just as the shirt cleared his head and he tossed it aside, something slammed into his chest. Thorne drove him onto his back and pinned him to the floor with a heavy boot.

“Hold still,” he taunted.

As the poker moved closer, Marcus clenched his fists, every muscle in his body taut. Fiery heat pressed into his left side. Instinctively he jerked away—or tried to, but he couldn’t more than twitch with the weight of Thorne’s booted foot holding him down. A scream tore outof his throat, even as Thorne withdrew the poker and lifted his foot.

It had lasted only a brief moment, but pain wracked Marcus’s side. His trembling hands edged toward the burning wound, but he forced them down as he writhed, and tears blurred his vision. What could he do? How could he stop the pain? He bit his tongue to silence his whimpers, tasting blood.

Thorne pointed the hot end of the poker at him, and Marcus flinched away. “Let that be a lesson to you.” He swung the poker toward Roger, who cowered back, then in Jacob’s direction, who curled in on himself. “To all of you. I am a duke and the king’s son-in-law, or will be soon, and I will not tolerate disobedience or carelessness.” The poker stilled, pointing right at Edwin and sending another jolt of panic through Marcus. “Especially not from hapless peasants I took in out of charity.”

He tossed the poker toward the fireplace. The ring of iron striking wood made Marcus flinch again, and the movement sent new stabs of pain through his burn. Thorne strode out of the room, and the door banged shut behind him.

For a moment, no one moved, as if everyone was holding their breath. Then Edwin ran to him, while Roger slunk over to the poker and returned it to its spot by the fireplace.

“Marcus…” Edwin’s throat bobbed as his hands hovered over the wound like he also didn’t know what to do. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry; I should have protect—”

“Oh, shut up.” Marcus clenched his teeth. “I’m in too much pain to argue with you right now.”

Jacob eased away from where he’d been cowering against the wall. “You should visit the castle healer as soon as possible.”

Edwin nodded. “That’s right. They told us on the tour where to find him. We might have to wait if he’s tending to a noble, but he’s sworn to help anyone who asks.” He handed Marcus his undershirt. “Come on. I’ll get you a different tunic.”

Marcus finished pulling off his undershirt and winced at the sight of his side. The shiny deep-red wound was as long as his forefinger, nearly two finger-widths across, and covered in swelling blisters. Burning pain radiated out from it and was on the brink of driving him mad.

The healer, a man named Alban with long gray hair pinned up in a topknot, stared before handing him a dripping cloth. “Hold this against the burn.” He met Marcus’s eyes. “From a hot poker, you say? And this happened how?”

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