Page 20 of Purchased

“Already organized,Maître,” he says. “The message was sent ahead not long after she boarded. There should be an array of clothing waiting when you arrive.”

“Good.”

Beatrix looks slightly confused, or perhaps embarrassed, as if she doesn’t know how to react to such plans being made in front of her. She will get used to it, and in time will make her own orders. She will never have to want for anything again.

“Is there anything you would like, my mate? I can have the order sent through.”

“No, thank you.” She shakes her head. “I can’t… I mean…”

“In time, you will become accustomed to asking for what you need, and getting it each and every time,” I promise her.

I am not only talking about clothes.

The train is moving smoothly through ancestral lands now, approaching the seat of my family, the place the de Lune pack has called home for centuries.

“You’re almost home,” I tell her.

“Home?” She cocks her head, as if she doesn’t connect the word with herself, as if the very concept of being somewhere she belongs is so foreign she cannot quite fathom it.

“My home. Our home. And now yours.”

The station is set back from Chateau de Lune by some distance, mostly because the pack and the local heritage foundation would have collectively lost their marbles if I had turned the actual building into a train station. I thought it could be rather charming, but I was convinced by the many arguments against having a big steam beast throwing coal dust over centuries of architecture.

This means that there is a short walk from the train to the house proper. As we disembark the train, I sweep my mate up into my arms, sparing her the need to walk on bare feet across the stony ground.

The chateau is inarguably a grand place. Much attention has been paid to the details in terms of marble work, carved sconces and trims, not to mention crystal light fixtures, statues, and works of great art.

It is a living piece of history, and the pack tend to it with great fervor. Sometimes we host historians and other students of art who appreciate all that is stored here.

“Oh, my…”

She is awed, and I am not surprised. Craftsmanship almost always inspires. I set her down on her feet inside the doors, meaning to let her explore, but she stays close to me, like a child who has been chastised one too many times for breaking things in a fancy store.

“This is all yours?”

“This is all ours. It belongs to my ancestors, to the pack, and to the future generations yet to be born. We have the use of it for now, and it is our responsibility to preserve what is here and add to it for the future.”

She nods slowly, as if the words make sense, but do not quite touch her. I am sure she never expected to enjoy anything so fine, let alone bear some responsibility for it.

This will be a good distraction from what she has regarded as being abducted. She will become accustomed to this lifestyle and understand that she has been elevated from her desperate circumstances into ones that ensure she never need worry again.

* * *

Beatrix

He expects me to be impressed and excited, but everything I am seeing is only leading me to feel more fear. This place is full of pretty, rare things, and I can see in Armand’s eyes that he considers me just another one of those pretty, rare things. I am to be kept here, away from the world, producing for his line, for the pack, whether I want to or not. My future stretches out ahead of me in a terrible flash. I see the trap of domesticity and comfortable wealth.

I come from poverty. I know that sitting here, in a place like this, while others have absolutely nothing is disgusting. To think that I spent years languishing in the orphanage, rarely getting enough to eat, having no chance at a life I got to choose.

I have access to it now, because the man who has had it all along suddenly decides I am his mate. Does he really expect me to be grateful? Excited? This house of riches may as well be a house of corpses. I cannot imagine all the people who could have been fed and clothed if this were not being hoarded.

He looks at me as if he expects me to be excited, to celebrate my good fortune. But I am young, not stupid. I know that the price I will pay for enjoying all these things is my freedom. I know that my youth will slowly wither in this palace and I will emerge one day, many decades from now, an empty version of what I was, and nothing of what I could have been.

He thinks this makes me want to stay.

It makes me need to flee.

But I do not run out the front door, even though I very much want to. I can tell he is so impressed with his gilded cage he will not expect me to have a problem with it.

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