Page 54 of The Pureblood Princess
Konrád sits down in an adjacent armchair, his gaze never leaving her. The chandelier overhead casts warm light upon his golden hair, and the shadows beneath his cheekbones are somehow harsher in this light.
“Well, I suppose you must be curious about your beloved,” he says in a measured tone.
Nadia’s heartbeat quickens. She strives not to let desperation show on her face, but Konrád must know her longing to be free of this place and back in Theodore’s arms. It’s almost painful to remember their last few moments together, and Nadia slips briefly back to that late afternoon in their future home, the way he made love to her upon the dining room table.
Will she ever feel his touch again? Ever know his kiss the way she has in the past? Or will she be trapped here forever, doomed to live the rest of her many days beneath the Kazamirs’ torment, married to Marek against her will?
“Of what did you speak?” she replies carefully. Her throat still thirsts for Konrád’s blood, is still raw with each word she speaks, though the sherry soothes it somewhat, and she takes another sip.
Konrád leans forward, his piercing blue eyes seeming to scrutinize her, and his voice drops to a whisper that carries a dangerous edge.
“My grandmother would be displeased to know I’m telling you this, but Lord Rosetti is looking for you with great fervor, Miss Magdalena. He believes you’ve been kidnapped.”
Hope blooms in her chest, hot and fast.
He’s looking for me. He hasn’t abandoned me.
Tears sting her eyes, and she wipes them quickly away, wishing not to show Konrád even a moment of weakness.
“But I, of course,” Konrád continues, “assured him that I know nothing of your whereabouts. I promised to keep an eye out for you. In fact, I’m looking for you at this very moment, or so the viscount believes.”
Nadia’s stomach twists.
Of course Konrád lied. What else did she expect? For him to tell Theodore the truth, that she’s been held captive here all this time?
Fool, she thinks, upset that she allowed herself to feel even a glimmer of hope. Her free hand curls into a fist about the skirt of her dress.
Sitting back in the armchair, Konrád sighs lightly and takes a sip of his sherry. Then he runs a hand through his hair, and a smile inches onto his lips. “It’s admirable, really, how relentless he’s been in his pursuit of you.”
Heat simmers in Nadia’s chest, and her gaze cuts to him. “And how do you know he’s not already on his way here to rescue me?”
Laughter bursts from Konrád’s lips, demeaning in its intensity. “How would he find you? This is one of many manors in my family. Is he going to search them all? I think not.” Still smiling, he takes another sip. “And besides, it’s not as if you can tell him. I take it he’s been quiet of late?”
The tip of his head is both infuriating and revealing.
“How do you know?” she whispers, glancing down at her reflection in her glass of sherry. There are deep rings around her eyes, and her hair is a disheveled mess. If this were any other situation, she’d be abashed, but as she looks upon her battered self, she can scarcely dredge up the energy to care.
“The hemlock.” He says it so casually, as if remarking about the weather or attending the races.
“Hemlock?” She’s not one for plants, but even she knows that hemlock is poisonous,deadly. Suddenly, it clicks. “That’s what you’ve been giving me,” she whispers.
“Don’t worry, it won’t kill you. Grandmother would prefer a more... ritualistic death.” He pauses to take another sip of sherry, seeming wholly unaffected by her realization. “If you were a human, well, I daresay you’d have been dead long ago, but it has different effects on our kind. It dulls the body and the senses, and in your case, it left you completely... alone.” Leaning forward in his chair, he reaches out, and his fingers graze her cheek.
His touch is repulsive, and the anger coursing through her veins sends her thirst screaming again. She loses her concentration, loses herself to instinct.
In the time it takes to blink, she whips her head to the side and sinks her fangs into Konrád’s hand.
His scream is ferocious, but she can scarcely hear it; her focus is on his hand clamped between her jaws, his blood starting to flow into her mouth. Her eyes close, relief settling in as the first tinges of metallic flavor touch her tongue.
But then something strikes her across the head, its impact sending her tumbling from the armchair onto the floor. Glass shatters around her, and warm liquid drips across her face. In the chaos, Konrád yanks his hand from her mouth, and the reprieve she felt comes to a crashing halt.
“You bitch,” he growls, kicking the toppled armchair aside and lunging to straddle Nadia on the floor. Beneath his knees, the broken shards of glass crunch into the carpet.
Specks of light still dance in her vision from the blow of glass across her temple, and she’s limp as Konrád takes her hands and pins them above her head. The reality of her situation is slow to dawn on her. Individual details come into clarity first: Konrád’s bloody hand dripping onto her gown and the carpet; her handstrapped in his strong grip as rage simmers in his blue eyes; his injured hand reaching for the buttons on his trousers.
That last detail shakes her from her stupor, and the realization of what he intends to do sends a shockwave of horror through her.
“Get off,” she tries to say, but it comes out small and garbled.
