Page 121 of Artemysia

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“No. You need to leave, Astrid.”

I try not to stare, but there’s nowhere else to look, except at this awkward exchange.

Her gaze slides to me. “Found somethingbetter?”

I resent her calling me athing. I wrap the bloodied cloak tighter around me and don’t dignify her with a reply.

“Now, Astrid. Get out,” he snarls impatiently.

She scoffs, but turns to leave.

He fixes his attention back on me. “Take off the cloak,” he commands.

Astrid’s hair whips into her face as she whirls back around to watch, snickering at my discomfort. I shift on my feet and open my mouth to protest. But I do as he says because there is a longer game here to be played, and I know I can escape whenever I want.

I slip the cloak off my shoulders and toss it at the prince. The cool air of the room washing over my naked torso puckers my nipples into sharp points.

He keeps his eyes pinned on mine. Without looking at Astrid on her way out, he extends his arm toward her, holding the bloodied cloak hooked on two fingers.

“Astrid, take this to the laundry, or wherever they clean these things. If they can’t get the blood off, have them tailor me a new one. It was my favorite dress cloak,” he says without emotion, as though his favorite possessions hold little importance to him.

Astrid releases a long-suffering sigh. “Call for me when you’re done, High Lord.” She gathers a duvet around her and saunters out gracefully, but not without throwing me an arrogant glare that could cut through ice.

Toryl shuts the doors behind her and clicks two locks in place.

Suddenly, I’m unsure of myself. Threatened, even. When a stranger locks a door behind you against your wishes, there’s no other way to feel.

He approaches, towering over me. I maintain eye contact, chin lifted. But when he reaches as if to brush a strand of hair from my face, I grasp his wrist and twist.

“No one gave you permission to touch me.” I know my grip hurts.He doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t fight either.

“I wasn’t going to touch you. You have a Syf claw in your hair,” he says with as much emotion as a brick.

My hand goes to my braid, and I pluck out the broken claw. It’s still sharp.

It seems wrong to toss it onto the expensive-looking rug, so I stare at it between my fingers. Do I put it on the nightstand? Throw it out the window? The black velvet curtains of his bedroom are drawn.

Toryl clears his throat and extends his palm. I’m surprised he would want to touch it at all, but I drop it into his hand and he pockets it. Okay, gross, but I don’t have an alternative.

“Sit on the bed,” he commands me, in a tone that suggests he’s used to getting what he wants.

He walks to a side table decorated with a vase of enormous blood-red lilies near the door and pulls open a drawer to extract a small case.

“I need clothes,” I order back at him.

“Not yet.” He opens the case to reveal a vial and a syringe.

My eyes narrow. “If you plan on using that, you’ll end up like the Syf,” I warn. “I can saw your head off with anything in this room.”

“I have no doubt of that. I’m not going to touch you if you behave. Take off your underwear.”

“Don’t be a sick pervert.”

He glares at me coldly. “There are rules.” He fills the syringe with amber liquid and holds it to the light.

Unless he has special skills I don’t know of, I can fight my way out, even though my dagger is still in the ballroom and I have no clothes on. But it’s not as if the entire palace, including him, hasn’t seen me naked. So I oblige, ready to punish him if he tries anything at all.

I look him in the eye as I slip my underwear down my legs.