Chapter 3: The Captive's Bed
The water in the porcelain basin turned grey, then rust-brown. Adela scrubbed her hands until the skin felt raw, but the phantom stickiness of blood—his blood, the soldier’s blood—lingered. She washed her face, the cool water stinging her split lip. The reflection in the smudged mirror was a stranger: pale, bruised, hollow-eyed. She peeled off the ruined gown, letting it fall to the floor in a heap of silk and memory. From her walnut armoire, she pulled a simple linen nightgown, soft from years of wear. It smelled faintly of lavender and home. Putting it on felt like draping a ghost over her shoulders.
She extinguished all but one candle and climbed into the high bed, the familiar dip of the feather mattress a small, aching comfort. She curled into a tight ball in the very center, pulling the coverlet to her chin. The silence was a physical weight. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the soldier’s face, the shock transforming into nothingness. She heard the wet, final sound. She saw Nikolai’s eyes, watching her, as cold and detached as a winter sky.
Sleep was a distant shore, but exhaustion began to pull her under, the horror blurring at the edges.
The door opened without a knock.
Her eyes snapped open. He stood silhouetted against the torchlight from the corridor, a massive, dark shape. Then he stepped inside and closed the door, plunging the room back into candlelight. He had shed his armor. He wore a loose black linen shirt, untucked over his trousers. The fabric did little to hide the broad planes of his chest, or the thick, clean bandage wrapped around his torso, stark white against the dark cloth. In one hand, he carried a bottle of amber liquid and a single, heavy crystal glass.
He surveyed the room, his gaze touching her scattered books, her embroidery frame, the silver locket left open on the vanity. Then his eyes landed on her.
“These are my chambers now,” he said. His voice was quieter here, devoid of the throne room’s echo, but no less absolute. “You will remain in them. With me.”
Adela pushed herself up on her elbows, the sheets pooling at her waist. “This is my bedroom.”
“It was. It is now the king’s bedchamber. And as you are the kingdom’s most valuable prisoner, you will stay where I can see you.” He set the bottle and glass on the heavy oak table near the fireplace. “I don’t trust you in the dungeons. You’re too clever. I don’t trust you in a guest wing. You’re too kind. Someone might help you out of misplaced pity. Here, you are a fixture.”
“A fixture,” she repeated, the word flat. A fresh, sharp anger cut through her numbness. She threw the covers back and swung her legs out of bed, standing on the cold floor. “I am not a tapestry to be hung on your wall, Nikolai.”
He turned fully to face her, a slow, predatory shift. “You are whatever I say you are.”
He took a step toward her. Then another, closing the distance between the hearth and the bed. The casualness of his movement, the presumption of his ownership, ignited a panic she hadn’t felt even on the battlefield. Her eyes darted to the bandage. A flicker of the man who had gripped her hand in pain flashed in her mind, only to be smothered by the image of him giving the execution order.
As he came within arm’s reach, instinct overrode reason. She lashed out with a desperate, kicking jab aimed directly at the bandaged wound on his side.
He moved faster. His hand shot down and caught her leg just below the knee, his fingers clamping around her calf with a strength that made her gasp. The force of her own kick halted dead. He didn’t flinch, didn’t grunt. He just held her, his grip like iron, her leg suspended in the air.
With a slow, inexorable pull, he drew her toward him. She hopped, off-balance, until she was close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, to see the dark stubble along his jaw, the individual lashes framing his cold, assessing eyes. Her heart hammered against her ribs. The scent of him—leather, cold night air, and the faint, clean smell of the soap from his wound—filled her senses.
He leaned down, his breath warm against her ear as he murmured, “The next time you aim for an injury, Princess, make sure your opponent isn’t made of them. I’ve had worse from my own tutors before I could read.”
He released her calf. She stumbled back, catching herself on the bedpost, her skin burning where his fingers had been.
His warning hung between them, intimate and violent. He walked back to the table, uncorked the bottle, and poured a generous measure of the liquor into the solitary glass. The liquid caught the candlelight, glowing like honey.
Adela’s breath came in short, sharp pulls. She watched his back, the tension in his shoulders beneath the thin shirt. Her gaze fell to the bottle, then to the single glass. A bizarre, fragmented normality inserted itself into the terror. The absurdity of it. The deliberate solitude of it.
Her voice, when she found it, was soft, scraped raw. “You brought a bottle but only one glass.” She swallowed, her throat tight. “Did you plan on sharing?”
He froze, the glass halfway to his lips. He looked over his shoulder at her, his expression unreadable in the shifting shadows.