Fallen Page 27

  “Bravo.” She took a drink. “You are well versed in the public propaganda.” He found himself scowling at her condescension. “Do not fret, it is not untrue. But nor is it the full tale.” She set her goblet down next to her, looking at it as though maybe it had the answers she sought before she pushed it away and crossed her forearms over her knees, her eyes once again on him. “Did you know that tensions were mounting between our kingdoms for years prior to the Battle, and when war seemed nearly inevitable, my father attempted to thwart it by proposing a marriage pact?”

  Augustine’s stomach roiled. He was well aware of the rumors about Barbarus ‘the Brutal’ and his acquired nickname. Suddenly, he no longer questioned whether he wanted to know the tale. He knew he didn’t want to hear it. With his features sufficiently schooled to mask his hesitation, he shook his head in reply. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

  “Ah.” She sat back. “I thought not. That a marriage pact was proposed is known in Galilae – at least among the upper echelon, as it was sanctioned by the Council – but my understanding is that knowledge of the failed marriage pact was not universally known outside of Galilae. My father invited Barbarus here to make the offer and discuss the terms of the treaty. For my father to murder him on our own soil would surely have started a war, so Barbarus agreed to come and hear him out. The King of Fortunata had already been married once at that time, but she had died tragically at only seventeen, a mere three years after their wedding. Tell me, Augustine, what do you know of Barbarus ‘the Brutal’ and his child brides?”

  More than he cared to. He took a steadying breath. His body temperature was rising and he was rapidly approaching the need to kill something. Or better yet, someone. When he spoke, his voice betrayed none of his feelings. “The facts are that Barbarus has been married four times, widowed three, and with each marriage his bride was younger than the last. All but the first have been below what is traditionally accepted as a marriageable age in any kingdom. The rumors are that he kills his wives when they get to be too old for his tastes, so that he can marry younger.”

  “Hmm.” She studied him. He wondered what she saw. “I was betrothed to him for two wretched days.” She drained her wine. “I was only nine when the marriage pact was drawn. Too young by any kingdom’s standards to be married, so I was promised to him, our marriage set to occur the day I turned fourteen. As part of the pact he wanted it decreed that I was to live in Fortunata until we were married so that I could learn the kingdom and its customs. My mother managed to quash that based on its impropriety. It did not matter. He was unwilling to wait.”

  He had to fight the restlessness threatening to overtake him. She looked down and for the first time that he could remember, he saw her fidget. “His first night here he bribed my guards. Spent the night in my room, and well –” She cut herself off on a sigh.

  He wanted to tell her that she need not say the words out loud. He wanted to tear the room apart. He wanted to find Barbarus and split him end to end. He did none of those things. He’d forced her to tell her story, and he was going to do her the honor of allowing her to finish it.

  “Well, he did what men and women do when they share a bed. The difference being he was a grown man and I was just a scared little girl.” A single tear she seemed oblivious to rolled down her cheek and splashed on her leg. “I told my father.”

  “And he terminated the pact.”

  She laughed humorlessly. “You obviously do not know my father.”

  If it was possible, his rage was hot enough to burn him alive.

  She had taken to staring at a point on the wall to her right. “He told me that as a woman my only value was in my marriage bed and that I should do my duty to my husband.”

  He would kill him. Kill him. Killhimkillhimkillhimkillhim. Fuck! He ran a hand down his face and then back and forth across the top of his head before returning it to the armrest next to him. Nine fucking years old.

  “How many times?” He wasn’t looking at her any more than she was looking at him by this point.

  “Twice.” He could hear her tears even if he couldn’t see them.

  “How did you get out of it?”

  “After the second time, I snuck into my parents’ room while they slept. I used the tunnels. Seraphime and I already knew them well by that point.” She was barely speaking above a whisper and he looked back to her. “I woke my father with his own dagger to his throat.” She tilted her head back and stroked her own throat in time with her words. “And I whispered in his ear.” Twin tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. “I told him everything Barbarus did to me, sparing him no detail.” Her eyes returned to his. They shimmered with unspilled tears and remembered determination. “And I told him that he could break the marriage pact or he could execute me as a traitor, but she would not go to Fortunata. Then I gave him a scar” – she used her finger to indicate a place underneath her jaw, very close to the place she had nearly given him a scar – “so he would know I meant every word.”

  “She would not go to Fortunata?” Surprise penetrated the miasma of anger that colored his vision red, and he spoke without thinking. It could have been a mistake in her speech, but somehow he doubted that it was.

  “Do you not know?”

  Of course he did. He could think of only one thing that might have compelled her to take such drastic action. Not for the first time, he wished she would stop. She didn’t.

  “My father convinced Barbarus to accept the amended marriage pact by agreeing to send Seraphime in my stead until I reached proper age.”

  * * * *

  Persephone felt as though she had been ripped open. All the pieces of herself that had been kept buried for so long had been forcibly torn from her, leaving her drained. Empty.

  Augustine hadn’t moved. She could tell by the slight curl to his lip and the agitation pouring off of him that he had found her story distasteful. That was an understatement, but whether it was at her these feelings were directed, or others, wasn’t clear. Nor did it matter. Persephone’s skin crawled at the memories she’d dredged up. Feeling dirty and self-conscious, she returned her gaze to her lap. It was unlike her, but she couldn’t bear to see the disgust he must surely feel toward her at knowing the truth. The fact that she did not harbor affection for him made no difference. As a strategist and a soldier, she respected him. He was also the first person she had told since she’d appealed to her father. Seraphime knew, but had not needed Persephone to share the tale, having seen directly. If one did not count Barbarus himself – and she did not – Augustine was now the only person that knew with whom she also shared an intimate relationship. Her past left her feeling used. Unclean. What if he spurned her for it? She wouldn’t blame him if he did, but where would that leave her and everyone that depended on her?

  “So tell me the rest.” His words floated to her. In her current state, she had neither the strength nor the wits to attempt to read his tone. “You made your threat to the king, and then?”

  “It was my mother. She overheard everything. My father has many faults, but he loves my mother almost as much as he loves himself. She threatened to return to her own parents in Xenakai with my brother, Seraphime, and me. He could not bear the thought of losing my mother and his heir, in addition to gaining enemies with both Fortunata and Xenakai, so he broke the marriage pact. Make no mistake, he made the decision for her and for his pride, not for me. Fortunata attempted to invade Galilae and the result was the Battle of the Red Sea.”

  “And what of your guards? Those that betrayed you. What became of them?”

  “Both dead,” she admitted, feeling little satisfaction at their demise.

  “Executed?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “You?” He sounded slightly surprised.

  She might have been offended if she’d had the energy for it. By now, he should know better, or so she thought.

  “Seraphime and I procured a healthy dose of hemlock. Ground up the leaves and mi
xed it into their stew. Did you know that the mind stays alert when the paralysis sets in?” She met his gaze.

  He nodded in answer to her question.

  This was a memory that brought her a measure of gratification. “I stayed and spoke with them as they struggled to breathe. All the way until the light left their eyes.”

  “What did you speak of?”

  “Mostly I do not remember. I was only nine, so I imagine they were trivial things. I was sure to ask them if they enjoyed their stew, though. They never did tell me for certain, but I think they did not.”

  “So this is the reason you have so vehemently protected the slaves and servants in the palace? You do not wish them to be abused as you once were?”

  She looked at him coldly. “I protect them because it is just. Through no fault of their own, they are dependent on the goodwill of others for their protection and well-being.”

  As she had been. Those responsible for Persephone had failed her horribly. Just as she had failed those she’d assumed responsibility for after the siege. A fresh wave of self-loathing and resentment boiled up. Remembering her own hurts served only to remind her of the horrors she had subjected her people to. People that trusted her. Counted on her. She wanted more wine, but her cup was empty. She didn’t deserve to be numb when others were allowed no such reprieve.

  “And the fighting and the politics?”

  She’d almost forgotten that he was still there. “I vowed I would never be someone else’s pawn again. I learned politics so that I could not be unwittingly used in the games of men, and I learned to fight so that my body could not be used without my consent. Now you know. Are you satisfied?”

  When he looked at her the anger and disgust she’d sensed previously had been replaced by something haunted.

  “No. I am not.”

  * * * *

  Her expression was guarded. Tear tracks down her face were the only evidence of her earlier distress. Any vulnerability she had exposed was being carefully knit back into the protective shroud that covered her, all her hurts and secrets hidden in plain sight, intermingled with the guise she wore daily. A thing she did so effectively that it was rarely clear where she ended and the façade began.

  Augustine was shocked she had allowed a man to touch her again. Though, given the way she approached it with him and her earlier admission that she’d never found release, it was likely she’d never sought sex for pleasure’s sake. Was it always a means of manipulation for her? An exchange of goods, as it were? He wanted to ask her – wanted to understand – but couldn’t bring himself to push her further for information she undoubtedly did not wish to provide.

  As she looked at him, he sensed she was waiting for something. Some reaction. If they were words of comfort, he had none. He had no idea what to say that would balm her pain. No idea what action on his part would hold significance when, from her perspective, he could be little better than the men who had already used her. In more ways than one, undoubtedly, he was worse.

  It was a new feeling for him to have no plan. No course of action clearly laid in front of him. He wished he could just ask her what she wanted him to do, but knew it would be futile. She only told him what she wanted when she was bartering for something and, even then, the things she sought were more for the benefit of others than for herself. Not to mention there was nothing she could possibly want from him presently.

  After, you will no longer want me.

  Her words filtered back into his consciousness. He had assured her that nothing she said could quell his desire. Not knowing what else to do, he decided he could make good on his promise. Standing, he closed the distance between them. Slowly. He wanted to be sure to give her opportunity to deny him if she chose to do so.

  She watched with barely suppressed hostility.

  “Seph.” All the things he didn’t know how to say imbued in that one word.

  Pain burst on the side of his head. He hadn’t seen her move, but she had grabbed a handful of hair and used it to roughly leverage his head sideways. “Do not pity me.”

  “Oh Seph.” He cupped her cheek and brushed his thumb under her eye, wiping away tears that no longer fell. “I feel many things for you. Pity’s not among them.”

  * * * *

  She was a coward. A part of her wanted to demand he explain his meaning, but she was afraid of what he might say. Afraid that it would be a lie. Even more afraid it might be true.

  “Do you want to stay?”

  She knew what he was asking. What her answer would imply. “We have a deal.” She relinquished the punishing grip she had on his scalp, but didn’t move her hand.

  “A deal I will honor regardless of what you decide presently.” Hand cupped behind her head, he kissed one eyelid. Then the other. The tenderness of the gesture brought a fresh lump to her throat. “Do you want to stay?” His lips were a hairsbreadth away from her own.

  If she spoke, she might cry and she’d already done more than enough of that, so she only nodded, her knees falling open in invitation.

  “Say it, Seph. What do you want?”

  “I want to stay.” A whisper. It was all she could manage.

  It was enough. He pulled her to him, his mouth exploring hers reverently. Using the backs of her knees, he pulled her to the edge of the bureau and held her tight to him. Both her arms wrapped themselves around his neck. Callused hands roamed up her back and sides. When he began to unwrap her apodesmos, he trailed kisses along her cheek to her neck, the spot under her ear that made her shiver under his heated breath and gently abrading stubble.

  Her core was throbbing with her need to be filled. Having never dressed, she could feel his hardness pressed against her. The two of them separated only by the thin briefs she still wore. So close, and yet the small barrier seemed unbearable. She wrenched his hips away from her, desperate to be rid of them. Concern flashed across his features before he realized what she was doing, and wrapping an arm around her, he easily lifted her while she divested herself.

  Repositioning himself between her thighs, she felt nothing but his skin against hers. Perched on the very edge of the furniture, she wrapped her legs around his waist.

  “Yes?” He asked with his mouth back on hers.

  “Yes.”

  His fervor matched her own and he speared her in one sharp thrust. His moan mingled with her own in the process. She trailed open-mouthed kisses along his chest, his shoulders, his neck as he pumped into her. His hands kneaded and roamed as he held her close. It was so easy to forget he was the enemy when they were wrapped around each other like this.

  But she always remembered.

  Chapter 3:

  Scars Unseen

  The deepest and most hurtful scars show no evidence upon our skin.

  – Adonia of House Galanis, Queen of Galilae

  Cato and Decimus leaned over the map. Figurines representing each of the Finctus’s holdings dotted its surface. Soon Galilae, and then shortly thereafter Fortunata, would be added to the list. Unfortunately, the mood in the Council was not shifting as quickly as they’d hoped. They needed all the pieces in place by the final Council meeting a fortnight hence. From the looks of it, the vote would be close. The increasing pressure felt in Galilae as a consequence of their ruse with Fortunata had been effective, but from what their spies in the Council reported, Cato was not sure it would be enough to turn the tide in their favor. They needed majority support from the thirty-three Council members – a mere seventeen ‘yes’ votes, of which they yet had less than half – in addition to the king’s commitment to fall to heel with their plan. Cato sighed. It was a good plan, but he wasn’t sure they had enough time to see it fully to fruition. Wasn’t sure there would ever be enough time to convince Acheron to go along with things.

  The sound of the door crashing against stone startled both Cato and Decimus. Augustine stormed into the room looking murderous, and both Cato and his compatriot froze, unsure what had triggered the sudden about-face from Augustine’s pr
eviously jubilant mood. He’d been with Persephone, though, so Cato had his guesses. She was frequently contrary, and Augustine left her company in a fouler mood as often as he left her looking more relaxed.

  “I leave tomorrow. You are in charge in my stead.” Augustine pointed at Cato’s chest.

  Cato couldn’t quite stop his mouth from falling open. Where the fuck did Augustine plan to go? He was very much needed in Galilae if they were to successfully achieve their ends. Things were far too tenuous for him to leave.

  “Make it known.” Augustine snapped his fingers and pointed toward the door.

  Decimus immediately exited with barely a salute on the way. Cato didn’t blame him. Even he wasn’t sure he wanted to be near Augustine while he was in such a mood, and Cato called him friend.

  “Sit. We’ve plans to discuss.”

  “Dare I ask what triggered the sudden change?” Cato eased into his seat.

  Too agitated to sit, Augustine continued to pace opposite Cato. “If I stay here, I will kill the king.”

  Certainly that would wrench their plans off course, but was it really necessary that Augustine leave? Feeling no clearer about Augustine’s present motives, but knowing enough to understand his driving needs, Cato asked the only question he could: “And whom do you plan to kill instead?”

  * * * *

  Persephone made directly for the hottest tub as soon as she entered the bathhouse. She didn’t even bother to remove her apodesmos and subligaria before dropping into it with a splash, fully submerging in the scalding water. The stinging pinpricks peppered her skin. She’d taken to bathing in only the hottest water ever since she was nine. Anything less and she didn’t feel clean.