Forbidden Hands (2)

Alessia

“I can’t believe you would do this to your husband,” the prince said.

He said the word "husband" like he meant for it to hurt.

I stared at him. The blade in my hand, the sleeping king behind me, and the blood on my palm. Everything I had carefully planned—he had seen it.

And now he was standing across the room wearing that expression I had spent months trying to forget.

“How long have you been standing there?” I asked. My voice gave away nothing.

“Is that really the tone you want to use with me right now?” He tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting. He was enjoying this. He was actually enjoying this.

He started walking toward me.

“What are you doing in my chambers?” I kept the blade between us. “At this hour.”

“I’m here to witness your night with my father,” he spoke gently. “But who could have thought that instead of seeing you moaning under him,”—his eyes moved briefly to the king’s sleeping form, then back to me—“you were busy scheming against your husband?”

He stopped directly in front of me. Before I could step back, his hand came up and caught my chin, tilting my face upward. Forcing my eyes to meet his.

I drove the blade toward his chest, but he caught my wrist before it got there. Effortlessly. Like he had expected it.

“Easy, flower.”

That word.

Flower.

My jaw tightened. If someone had told me a year ago that hearing that name would make me want to scream, I would have thought they were lying. I used to close my eyes when he said it. I used to feel warm all the way down to my bones. Now it felt like a hand pressing on an open wound.

“You think you can kill me in your own chambers?” he continued, his grip firm around my wrist. “And walk away from it?”

“Let go of my hand,” I snapped, trying to break free, but his grip only grew tighter.

Then his voice changed, dropping the teasing edge entirely.

“I miss you.”

I went still.

“What?”

I was speechless. Did he think I still loved him? He was a crazy freak if he thought I could still love him after all he had done to my people and me.

“You seem speechless, Alessia,” he muttered, his breath fanning against my skin. “I said I miss you.”

“Get away from me.” I shoved him hard with my free hand. “You killer.”

Something flickered across his face. “Killer.”

“Yes. Killer.” My voice was shaking now, and I didn’t care. “You killed my people. You burned my country. You told me you loved me while you were already planning everything behind my back.”

The words came out faster and louder. “If you hadn’t destroyed my home, would I be standing here? Would I be anyone’s concubine? Would I be married to your father?“

“I didn’t kill your people,” Draven stated, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous frequency. “Alessia, look at me. Why would I destroy the only thing I ever wanted to protect?”

I was shaking, my rage burning hot as his denial chilled me to the core. I had seen the banners. I had seen the smoke. “I will kill you!” I hissed, lunging with the blade.

I was fast, but he was a ghost. He didn’t even look stressed. I had forgotten—or perhaps I had chosen to ignore—that I wasn’t fighting a man; I was fighting the War God.”

Finally, he caught me, his arm wrapping around my waist. “Listen to me.”

“Shut up, you lying basta—”

He cut me off the only way he knew how. He kissed me.

Just like that—without warning. He pulled me into him, and every word I had been about to say dissolved somewhere in the back of my throat.

I fought him, pushing against his chest and biting down hard on his lip. He pulled back.

He touched his mouth and looked at the blood on his fingers. “You bit me?”

“I did.” I stepped back until I felt the edge of the furniture behind me. “And if you come near me again, I’ll do worse. Get out.”

“Alessia.”

“Get. Out.”

He looked at me for a long moment before he left.

My legs stopped working. I went down slowly, sliding until I was sitting on the cold floor, my back against the furniture, the blade loose in my hand. The room was quiet except for the king’s slow breathing and the sound of my own pulse in my ears.

I should hate him. I told myself I did.

I laughed out loud.

The truth was ugly, and I had been refusing to look at it. Even now, even after everything, after the fire and the loss and the humiliation of being bartered like livestock, my body had responded to him.

The moment his lips touched mine, some part of me remembered him before I could stop it. Before I could remind myself of who he was and what he had done.

I felt sick and ashamed, and there was something else underneath all of that, which I refused to examine.

I cried quietly, my forehead pressed to my knees, until there was nothing left. Then I climbed up onto the bed, lay down beside the sleeping king, and let exhaustion drag me under.

*

I woke late, heavy-eyed and hollow.

“You’re awake.”

The king was already dressed, sitting at the edge of the bed, watching me with a pleased expression.

“Good morning, my king.” I moved to rise and bow, but he waved me back down.

“Rest,” he murmured. “You must be tired.”

I let a small blush appear on my face and leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. “You are a very strong man, my king.”

He laughed, lowering his voice like he was sharing a great secret. “I may be old in the face, but certainly not elsewhere.” He patted my hand. “I will come see you again tonight.”

“I will be waiting,” I said warmly.

After he left, he sent gifts. Gold. Fine clothes. Silk and embroidered things that probably cost more than I had ever owned in my life.

Payment for a night that had not happened. I looked at them, arranged across the room, and felt nothing in particular.

“Your Highness, your bath is ready.”

The maids moved toward me to help, and I stopped them gently but clearly. “I can manage. Thank you.”

I couldn’t let them see my body. If they did, they would know. One look and any experienced eye would understand that the king had not touched me the way a husband touches a wife on their first night.

I bathed, dressed, and sat down to breakfast alone. I tested every dish before eating.

Then the doors opened.

A eunuch in formal robes entered, holding an imperial scroll. I dropped immediately to my knees.

He read it aloud in the careful, ceremonial way that meant the words were official and final and not open to discussion.

The king’s orders: I was to be educated in the customs and culture of the empire.

My teacher would be the first prince.

I stared at the floor and kept my face perfectly still.

“Your Highness,” the eunuch said, “you have not yet received the edict.”

“Your servant receives the command,” I whispered. I reached up and took the scroll from him with both hands, bowing my head.

After he left, I completely fell apart.

How could this be happening? Of every person in this empire, every scholar, every minister, every court official with nothing better to do, it had to be him.

I was supposed to be building walls between us, forgetting him, and turning my feelings into something harder and colder. Instead, I found myself sitting across from him every single day.

Forced to learn from the hands that destroyed my home and to look into the eyes that once made me feel safe.

I sat there on the floor of my borrowed chambers, in my borrowed life, holding an edict I had no power to refuse.

And I had no idea how I was supposed to survive it.