Valka
I scream myself hoarse. At which point it finally sinks in that he’s really gone and he’s left here to rot until he returns. Whenever that is. It is war. The timing is always unpredictable. It could last anywhere from a day to months.
Pacing doesn’t help. It only familiarizes with my surroundings and I DO NOT want to be familiarized with being prisoner.
Eventually, my rage leads to exhaustion. And I finally look around .
The cell is small. There’s a little bed in the corner. A table, a chair, a lamp, and a half-shelf with dusty books. Add a bath chamber to that list. I hadn’t noticed it before because the door blends seamlessly into the wall in a slate grey.
I stand, testing my restraints and sure enough, it is long enough to take around the small room, but never to the door or the window large enough to shatter and jump out of.
Trust , I tried for a good hour.
Finally, the exhaustion gets the better of and I collapse onto the small bed, fatigued.
I do not realize I have fallen asleep until I hear the sound of retreating footsteps and the sll of food teases my nostrils. I blink at the door and note the tray of rich assortnts of food, fruits, desserts and wine waiting just at the edge where I can easily pick it up.
I jump to my feet. "Maya? Are you there?" No response. "Let out of here. Please."
No answer-- "I’ll get you so more water, my Lady. It’ll help you calm down. Or would you like so freshly squeezed juice instead?"
I feel like I am losing my mind. "I DO NOT WANT WATER! I WANT TO LEAVE!" I hear her run away with a whimper. Sweet fucking goddess. "Maya?" My voice fractures. "I’m sorry. Just--please. Pins. Can you bring so pins? I don’t need help. I can pick the lock myself, I just--"
I’m talking to an empty room.
Of course they wouldn’t want to help . No one wants to be on Lucien’s bad side.
Ignoring the tray, I sink onto the chair, trying to think, to breathe, to stop the spiraling panic. But a new terror threads through my chest, one I hadn’t allowed myself to consider.
Not Lucien riding into war. But Malachy, who will for sure, be on the front lines. And my father, who might be caught in the middle of this senseless war.
***
Worrying brings nothing but more worry, and I can’t do a single thing to change my current situation. So, I wait.
Days turn into weeks. I spend them reading the books on the half-shelf. It’s easier because they’re all erotic tales, so on monsters, so on beings that have seized to exist since the dawn of ti. When I’m not writing, I am scrawling into walls with the edge of an inkless quill that Lucien is a piece of shit. And there is no space left on the walls anymore.
And when I’m doing neither, I focus on freeing myself. At so point, I give up trying and accept that this is my new life and I’m never getting out of here until Lucien returns.
If he returns.
A month later, I am hobbled over a small book, reading, when Maya returns with a guard, who unlocks my chains with a rather stern expression. "What’s this?" I ask, itching my wrist. "Did the King keel over and die? Did he get disembowled? Have the crows plucked at his pretty eyes and torn up his flesh?" I know I sound crazy and spiteful, but I can’t help it. I can’t believe I ever thought I had feelings for that mad man. "Am I free to leave now?"
The guard just cuts a funny look, but it is Maya who responds with a beaming smile. "The King will have dinner with you."
***
I had the option of changing into sothing else and showering before appearing for breakfast--because I had to. There were more guards stationed around the house than usual and they watched hawkishly like they knew I was looking for the perfect opportunity to leave.
Maya insisted on scrubbing clean and fixing my hair and picking out sothing dainty and bright, nothing at all like the murder I feel inside. I hated it. It made look like a princess. I didn’t want to be a princess.
So I tore it off and wore a fresh set of night robes instead, because soone had thrown out my travelling clothes and replaced everything with impractical clothing that could only be worn indoors.
It had to be Lucien. He was making a choice for and rewriting mine.
By the ti I storm down the stairs, I am seeing red. I’m clutching the only sharp tool I could find--a long hairpin that resembles chopsticks--tightly in my grasp.
I’ve imagined the million different ways I will stab him to death. His left eye. His right eye. His temple. Under his chin. Through his ear. Straight through his heart.
But the second my bare feet touches the cold floor, I montarily forget. Lucien’s staring out the window, his arms gripping the edge of the long table that he leans against, muscles straining.
His hair is still wet from the shower and it runs drops down the crack in the front of his jacket. He has nothing underneath it and I watch the rivulets roll down his belly, so getting stuck between line after line of toned abs.
My mouth dries as I appreciate it him in the nastiest way possible, with my eyes. My fingers twitch with want. I have to bite my tongue hard to keep my moan down. Suddenly, I’m so parched, I want to lick every drop of water off his skin.
As if feeling my stare, his head tilts to where I stand, and the darkness in his eyes make recoil. But he is making a line for in long, hurried strikes, and before I can shield myself or flee, he grabs my waist and the nape of my neck, and drags my mouth to his.
It’s so sudden, so desperate, it stuns . His hands tremble and his breaths are uneven. And I almost pity him. Almost.
But it’ll never be heard that I forget being treated like an animal. My fist tightens on the hairpin, and I slam it through his neck. I feel it the mont it pierces his flesh. And he jerks way, eyes wide as he feels for the puncture.
"Fuck you," I say, because I have too many words to say and not the patience to get them all out at once.
Elegant fingers close around the tal and he shakes his head, laughing as he tears it out. "I suppose I didn’t think it’d be that easy." The wound begins to stitch itself. "Have you been eating well? You look rather frail."
My chest heaves with rage, my fingers trembling. I look frail because I haven’t felt the sun on my skin in days! I look frail because he locked up! But I see that he is goading . He wants to be mad. Because my anger has always excited him.
I whirl and begin stomping out of the hall.
"Are you doing that on purpose? Jiggling your ass like that--"
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