by Maisey Yates
She would fare well out here in the world. She was beautiful and smart and capable.
And he alone possessed the power to give her the chance to be all she could.
Something in him softened. “Agnes, when this is through, I will release you.”
Her eyes went wide. “What does that mean?”
“You want not to be tied to me forever. I’ve taken care of you. And I have done a wonderful job.”
“If you say so yourself.”
“Do you not have skills? Can you not defend yourself? Are you not fed and clothed?”
“I am all those things,” she said tartly.
“Then I have done well by you, have I not?”
“I imagine so.”
“And I find my responsibility toward you is quite deep.”
She shifted. “Do you?”
“A person cannot know how they wish to spend all of their time on this earth if they have not experienced different facets of life. You must experience more.”
“And if I don’t wish to?”
She was being stubborn, as she often was.
“It is not a matter of what you wish. It is simply a matter of what is. But you must have your education. You must have your time in the civilized world.”
“Must I?” she said.
“Yes. So in the end, I will allow you the same freedom that was given to me.”
“Catch and release,” she said, quite meanly as she took a bite of her cake.
“Yes. And you may not wish it, because you are attached to the familiarity of your existence. But none of the familiar will remain when we have accomplished what we set out to do. Everything will change. And your role will be fulfilled, for a time. You will go and see the world, and then return when you have done so.”
“I see.”
“I hope you do.”
“And you do not need me to defend you.”
“Indeed, I do not. Thank you for your understanding.”
Once they were at the end of their meal, and they were both drinking strong coffee, Agnes having moved into stony silence, he decided it was time.
He fished into the pocket of his suit jacket, and took out a small black velvet box.
He had not seen the gem inside, but like the house, had sent someone after it, trusting that the people he hired would fulfill his requests to his standards. Could they not do that, he would not have them in his employ.
And with a curve of his mouth, he dropped down to his knee before Agnes, the ring held out before him, and he opened the box. The gem was an emerald. And he found himself pleased about that, for a diamond was far too insipid to be on Agnes’s finger.
It would look wrong. And anyone who saw her wearing it would know that.
“Oh,” she said.
“Agnes,” he said. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” she said, her mouth straight, her bearing stiff and regal. And then she extended her hand, and he slipped the gem on her finger. And with one fluid, decisive moment, he pulled her off her chair, down onto his knee, and pressed his mouth to hers.
CHAPTER FOUR
AGNES HAD NEVER been kissed before. Not really.
Once, when she was fifteen, a terrible man who had been doing business with her father had grabbed her and forced his mouth onto hers.
But it had not been a kiss. It had just been violence.
She had forced her knee into that part of him that intended vile things for her and run away. This was something else. Something else entirely. His lips were hot and firm, and he smelled delicious.
Like the forest.
Like smoke and wood and spice.
He was a comfort, as he had always been. Big and strong and singular.
He wanted to send her away, and it made her feel like she was breaking apart. But right now, confusingly, after that edict, she was in his arms. And she knew that it was all part of the show. The one that dictated he put an emerald on her finger, but it was miraculous all the same. Her heart was pounding, and that pulse between her thighs overrode any anger that resided in her veins.
Oh, how she wanted him. How she wanted this.
What shocked her most was his tongue. The briefest touch against her own, which set off and ignited flame in her belly that burned hot and fast and made her tremble with need.
Need for... For more of him. His hands, his...
She pulled away from him, breathing heavily.
“I have agreed,” she whispered. “I think that is enough.”
They left the restaurant then, and she had not seen him pay, but then, Lazarus seemed to wave his hand and things magically occurred. He did not participate in the world the way that others did. He did not do things the way common folk did.
And with each step they took back to the apartment, anger goaded her.
She began to tremble. For he had criticized her sword and said that he didn’t need her, then told her that she could go on her way, all after she had been scrubbed and plucked in cotton, fashioned into this creature that he wished to put on display. That creature that was layered over the top of the warrior that he had sculpted from muscle and struggle.
How was she meant to find a place in the world? Apart from him? She was all that he had made her to be, and now he was making proclamations about how he did not need her. Not really.
And she was... She was enraged.
By the time they got back to the penthouse it had only grown. When they got inside, and the elevator doors closed behind them, she shifted herself next to him, her hand on the hilt of her sword. And she was determined that she would prove her point. The doors opened again, and they went inside the penthouse.
And she did not hesitate. Instead, she exploded. She drew her sword, rounding on him, curving her leg around the back of his and taking him down to the floor as she drew her blade.
But he had barely hit the ground when she found herself being pulled forward.
He disarmed her, flinging the weapon across the room. She howled in rage as he maneuvered himself onto the top of her, his large, muscular body a weapon in and of itself as he pinned her shoulders to the ground, his eyes blazing with black fire.
“What game are you playing?” he growled.
“You doubt me,” she said, breathing hard, not from exertion, for she had not begun to exert herself, but from rage and adrenaline. “You think that you can best me. You think you don’t need me.”
“I taught you everything you know, little one. And you are but a very small thing.”
She slipped from his hold, making herself boneless before tightening her muscles yet again and climbing up onto his shoulders, curving her arm around his neck, beneath his chin and holding him fast. “Small does not mean inconsequential, my Lord.”
“You test me,” he growled.
“I would’ve broken your neck were this real.”
She found herself being flipped over the top of him, lying down on her back, gazing up at him upside down, as he brought his face close to hers.
“Darling, I would’ve broken yours the moment you moved to draw your blade,” he said, his words husky and somehow erotic.
She growled, rolling to the side and making a grab for her sword. But he was faster. He picked it up, pressing the tip of it to her chin.
“You would be no more if this were true combat,” he said.
She moved away from him quickly. “I would never have stopped if this were real combat.” He lunged toward her, but she moved to the side. And put her foot on the wall, climbing up above him, wrapping her legs around his neck and flinging them both to the ground with her thighs spread on either side of his shoulders. And at the same time, she reached into her jacket and took out the very small dagger that she had placed there without him realizing. She put it to his throat and grinned.
“Y
ou don’t need me?” she asked. “I could destroy you.” He tried to move, and she allowed the blade to prick his skin. “You do not have the measure of me.”
Then his large hands moved, but they did not harm her, instead, they went to cup her rear, squeezing her gently, and he rolled beneath her, a growl rumbling in his chest that resonated in her thighs. And she faltered. In that moment, he grabbed her hand, twisted it and relieved her of her dagger, but he did not change their positions.
“Do not play games with predators who have teeth sharper than you could ever imagine, Agnes,” he said. “You are an innocent.”
“I don’t... I’ve not been innocent,” she said, wiggling, trying to get away from him.
“Are you speaking of the things that you have seen in the world? Perhaps not. But you are untouched by men, are you not?”
She lifted her head high. “I’m a warrior. I opt for celibacy as a way to maintain my integrity.”
“I do not,” he said. “In fact I find that very few things bring the appropriate release after the heat of battle.” His face was stone, his eyes dark. “Here again perhaps I have been remiss in your education.”
His words sent a cascade of something unfamiliar through her body.
And suddenly, he pulled her forward. And she felt... Exposed, for all that she was wearing a skirt. But then he pushed it up over her thighs, and she knew full well that he was looking at the black lace of her panties, which would barely cover her most feminine secrets. Feminine secrets that were not secrets to him, of course, for as he said, he did not engage in celibacy.
A tangle of unnatural feelings rolled through her. And then he turned his head and he bit her thigh.
She squeaked, squirmed, as arousal warred with the slight, sharp sting of pain that his teeth left behind. And then, his one arm acting like a vise grip across her thighs, he used the other to sweep her underwear aside and expose her.
And when his mouth made contact with that molten center of her body, she squeezed her legs, using all of her strength to try to close her thighs, but he was stronger. And he only used the momentum to pull her forward, more firmly against his mouth. And he lapped at her, ate at her core while she shivered and shook. While anger turned into something much hotter. Much more forbidden.
She had wanted him. She had wanted him in ways that she didn’t even have names for. But she had been certain he did not return the feeling at all. Particularly tonight when he’d said he had no need of her.
She had need of him. She always had. She had made vows in her heart to this man, and she had meant always to simply be his protector. But now this...
And then she could not deny the arousal pouring through her, not anymore. Her release was like a thunderclap.
She was accustomed to this being a quick, shameful feeling. And sometimes in the dark of her room, she did touch herself, and always, she thought of Lazarus and tried not to. Of his strength. His rough hands. Her desire to have him use them on her in a way other than sparring as they had done just now.
But this went on and on. This was something more than fantasy. This was dangerous.
This was...
She cried out and moved away from him, and he let her go.
“I...”
“Consider that a lesson,” he said, looking at her with eyes more feral and beast-like than anything she’d ever seen before. “You do not have the control here. You are not more powerful than I. And if you do not learn to understand life, as I said, every facet, you will never be able to win.”
He was more monster than man here, that darkness she knew lived in him on full display.
But she was more wildcat than woman just now. And she would not be bested.
And it was anger that fueled her then. Anger and a deep pride. She moved forward, pressing her hand against the front of his pants. Where she could feel that he was hard with desire.
“It seems to me as if you do not have all the power here either.”
He growled and all but threw her to the side.
“We leave tomorrow for Liri.”
“Is that all you have to say?” She was fractured. Broken and undone on the floor of this Parisian apartment. Disarmed and dishonored. In the moment that she had proven to him that she was not the loser, he was withdrawing.
She desired him, yes, she always had. There was no question. But this was nothing more than a bid for control to him, and she had been shattered. She would not bear it.
“There is nothing left to say,” he threw out. “My point has been proven.”
Anger and hurt pride spurred her on. “That you have the self-control of a rutting beast?”
“That you do not have quite the upper hand that you seem to think. You are good with a sword. But you do not know men. You do not know your own body.”
“I do know my own body,” she spat. “You do not get to tell me what I know. Or who I am. These are mechanical things. Any woman would have succumbed. It means nothing.”
Except she was trembling inside. And it meant everything. Absolutely everything. And now she had to go and play the part of his fiancée. She still wore his ring.
In defiance, she took it off, then leaned down and dropped it into his hand.
“I do not need this now. It’s only needed in public.”
“You will wear it when I say.”
“You are releasing me after this,” she said, her pride breaking. It was one thing for him to best her in a fight. It was one thing for him to command her to be his fiancée. It was one thing for him to send her away. But to take her and manipulate her with that deep, secret attraction that she felt for him... She could not forgive it.
Because above all else she had trusted him to never use her intentionally. To never harm her or treat her callously knowingly.
And she would accept being sent away if he was going to play games with her body. For it meant nothing to him. Yes, he might have gotten hard, and she knew what that meant. Of course she did. She wasn’t a child. But it was no more for her than any of this was. She was simply convenient. He would likely use her to warm his bed, in the absence of any of the usual sorts of women that he favored, and not think anything of it.
But she would.
She cared too much. And that was the problem. She cared too much, and when this was all over... Well, she could now see the kindness of his setting her free. They had been linked together for too long.
“I believe when this is through,” she reiterated. “And you have already broken the bond. The only reason that I’m doing anything that you ask me now is because I want to. I will help you with this, as repayment for all that you’ve done for me. But my life does not belong to you. Not now.”
“Agnes...”
“No,” she said. “I’m not a child. Nor am I a chess piece for you to move around at will. I swore my life to you because it was my honor to do so. I changed everything that I was because when you saved me you gave me a chance at something new. I never did it because I was being manipulated. I never did it because I was forced. I will not be toyed with now. I offer this to you as my final act of service. And then I will go. Off to make my life, as you have suggested.”
“So be it. No more swords when I bid you not carry them.”
“If it pleases the King.”
And with a defiance that she didn’t quite feel, she looked down at the front of his pants again. “For I will not engage in what else might please the King.”
Then she turned on her heel and walked from the room, waiting until she was back in the bedroom before her legs collapsed beneath her.
Had it only been a day?
He had whisked her to Paris, given her a makeover, forced her to wear skimpy clothing, engaged her in a sword fight, gotten engaged to her and given her the first orgasm she’d ever received from a man.
She could scarcely cope with i
t all.
And then Agnes did something she had not done since she was a girl. Because it was a weakness, and people use your weaknesses against you. Because there was no point to it. Because she knew better.
It didn’t matter. Still, big fat tears slid down her cheeks. Still, she dissolved into misery.
She got into bed and pulled the covers up over her head. And she wept like she couldn’t remember weeping.
She wept like her soul might fracture. Perhaps it already had.
For the first time in eight years she had no idea what would become of her. And she felt very much like that sixteen-year-old in an alley, following after a warrior and hoping that she might find a safe place.
Your safe place is gone.
Shattered like she had been only moments earlier. Shattered along with any illusions about her singularity.
She knew Lazarus to be a man with a healthy sexual appetite. He took lovers. She had seen him do it. And it had taken strips off of her heart to watch it, but she had comforted herself with the fact that she was special. She might not be his lover, but she was his. He could not manage without her. She was his protector. And he was hers.
They occupied a singular position in each other’s lives, and she had told herself it made her matter. But with a flick of his tongue over the most sensitized part of her body, he had turned her into another of his women. He would’ve taken her and never thought of it again.
And so, Agnes of the Dark Wood had become common, and in that way, nothing. Nothing to him, at least.
And of all the things, that hurt the worst.
CHAPTER FIVE
LAZARUS HADN’T SLEPT. He had spent the entire night going over strategies in his head.
And he cursed Agnes mentally, repeatedly, for her behavior, which had necessitated he teach her a lesson. She was barely more than a girl. She didn’t know anything of the world, which was why he needed to give her some time there, why he needed to let her be harder, savvier.
And still, she would not ever be allowed to defeat him.
That lesson had been unavoidable.
She’d overestimated herself.
