The man turned away, appearing greatly affected by her stare, and hastily rearranged the hood. His scarred hands trembled as he smoothed down the cloak’s thick folds.
“Release him,” she demanded. “He didn’t mean any harm. I—”
“No one meddles with my family’s possessions. He can rot down here as my prisoner. He ought to count himself fortunate that I haven’t taken his hand.”
“Your prisoner? This... this is a mistake! You must believe me. He’d never—”
A deep, husky chuckle cut through her plea. “Even so.”
“Please. Just let him out.”
“It’s too late for that.” Those words seemed to speak volumes. He exhaled a long breath, and Isabelle watched as it unfurled against the darkness in a cloud.
Silence.
“Why... why are you so angry? Why must you be so hateful? So cruel?”
“If I let him go,” he said at length, “what can you offer in return?” Isabelle couldn’t find her tongue. She wandered directly in front of the cell, almost in a lucid trance, and clasped the cold bars. Papa was huddled in the corner now, coughing and shivering. Guilt, unlike anything she’d known before, pulsated through her.
I’m to blame for this. And if Papa stays here, he’ll die well within a fortnight, likely much sooner...
“Get out of my sight.” The man’s voice jarred Isabelle from her inward stupor. She turned to him and stepped forward, raising her chin at a defiant angle.
I am not so easily broken or frightened.
I am a survivor.
She scanned her empty, dank surroundings: the cold stone walls, sweeping cobwebs, and blazing branch of candles. Despair encased her. Stark emptiness. She dared to step closer while a faint trace of pity bloomed inside her heart.
They stood centimeters apart. Heat radiated from the man’s body, surrounding her, immersing her. Isabelle vainly searched for softness in him, but only a dark, embittered spirit reached her. She stared up at his towering frame and gestured for him to bow forward. He hesitated, then did as she commanded. Her hands shook, damn her, as she peeled back his hood and met that piercing gaze again.
Half of his face was handsome—devastatingly so. In her twenty-two years of life, she’d never beheld such haunting beauty.
Jet-black waves, rich and flowing, framed the chiseled lines of his startling features. Stubble peppered the strong curve of his jawline and shadowed a smooth, sculpted cheekbone. The right side of his face was striking, beautiful—a stark contrast to its wrecked counterpart. And within those patrician angles and intense eyes, she encountered his humanity.
His was a face of inconsistencies. Complex. Damaged. Predatory. And more than a bit intriguing.
“I will stay with you,” she heard herself whisper. “In my father’s place.”
“Isabelle—no! I forbid it!”
The man folded long, strong arms across his broad chest. His gaze crawled down her face and settled on the rise of her breasts—planting directly on her silver cross.
“I demand he’s seen by the finest of physicians.”
“Isabelle! Listen to me! I’m an old man. I’m dying. I—”
The man’s dark, strangely erotic voice cut through the cellar, and his eyes whipped back to her own with a startling force. “As my mistress.”
“What?”
“You must stay here as my mistress. For as long as I demand. Perhaps forever.”
Forever.
The word rang with a note of finality.
“Please, Isabelle! I beg you. Don’t do this!”
How could I endure it?
“Do as I say and your father shall safely return home.” He waved his cloaked arms with a magician’s delicate grace. “Your father—whatever family you may have—shall want for nothing. A house, clothing, anything they require. You only need to say the word. Your father will be under my protection—under the care of nurses and physicians—until his last breath.”
Isabelle briefly recalled what—and who—was waiting for her back in Ruillé. This fate wouldn’t be much worse. This desolate castle could serve as the perfect hideout. Papa would live in France, free from Raphael’s clutches and in the hands of the world’s greatest physicians...
“How... how can I trust you?” And does he even have the wealth to uphold such a promise?
“You cannot.”
She had faith Papa would send help once his health recovered. Or she’d find a way out, means of escape. In the interim, she would survive this grim castle and whatever horrors it concealed.
Papa would not. The castle would crush him beneath its dark heel in a matter of days.
Isabelle glanced at Papa again, then stared into the man’s brilliant eyes. There, lurking within those expressive depths, she found the softness she’d pursued minutes before.
She sucked in a breath and nodded her agreement.
“It is done.” The man swept backward. “He’s to remain down here till first light. Then our agreement shall be carried out. In the meantime, I will bring blankets and food—”
“But it’s so cold! He—”
“Stole from me while he was a guest in my castle.”
He would not compromise. That much was certain.
“I demand to stay with him.”
“As you please.” He unlocked the cell. “Beyond the dungeon lies a labyrinth. Try to escape, and you’ll be lost forever.”
He tapped the wall with his booted heel. It swiveled, spun, and rotated, sweeping her captor to the other side...
Chapter Five
Isabelle awoke several hours later to find sheepskin blankets draped over her and Papa. She wearily sat up, careful not to rouse him, her eyes darting across her macabre surroundings. Faint squeaking echoed through the dungeon—and in the corner of the cell a crude, rusted chain glinted in the sconce’s illumination.
It took several minutes to remember where she was and how she came to be there. A brief flash of the hooded figure invaded her mind—an image of him standing in the far shadows and watching her sleep. Her skin tightened as she recalled him smoothing the blankets over her body in a ghostlike touch while he believed she slumbered on...
Perhaps I’m imagining things.
Exhaling a breath and tempering her overactive imagination, she clutched the blanket between her fingers. The fabric felt impressively thick and warm. She sunk deeper into those welcoming furs as her eyelids grew heavy from sheer pleasure. Her errant thoughts dissolved into the memories of her childhood, when Papa had been energetic and full of spirit. Together they’d traveled all of Demrov, free as two birds, the entire world at their feet...
How long have we been here?
She couldn’t tell whether it was night or day; within this despairing crypt, time seemed to vanish. Yet she felt momentarily safe and secure. Raphael was far away, and all that mattered was the warmth of these two blankets and the feeling of Papa’s body pressed against her own.
We are safe for the time being. And that’s all that matters.
It’s all that’s ever mattered.
The wind wailed, and winter’s cold breath seeped through the castle’s cracks and crevices. Isabelle snuggled closer to her papa, brushed back his sparse hair strands, and then whispered in his ear, “Papa, are you warm enough?”
Silence.
Isabelle peeled the heavy blanket off her chest and sat up, carefully nudging Papa’s body. Only two of the sconce lanterns had survived the night; she strained her eyes as they adjusted to the dark atmosphere.
Non.
Isabelle felt breathless. Like the air had been knocked from her lungs. Papa’s sunken eyes were staring forward—unblinking, unmoving. Her hand trembled as she lifted it to his forehead and felt his temperature.
Ice-cold.
“N-no. No, Dieu, no.”
A scream roared in her throat. She latched on to his shoulders and shook his body with all her power, as if the movements might knock the life back into him. Her pulse hammered i
nside her chest, in her temples, in her neck. She wrung her hands in the tattered material of his tweed coat and crushed her forehead against his chest.
She struggled to hear the beat of his heart—but only silence answered.
“Please...”
A long while later, or perhaps in no time at all, the tears finally came. Alas, shattering tears of disbelief sprang to her eyes, blurring the world around her. Deep, soul-wrenching sobs convulsed her gut as she rocked Papa’s body in her arms. Everything felt surreal... as if she’d plunged into the depths of a nightmare and would soon awake. Her body grew cold and numb, resembling an empty shell.
Yes, this must be a nightmare. A terrible dream. This cannot be... cannot be happening. Not after everything we’ve endured together.
But the truth radiated from Papa’s immobile body and vacant stare. His hands were tinted blue, his purplish skin tight and waxy. This was reality at its darkest and most perverse.
“Please... Please come back to me... Please, Papa, I need you... Please don’t leave me alone in this abyss where I cannot find you...”
Isabelle wrapped her arms around her body and physically held herself together.
He’d always been her hero, her best friend, her confidant, her anchor. He’d given her everything since her first breath; despite his ailing health, he had fought to continue giving her the world until his last. In return, Isabelle had sacrificed everything in her power to protect him, to keep their close-knit family safe—and now it was all for naught.
This journey should have been their chance at a new beginning.
Instead, they’d reached the end.
“I tried. I—” The words lodged in her throat, barricaded by her gasping sobs. Her gut had been clawed open, leaving her insides raw and exposed. She held Papa against the restless beat of her heart again and rocked him in her arms. It felt as if her small window of happiness had been shattered. All the darkness, heartache, and despair were spilling through in a crushing landslide. “I’ve failed us...”
Minutes later, Isabelle cowered against the dungeon wall, her chin pressed on top of her upright knees. Deeper and deeper, she sunk into the miserable, trembling barricade of her own body. She rocked on her heels, unable to behold her papa’s lifeless pallor again. Muffling her sobs inside her hands, she slowly lifted her head and gazed at his strewn body. He looked like a stranger—and Isabelle felt utterly alone.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry...”
Her erratic movements gradually ceased, reality took hold, and a profound terror, a deep sadness unlike anything she’d ever known before, consumed her—body and soul.
Prince Adam Delacroix dreamt of warm summer nights that evening.
An endless garden of roses surrounded him and spread farther than the eye could see. Maman and Papa ran beside him, their mingled laughter riding the tepid breeze. The scents of ocean water and fresh blooms flavored the damp air and tugged at his imagination. Dusk had recently broken, sending luminous shafts of orange and red across a darkening horizon. Not so far in the distance, Castle Delacroix towered against the bruised skyline.
Adam’s emotions stirred to life as he experienced a resounding jolt of pride. Golden light fringed the buttresses and jutting towers, infusing the ancient stonework with a distinct personality. Adam felt as his childhood home spoke to him, and something deep inside his soul answered.
Prince Adam loved this immense garden most of all. Along with the kitchens and menagerie, it was his favorite area of the castle’s thousand-acre property. Here, standing among the roses and swaying grass, his family was free. The kingdom’s politics, propaganda, and stuffy ballrooms existed as nothing more than a distant memory. The French invaders and their wars imposed no threat—and all boded well in the prince’s comfortable world.
Indeed, away from everything and everyone, Adam rejoiced in watching Maman and Papa, who were so proper and formal at court, let their guards slide away.
Nearby, a pair of servants conversed in low voices while they watered the horses. If the change in their king and queen’s demeanors alarmed them, they dared not show it. They merely kept their eyes averted, their tones hushed, and all comments few and far between. Sébastien, one of the younger servants, looked distracted as he gazed at the castle’s shimmering facade.
Still running, Adam sighed and shifted his eyes to the swaying roses and grass. Earthy, rustic fragrances ascended from the garden, from the rumbling ocean many kilometers off, from the new factories hard at work, and from the very dirt of the prince’s beloved homeland. A great wall enclosed the garden—as well as the entirety of the castle—each stone shielding the kingdom’s heart as they had for over a thousand years. Papa’s voice echoed in his mind: And we, the Delacroix house, shall stand for a thousand more, because we are the true pillars of Demrov. Always remember, my boy: A kingdom is only as strong as her leader.
Adam came to a panting stop and pointed at a distant cloud of smoke. He’d never seen such a thing. It gushed into the air, floating above a cluster of tight-knit buildings, resembling smoke from a dragon’s mouth. “Maman, Papa, look there!”
Papa shaded his blue eyes with his palm, blocking out the glinting sunrays. “Ah, yes, one of the new factories hard at work. Coal, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Won’t you take me to the village, Papa? Just once?”
Something dark eclipsed Papa’s gaze. His hand trembled in midair, and an apprehensive note entered his normally clear voice. “Non, mon fils. Listen carefully,” he said, meeting Adam’s eyes. “You must stay here within the protection of the castle’s walls. There’s been much unrest as of late. We can’t take chances—not after what happened in France.”
Adam heaved a sigh and surveyed the stone wall, which suddenly resembled a jail cell.
Castle Delacroix stood along the coastline, encrusted by the cliffs’ jagged faces; at this elevation, the kingdom could be seen and admired—the budding workshops, bustling towns, tight-knit villages, and the sprawling farms, which resembled green and brown patchwork on a quilt. Inland, dense forests infested Demrov—but here, along the coastline, open land and a wealth of possibilities surrounded them. Every wave was unique and brimming with character. Some crashed into the rocks with a vengeance while others kissed the earth. The ocean whispered a husky, forlorn lullaby—the music of the prince’s homeland.
“Am I quite clear, Adam?” his father demanded, grasping his shoulder.
Adam nodded.
The three of them ran some more, dashing for the edge of the cliff. Maman clasped her swollen belly as she caught her breath. Laughing, she sunk to her knees—right in the middle of an aromatic patch of grass—and pulled Adam and Papa down next to her. Unlike most other highborn ladies, she didn’t mind the dirt or dreck, nor that her skirts would likely gather thorns and branches.
“Remember I am running for two now,” she said, her voice as soft and warm as the summer breeze. Raven curls curtained her flushed cheeks and fell about her shoulders in dark waves—a stunning contrast to her porcelain skin.
Papa’s love strong in his eyes, he wrapped an arm around her waist and observed her with an unwavering intensity. Maman sighed, then reached into a patch of flowers and plucked a single red rose. She turned it between her slender fingers while a small, almost secretive smile graced her lips. Then she laid her free hand on her belly and met Papa’s gaze. “If it’s a girl... well, I should like to name her Rosemary. After our rose garden. And after this moment.”
Papa’s deep-set eyes grew misty, though he held back his tears. Maman, however, permitted them to flow down her pinkened cheeks. She flung her arms about Papa’s neck and embraced him, whispering words only he could hear. The red rose tumbled free and onto the navy silks of her skirts; Adam collected it with a content smile and inhaled its sugary scent. The music of chirping crickets and the birds’ last calls of the evening mated in the air, creating a peaceful ambiance.
Night gathered. A rush of cold air violently swept over the wal
l and across the garden; the roses trembled, manipulated by the sudden chill. The very atmosphere seemed to thicken, to hang in breathless suspense, while a pale mist blew across the garden and consumed everything in its path.
The Kingdom of Demrov was weeping for its fate.
Ice slowly coated everything; icicles hung from Adam’s fingers like crystallized tears. Frantically he called out to his maman and papa, but the wind spirited his voice away.
I mustn’t cry. I mustn’t cry. I must be brave like Papa always says I should be. But hope was dying, and without hope, he lost his will to brave the coming storm. The roses withered and died as if icy fingers had strangled them, draining all color from the Kingdom of Demrov. Prince Adam wept silent tears while his maman and papa dissolved into ashes and rejoined the quiet earth.
As the tears froze on his cheeks, Adam remained crouched in the middle of the decrepit garden—that single red rose clasped between his fingers...
Adam lounged before the hearth as an avalanche of emotions crashed through him—guilt, resentment, sorrow, and, most prominent of all, an all-encompassing loneliness and despair.
He’d found no rest that night. Only vivid dreams and the lamentations of past ghosts. Remarkably he hadn’t dreamt of that tragic eve; he’d dreamt of warm summer nights, a garden of roses, and the rush of a cold breath, which almost felt like a death rattle, as icy fingers seized the world.
The hearth seemed to reach out for him, to whisper his name, while the fire diabolically crackled and devoured the logs. And he saw everything within those unrelenting flames—his entire past identity and the horrors of that long-ago night.
He much preferred the nightmares over the dreams. They were somehow less painful. More one-note. They didn’t leave him aching with a hope and wistfulness that threatened to conquer what remained of his heart. He draped his arm down the side of the wingback chair and absently stroked Stranger, his beloved wolfhound and one true companion.
Heaving a sigh, he comforted himself with a sip of brandy. Beyond the large window, sleet thumped against the pane with the audacity of defiant fists. He much liked the gloom of winter; he found solace in the clotted shadows that helped conceal his secrets and monstrous appearance...
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