by Anne Wheeler
Ryllis stood silently in front of them, though she refused to lower her head as Westermark had instructed. It’d taken several of his threats to get her to stand at all, and he ought to have been grateful for any obedience she chose to show. She would never tell, but he would have been surprised to hear it was the tablets that frightened her more than their weapons—stuns pistols could only impart physical pain, and that was temporary. The tablets they carried had the power to destroy the rest of her life.
“Then let’s hear it, Lieutenant,” the oldest one said as another circled around her, scrutinizing, assessing. She wanted to kick at him. “You escorted her here personally, so you must have something important to say.”
“I believe His Highness Prince Kresten has put in a request for an appropriate prisoner for his household,” Westermark said tonelessly. “The next available, if possible. This one would be an acceptable choice.”
The leader raised his eyebrows at Westermark. “Her hair is exceedingly dark, sir. I wouldn’t want her to be a reminder of . . .” He trailed off. “And she stands accused of treason and sedition—hardly someone fit for a royal household. If the Fleet is through with her, perhaps an auction would be best. His Highness can choose from another group later, one more appropriate for imperial service.”
Auction? Ryllis opened her mouth.
Westermark thrust an elbow in her ribs, not violently, but hard enough to distract her from what she meant to say.
“No,” he said, an edge to his voice now. “That will not be necessary. This one will satisfy his needs.”
Satisfy his needs? Her chest became tight, and it didn’t have anything to do with how he’d just silenced her.
“Sir,” the man said, with an odd look at Westermark, “I don’t mean to squabble, but I was the under the impression that the prince does not—”
“He has decided to, and you question his change of heart at your own peril.”
The man sighed. “My apologies. As long as you’re certain. I only wished to ensure . . .” He paused, thinking. “Very well, Lieutenant. I trust you will make certain she is suitably marked per Eradication Council policy? Even His Highness”—there was a strange emphasis on the title—“cannot overrule that.”
Westermark nodded, a glint in his eyes. “He is well aware of his responsibilities.”
“Indeed he is. Then we have no further business here.” He motioned to the other two, and they disappeared with short nods in Westermark’s direction.
Ryllis looked helplessly at him as Westermark guided her out, in the opposite direction the men had headed. “How could you let them do that? You promised I wouldn’t be a trophy!”
“No.” Westermark held up a brief finger to stop her as they rounded the corner. “I promised you wouldn’t be paraded around as a trophy. And you did ask if you could plead for a better placement. I just obtained you the best one of all.”
She gritted her teeth. “How can I believe that? You may have promised it, but what about this prince? You don’t know how he’ll treat me.”
Any bravery she’d been clinging to fled. Westermark had handed her over to a strange man like she was nothing more than property. To a man who was a prince of Vilaria. Cereth might be isolated, but she wasn’t naïve. She didn’t need to imagine the cruelty that awaited her—she knew. Westermark steadied her as she stumbled, images of abuse and torture taking the place of the memories at home.
“He won’t harm you,” he said. “I promise that, too.”
“How can you be so certain?”
He blew out a deep breath, then lifted his hands out to his sides. “Because he’s standing right here in front of you.”
Standing . . .
The blood drained from her face. Westermark gripped her arm harder as she swayed, preventing her from falling to her knees like she planned. Unwanted and hated conqueror or not, she was standing on his planet, and . . . stars above, she couldn’t remember half the things she’d said to him. Things she’d have never said if she’d known.
“Now you look down.” He chuckled and lifted her chin with a light finger. “That’s not necessary. I’m sorry for the deception. It’s for my own security, you understand, and the kinds of courtesies you expect of us are limited to formal situations. The Eradication Council knows who I am, naturally, but they also know me as a Fleet officer, so there was no need to say anything else until you forced me into it. I needed to make sure you weren’t going to . . .”
He shook his head, almost to himself.
“Of course you weren’t going to attack me. I only knew it would be upsetting, and . . . I suppose I wasn’t looking forward to subjecting you to the news. That was selfish of me, and I apologize.”
Ryllis stared at him. Westermark was the name of the imperial family, of course, but it wasn’t as though others didn’t carry it. How would she have ever figured it out? The guards and interrogators had never treated him as anything but a security officer.
“You can speak, you know,” he said. “You certainly didn’t have a problem doing it before now.”
“I—I hit you.” It was the only thing that came to mind. What was the punishment for striking a prince?
“That you did. Rather hard, I might add.” Westermark cracked a grin as he ran his hand over his cheek. “Don’t do it again, and we won’t have any issues.”
Ryllis shook her head, not knowing why. “What am I supposed to call you?” Kneeling in front of him one time was one thing, but there was something distasteful about calling her captor by a royal title her entire planet tried to shun.
“Ah.” He glanced sideways at her. “I’ve grown rather used to Lieutenant Westermark in recent years, I suppose. But His Highness is most appropriate for you.”
Slivers of ice ran down her spine, like he’d just dunked her in cold water. It would be a constant reminder of his status—and hers. “And what did that man mean about being suitably marked?”
Westermark resumed his march. “We’ll talk about that when we get home.”
“Do not,” she said, with an old courage she’d thought was gone, “refer to this planet as home.”
Something odd sparked in his eyes as he skidded to a stop. “I don’t think you fully understand your situation, Amaryllis, so let me be clear. You are now owned by the imperial family. You belong to me. You will die here on Vilaria, enslaved.” He focused on her, and the full weight of his words settle into her soul. “That is the law. There is no other future for you. You can accept this and make the best of it, or you can fight it and be miserable. Best to forget Cereth ever existed—for you, it no longer does.”
Chapter Three
The shuttle landed on a lit pad, and Ryllis squinted outside into the dark. It was inky, almost thick, the darkness broken only by what looked like fog in the distance. The flight had been long, and Westermark had been silent for most of it, only asking her if she was thirsty and handing her a bottle of water before resuming his own distant stare out the window. His breath had changed every time she shifted on her hard seat and tried not to drift off to sleep, so he was paying attention to her actions, even if he’d pretended not to. Dangerous, indeed. At least now she knew the secret he’d been hiding on the jump ship.
Ryllis leaned her head against the window. The gardens at Father’s house would be coming into winter bloom shortly, and she should have been there to see them, this solar cycle and the next. Her life hadn’t been perfect, but it’d been hers. She woke when she pleased, ate what she wanted, and filled her hours with whatever idle and not-so-idle work she desired. Now? The vagueness of her future was both terrifying and unfair.
A prince.
She hadn’t been able to get the word out of her mind the entire flight. A prince of the Vilarian Star Realm, no less, one of the superstitious bastards who’d practically enslaved her own people centuries ago. The Cerethian planetary government—her father and the other sixteen regional governors—were no more than puppets because of this man. And now she was here
on Vilaria because of him, eradicated from her home world for absolutely no reason. She was nothing anymore. She didn’t exist, and no one would mourn her.
It was the reality that rolled around and around in her mind until it made her dizzy, and as it overcame the terror, she knew. Westermark’s kindness, the compassion that had surprised her so when he’d left the first piece of candy under her mattress, didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered but her freedom. Prince or not, Westermark was now a target. She would kill him or die trying.
“We’re here,” he said, interrupting her fantasy of shoving a knife in his chest. “My summer lodge. This is where I go when I want some privacy, and I—I thought it might be an easier adjustment for you than somewhere more formal in the city.”
It didn’t escape her notice that he hadn’t said home this time. Fresh air hit her face as they stepped outside, so different from the jump ship and prison on Cereth. It felt comfortable, and Ryllis hated herself for giving Vilaria even the slight bit of grace. She inhaled as Westermark walked her through a security gate and through dark gardens, lit with starlight. No security challenged them. Not even a single servant confronted him. This was a prince’s house? It didn’t seem like it. On Cereth, no one was allowed within kilometers of the imperial family’s on-world homes. Not even her father, not without a good reason and invitation.
Westermark pressed his palm against a pad by a large door. A shimmering force field became visible, then immediately disappeared; lights flickered on inside. “I shutter the place when I’m off-world,” he said as he pushed open the door. “It’ll be more alive once I get everything opened up. Don’t let the tomb-like atmosphere frighten you.”
Tombs on Cereth were a place of glory, a spot to celebrate the deceased’s union with the Light. Not this dark, shadowy retreat. Ryllis stared up at the vaulted ceiling of the foyer as he waved on the lights. They were too intense after the blackness outside, sustained by the irradiated crystals Vilarians mined far away on Kenion, but they only served to make the shadows deeper where they didn’t reach. Dim corridors stretched out from each side of the foyer, and in front of her and Westermark, through an archway, a large glass window covered the back of the house. She couldn’t see what was on the other side, out in the vast darkness of the mountains. He’d called it a summer retreat, but now it was chilled, so much she couldn’t hide a shiver.
“I’m sorry.” Westermark slung his Fleet jacket on an antique table by the door and took her by the arm. “You must be tired.”
Ryllis nodded, though her eyes had widened at how casually he’d thrown the jacket next to a vase that cost more than her father made in a solar cycle. Sleep meant she could put everything off for another day.
“Right, then.” He glanced around into each dark corridor in turn, like he wasn’t sure which direction to go, then pointed. “This way.”
Her mind was too exhausted to care that he was leading her to a thin mattress on the floor of an outbuilding somewhere far away from this somber yet magnificent house. As long as she was horizontal and not shackled to the floor, it would be bearable. She’d need her wits about her tomorrow, so sleep would have to find her wherever her captor dictated it did. And then, in a few days, once she was well-rested and found her courage again, she would kill him.
“Here you go.”
Westermark stopped in the doorway of a large room, lit by several dim chandeliers. Beside him, Ryllis almost ran into the doorframe. She squinted inside, at the large bed, the priceless statuary, the ornate rugs, the large circular tile fireplace that warmed her core despite being unlit. Must filled her nose; he hadn’t lied about shuttering the lodge. She sneezed, once, and Westermark took a step back. If she’d offended him, she didn’t care.
“What is this?” she asked, blinking. Besides a hallucination. Where was the stone floor, the dirty mattress, the sparse, cold room that might as well be a cell? Was she so tired that she was seeing things?
He shrugged. “My room.”
This one will satisfy his needs.
Flames brushed her face as her legs tensed, ready to flee. His intent was obvious, and without realizing it, she’d fallen for his kindness so hard back on Cereth that it was the last thing she’d ever expected. Was there anywhere to run? Anyone to hear her if she screamed? She couldn’t physically overpower him. She’d already tried that once, and it had ended in disaster, along with a few large bruises on her knees and hip.
“I—Your Highness—” Her gaze shot from the bed, draped in silk linens and topped with a dozen luscious pillows, to the dark corridor behind them. “Please don’t do this. Not yet. Give me time. More than a few hours, at least. I promise I won’t fight you then, but I need—I just need some time.”
Horror crossed his face as he backed away from her. “Not like that,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s just—you look exhausted, and I can sleep anywhere.”
Her knees almost gave out. What he was saying didn’t make any sense.
“But surely you must have somewhere else for—” She couldn’t say the word. “For someone like me.”
“Oh,” Westermark put his hand on the doorframe, suddenly appearing less distressed. Nonchalant, almost. “I don’t keep slaves, as a rule. Don’t have a servants’ quarters, either. I had to improvise, and this will do for now. For as long as you want, actually. Goodnight, Amaryllis.”
With a quick smile, he shut her inside the opulent room and disappeared.
The sun hit her face the next morning, thin and weak so far up in the mountains, yes, but warmer than space and certainly warmer than her cell on Cereth. Ryllis rubbed her eyes and stared at the intricate wood ceiling. Carved starships danced between swirling galaxies interspersed with pine trees and singing birds. It was an odd combination, yet strangely welcoming, proof that nature and the cosmos could coexist in a way Cereth tradition taught it could. She averted her eyes before the scene became comfortable and pulled the quilt over herself again.
The design of the blanket was as bewildering as the ceiling. Instead of the expensive silk she’d supposed a prince would prefer, it was rough, almost coarse, covered in folk woodland creatures and flowers. She grudgingly admitted to herself that it did match what little she’d seen of the rest of the house, but it was at complete odds with everything she’d expected of Vilaria and of its royalty.
Exhausted from the jumps, she’d spent half the night pacing Westermark’s room looking for an escape route before collapsing on top of the bed covers. Trying to find a way out had been a futile exercise. Each of the six large windows opposite the bed hummed with the unmistakable sound of a static field, and Ryllis hadn’t bothered to check the door she’d entered through. There wouldn’t be cameras in a prince’s bedroom, but the corridor outside was no doubt monitored, likely by a security team or Westermark himself.
The door opened as she was considering the best way to defeat them. She grabbed the blanket against her chest, one more layer of defense against whatever came next, but to her relief, it wasn’t Westermark who entered. Instead, an elderly woman bustled inside with an extraordinary sense of purpose and tossed an armful of clothes on a chair in the corner before pointing toward a door on the far side of the bed. Ryllis swung her feet to the floor and stared at her.
“His Highness said you have ten minutes to clean up.” The woman wrinkled her nose as she headed to what had to be the washroom. “I told him twenty. You’re lucky he agreed.” She turned around in the doorway and motioned Ryllis toward her. “You’d best be fast, though,” she added. “It’ll make things easier if he’s not kept waiting.”
Things.
Ryllis walked to the bathroom as ordered, but her throat closed up at the implication that Westermark’s civility the night before might not last. The woman didn’t make a move to give her privacy, so she stripped off the gray jumpsuit she’d been wearing for weeks and stepped inside the shower. The hot water almost took her skin off, but there was no easy way to lower the temperature—an
d she would never humiliate herself by asking how to do something simple. It cleaned the dirt from the prison and jump ship off, anyway, and she would figure out this strange planet eventually.
“Hair, too,” the woman called.
With shaking hands, Ryllis unwound the ribbon and let it dangle from her hand while she ran shampoo through her hair. She smelled like Westermark now, which was bad enough, but now there wouldn’t be time to replace the ribbon before she was to report to him. Surely he would give her time to do it later, wouldn’t he? He’d spent enough time on Cereth to know what it meant.
Shower complete, she wrapped a towel around herself and dressed rapidly under the woman’s watchful eye, thankful the provided clothing didn’t appear to be shabby or indecent. The slim leather pants were quite new and supple, though they didn’t fit as well as they should have after the weight she’d lost on Cereth. A light gray sweater she couldn’t keep from touching finished off the outfit, and a glance at the woman in the mirror told her she looked better than she had in ages. Yes, the clothes were good enough for now. Pride wasn’t everything, but it helped, and less of her body Westermark saw, the better—at least until she learned his intentions for her. She dried her hair as much as she could and shadowed the woman back into the bedroom, her heart thumping with each footstep.
Westermark sat there, at a small table by the large window with two cups of something steaming next to him. He stood when she appeared and gave the woman a smile. “That will be all, Lina. You slept well, Amaryllis?”
Ryllis nodded—abruptly half-frozen—as the woman departed, leaving her alone with him. It was the first time she’d seen him out of his Fleet uniform, but the casual jacket he wore, embroidered with the imperial crest she hated, reminded her that he was someone worse. She could scarcely tear her eyes away from the fearsome bird on the left side of his chest, a crown above its head and a sword in its talons.
