Twisted Captive

by Patricia D. Eddy

  Copyright © 2020 by Patricia D. Eddy

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rescuing Adrian

  Also by Patricia D. Eddy

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Aurelia

  The sweet scent of willow bark fills the air as I carry my large basket of freshly dyed wool blankets, socks, and shawls to the town square. The market begins soon, and today’s offerings should allow me to earn enough to buy food and goods to last another three or four weeks.

  My fingers ache as I adjust my grip. Sheering season always brings extra work, and I’m glad for it, even if I do wish my father could help me with the spinning like he used to. But he’s given in to despair the past few years, and loses himself to the drink too often.

  All around me, others make their way to their assigned stalls, some laboring under the weight of sackfuls of potatoes, apples, or grain, others less burdened with spices or dried goods.

  “Good morning, Aurelia.” Roarke’s deep voice sends a little thrill through me as he eases my basket from my arms and carries it the last few paces to my stall. “Let me assist you.”

  My cheeks flush bright pink—at least I imagine they do—and I struggle to form words. “I…it’s not your place…I mean…”

  His golden eyes find mine. “We are equals, Aurelia.”

  “We are not.” I stare down at my hands. My fingertips are calloused, my joints swollen and sore. It is my penance for being born without magic. For being the daughter of one born without magic.

  This realm has two types of people. The magical and the outcasts. We are the outcasts. Roarke? He has magic within him. Enough to keep him in the good graces of those who keep us trapped here. The Fae.

  “Here,” he traces a knuckle over the heart-shaped neckline of my corset, close to my heart, “we are.”

  I can’t help leaning in when he does. Our lips are only a whisper apart, and I think, perhaps, this is the day he’ll finally kiss me as I have always wanted to be kissed.

  For over a year, we have bantered back and forth on Market days, and he even came to the cottage for supper with us a few months back. But that night ended badly when my father had too much mulled wine and screamed that he would never let a magic-bearer court his daughter. I thought Roarke would never speak to me again.

  I was wrong. Still, he pursues me. Steals moments of closeness, holds my hand, kisses my cheek. “Roarke, what do you want from me?” I ask, peering up into his hazel eyes where the gold streaks flare brightly.

  “Your trust, darling. Perhaps one day, your heart. If you choose to give it. I adore you, Aurelia. I have from the moment we first met. If only you believed me.”

  Any reply stalls on my lips as my heartbeat quickens. I wish I could allow myself to love him. But the laws of this realm forbid it, and if the Fae discovered our desire for one another, they would not punish Roarke. No. They would punish me.

  A commotion breaks out at the edge of the square. A fight between the mulled wine vendor and the beer peddler. Those two are always going at it, and if they are not careful, the Fae will come down from the stone castle that towers above the town and put an end to both of them.

  Roarke’s eyes widen, and he hurries towards the fray. With a hard shove, he sends Brall, the wine vendor, stumbling back. Javer grabs one of his bottles of dark brew and brandishes it over his head. “You stole your recipes from my father,” he says as he tries to get past Roarke to Brall.

  “I did no such thing.” Brall pushes to his feet and brushes off his black pants and waistcoat. “My recipes are my own.”

  Roarke wrestles the bottle from Javer’s hand and sets it back down on his table. “Enough of this. Do you not see the position of the sun? It is close to its peak, and the Fae will soon walk among us. If they find you fighting, your lives will be forfeit.”

  The two grumble, but go back to their respective booths and start arranging their wares.

  A glance at the sky sends my heart into my throat. I dawdled for too long wishing for things I can never have. All of my blankets, socks, and cloaks should be properly displayed by now.

  My hands tremble as I pull each item from my basket and drape it over the racks affixed to the sides of my tent. Securing my coin purse around my waist, I smooth down my skirt and wait for the market bell to toll. Already, the locals who do not have wares to sell are milling about, planning their purchases.

  And Roarke? I can no longer see him. With a sigh, I scuff at the cobblestones with the toe of my well-worn boot. We are not meant to be. I know this. And even if we were, the Fae would never allow our union.

  Outcasts can only marry outcasts. And that’s all I will ever be.

  Roarke

  Market day is pure torture for me. I have to watch those with magic—those like me—treat Aurelia like she is less than human. They insist she lower her prices for the wools she spins and dyes by hand, call her names, or ignore her completely. I have paid everyone I trust over the years to purchase something from her—for full price of course—and soon, I do not know what I will be able to do for her if she does not allow me to court her properly.

  This realm is cursed. Nearly two centuries ago, the King was exiled from the Fae realm and forced to live among humans. But he abhors those who are not Fae, and instead found a way to create his own realm here in Greenland. I do not know how he was strong enough to do this, but the barrier is inescapable.

  Those who venture too close to the veil are transported to the center of the realm, directly in front of the castle, and then judged as either magic bearers or outcasts. Seventy-five years ago, my dragon flew directly into the veil, and I was fortunate that the shock of the magic caused me to shift back into a man. A very naked man.

  How the Fae King did not sense the shifter within me, I do not know.

  “Look at him,” the King says to one of his guards. “What kind of idiot do you need to be to be running across the lands without clothing?”

  I kneel. Not by choice, but because his influence forces me to my knees and I am too disoriented to fight back.

  “What is your name?” the King asks.

  “Roarke,” I answer.

  With a few words in Gaelic, the King uses his air charms to steal my breath, and I clutch at my throat. My own magic fights to escape, but I force my mind to blank—as much as I can—so my thoughts cannot betray me.

  “You are a magic bearer,” the King says as he releases the charm and I wheeze.

  Three guards advance on me, and as their fists rain down over my back and torso, the King chuckles. “How delicious. Listen carefully, Roarke. This realm is mine, and those with magic enjoy many privileges. Provided you transfer some of that magic every single day into the Ley lines. Do that, and you will be rewarded. Refuse, and you will spend your life toiling in manual labor, and your pain will feed me and my people.”

  After calming Javer and Brall, my beast has awoken, and he roars in protest at being forced to hide for so very long. I tighten the chains I keep wrapped aroun
d him. I haven’t let him out since the Fae magic trapped us here. Dragon shifters—any shifters, really—carry so much magic within us that if the King knew, he would find a way to imprison me and torture me for an eternity.

  But every time I’m close to Aurelia, my dragon fights even harder to escape. He knows she belongs to us. She’s our mate. White hot flames lick along my spine, and I run from the square. I don’t stop until I’m deep into the tall trees that surround this place. Here, no one will see me. Or the fire I need to release before my dragon takes over.

  Closing my eyes, I clench my fists and take a deep breath. As I release it, a stream of fire hits the mossy undergrowth. It rained two nights ago, and the flames don’t catch, only fizzle out in the damp foliage.

  “You will not take control,” I manage as the monster inside me fights to be freed. “If I let you out, we both die.”

  The beast whines, but deep down, I know he understands. And now, some of his frustration released, I can go back to the market. Today, I will purchase one of Aurelia’s blankets. And if she lets me, perhaps I’ll finally be able to kiss her.

  Chapter Two

  Aurelia

  The crowds part as the King and the Prince walk through the market, followed by four Fae guards. They are all beautiful in an odd sort of way. Blond, nearly white hair, perfect skin. But I can see through the facade. Their eyes, so pale they are almost silver, give them away.

  Disdain. Disgust. A desperate need for power. That is what I see. They feed off of the suffering of others, and if they are in the wrong mood, they purposely torment the outcasts, threatening us with imprisonment or death.

  Those of us with useful skills can often escape scrutiny. But not always.

  “What do you have for me today?” the King asks as he and his entourage stop in front of my tent.

  “My liege,” I say with a little curtsey. “The finest yearling wool cloak, hand-dyed and tightly woven.” Spreading the dark blue garment over my table, I wait for the King and the Prince to examine it.

  Neither look pleased, so I duck down and withdraw the most perfect, beautiful garments I have ever crafted.

  “I also have these.” The silk tunics have taken me over a year. So many late nights, spinning and weaving until my fingers were raw and almost bleeding. One is embellished with dark red accents, and the other, a rich green. “I-I made one for each of you.”

  Fear churns in my belly, and the Prince inhales deeply. “What is your name, spinner?”

  “Aurelia, my liege.” My voice falters, and I lower my gaze.

  “These are passable, Lia,” the Prince says, his tone full of disdain.

  Passable? They are my best work!

  “Watch yourself,” the King says sharply, and I gasp. It has long been rumored that the Fae can read our thoughts and our deepest desires, but until now, I did not believe such things. “We will take them, spinner. The cloak as well.”

  As they head for the next booth—without paying, of course—I stagger back and sink to my knees. I want to vomit, but I cannot let them see how frightened I am. It would only antagonize them further.

  Roarke rushes over to me, ducking into the back of my tent and helping me to my feet. “Breathe, darling,” he whispers in my ear.

  “You cannot be here.” I struggle from his hold, but I am too unsteady, and I lean into him, relishing the strong muscles, how warm he is, and his protective embrace. “They will see.”

  “Let them. I give them enough magic to earn the occasional…indulgence.” He spits out the words, his anger pulsing with each beat of his heart against my back.

  “My apologies for running off before,” he says. “After breaking up the fight, I thought it best to let my head clear.”

  “You owe me no explanation.” Despite enjoying his closeness, the way his spicy, rich scent envelopes me, I should not allow myself to be distracted. I still have five blankets, two shawls, and a dozen pairs of socks left to sell, and while we are so far north that the sun this time of year is near constant, the market could end at any time. The King and the Prince have been known to ring the bell to stop all sales on a whim.

  They have moved on, now three stalls away, and I find the strength to extricate myself from Roarke’s hold.

  Digging his hand into his pocket, Roarke comes away with five silver coins and presses them into my hand. “I will take this beautiful specimen,” he says as he nods at my most expensive blanket—a deep purple with white snow-capped mountains along the lower edge. It’s the largest in my collection, and I worked for months on it.

  “Roarke—“ I’m well aware of how he finds an outcast each market day and plies them with coins on the condition they purchase something from me, and I cannot allow him to continue this foolish pursuit.

  “Do not argue, my darling,” he murmurs as he runs his hand over the blanket, then folds it twice and tucks it under his arm. “The snows will be here before we know it, and this will ensure I do not freeze while I am alone in my cottage.”

  “I find it hard to believe you are ever alone. Unless it is by choice,” I tease. Roarke is, by far, the most desirable man in this realm, and both outcasts and wealthy alike vie for his attentions. I do not know why he continues to waste his time with me.

  With a quick glance at the Fae, he leans in. “I want only you, Aurelia. One day, you will agree to be mine.” Taking my hand, he brushes a kiss to my knuckles, and then strides off with the blanket, leaving me speechless.

  With only a few of my wares left, I smile at every passerby, hoping to tempt one or two more. Until an angry, slurred voice breaks through the din of the crowd. “My credit has always been sufficient before!”

  I cringe as my father snatches a basket of eggs away from another outcast—a chicken-tender named Giselle. He stumbles, and one of the precious brown globes falls to the ground and shatters.

  Giselle calls for aid, and by the time I make it out of my tent, my father has attracted the attention of not only the Fae guards, but the King and Prince as well.

  “You will stop this nonsense immediately,” the King orders in a thundering voice. “On your knees, human. Or you will spend time in the dungeons.”

  An egg flies across the aisle and hits the King in the chest. The yolk stains the white stripe down the side of his black tunic, and he stares at my father with pure rage in his eyes.

  “You keep us trapped here,” my father spits as he throws another egg. “Most of us can barely feed our families. We work day and night, and you reap the benefits—feeding off of our misery, of our pain. And then you grace us with your presence on Market days and expect us to bow down to you?” A third egg smacks the Prince in the cheek, and the King’s guards grab my father’s arms and pin them behind his back.

  “That has earned you a death sentence,” the King roars.

  “No! Stop!” I skid to a halt in front of the King and the Prince. They’re both impossibly tall, and without a table of goods between us, they seem so much more imposing.

  Falling to my knees, I clasp my hands in front of me. “Do not kill him, please. He is all I have left in this world.”

  “You are the spinner,” the King says. His son leans closer to him and whispers in his ear. “Ah. Lia, is it?”

  The nickname grates along my spine, but I keep my voice neutral. “Aurelia, my liege. My father has had too much to drink, and he knows not what he says or does. I will take him home and ensure this does not happen again. I have several blankets left and I offer them all to you.”

  “Silence!” With a wave of his hand, the King steals the air from my lungs. I choke, my fingers clawing at my chest and my throat until my vision starts to darken. Just before I fear I’ll pass out, he snaps his fingers, and I can breathe again. “Stand, woman.”

  I scramble to my feet, though I’m dizzy, and when I throw my hands out to try to stabilize myself, it’s the Prince who takes hold of me. “Lia would make an acceptable mate, Father.”

  A mate? I shake my head, certain I mu
st have misheard, but the King grins, a perfectly straight, blindingly white smile. “You wish her for your own?”

  “I do.”

  “You will have to win her.”

  My anger flares, and I struggle, but the Prince’s grip is too tight. “I am not a prize.”

  The King’s eyes narrow, and he grabs my chin hard enough I fear he’ll leave bruises. “That is exactly what you will be unless you wish your father to die this night.”

  “Aurelia,” Father cries as the guards shove him to the ground. One places a booted foot on the back of his neck. “Give him what he wants.”

  Tears burn my eyes. How can he say such a thing? I begged for mercy, and my father is willing to simply trade my life for his?

  “Do you care for me so little?” I ask in a small voice.

  “No. But I have nothing to offer them but you.” He starts to cry. Both the King’s and the Prince’s eyes widen as they draw power from his suffering, before they turn to me.

  “I will spare your pitiful father’s life,” the King says, tightening his grip on my jaw to the point I whimper in pain. “Provided you agree to a bargain. Otherwise, I will simply kill you both.”

  Both of us?

  “Yes. Both of you. My patience has been tried too much this day, and it has been some time since we held a public execution. The energy from such an event…” The King shudders with sick pleasure. “It is so very plentiful.”

  “What are your terms?” I whisper. All around us, the townspeople have gathered, and yet none of them say a word. I search the crowd for Roarke, and I find him just over the Prince’s right shoulder with two other magic bearers holding him back as he tries to get to me. His hazel eyes practically glow, and his hands are balled into fists at his sides. Silently, I beg him for help, but I know he cannot come to my aid. The Fae are more powerful than all of us, and his friends are doing what they must to ensure he does not also die.