The Price of Desire (The HouseOf Light And Shadow Book 1)

by P. J. Fox

  “His Highness has displeased you?” Garja queried.

  If the only women who went out in public were courtesans, Aria wondered, how did anyone get to know each other? No wonder people got married young; there was no other way to talk to each other. She groaned. This was a stupid culture. Even worse, her tea had gone cold.

  She dismissed Garja, who was all too glad to find her own bed, and changed into her pajamas.

  She honestly didn’t know what had happened earlier, with Kisten, and had no idea whether she’d reacted fairly to it or not. But one thing she did know was that she was simply too worn out to process what had been a harrowing twenty-four hours. She didn’t need to spend more time dwelling and worrying; she needed to relax. Pulling one of the books from the shelf, she tucked her feet up under her and settled into the armchair to read.

  Reaching up, she pulled the chain on the stand lamp and was bathed in a circle of soft light. She, at least, couldn’t read in the dark. She opened the book, found her place, and had read two pages before she realized that she had no idea what the main character had just done.

  Eventually she gave up, forgetting the book and letting her mind roam. She’d run away from Kisten twice in as many nights, because he frightened her. His size and strength and his obvious command of the world around him were intimidating, as was the dark, possessive look in his eyes when he’d held her. A traitorous inner voice whispered that she found this man frightening for other reasons, too; that she’d wanted him to hold her and kiss her and…other things. Which was utterly ridiculous.

  Every time, every time she began to think that he was even a little bit decent—like she had, tonight, at dinner—something happened to prove her wrong. He was such a domineering tyrant! Never in her life had she imagined that such a person could exist. He ordered people around, believed implicitly that he knew what was best for them—what was best for her—and expected people to just agree! It obviously hadn’t occurred to him that she might not want to go to Tarsonis. Even though, that same traitorous little voice whispered, she’d had nowhere else to go. What was he supposed to do, abandon her?

  And now he—propose what? What the hell had he been talking about?

  She’d been furious to find out that he not only knew about Hannah’s whirlwind love affair but he approved of it. A young girl, obviously traumatized by her experience, in the arms of a complete stranger! What made him think that Hannah wouldn’t wake up in a month or two and realize that she’d made a terrible mistake by allying herself with the first man who’d spoken to her halfway kindly?

  And Autumn. That she seemed far older than thirteen was beside the point. She wasn’t; she was a child. What was Kisten thinking? What could a child possibly have in common with a man almost three times her age? When she was eighteen—which was far too young for anything other than college, despite what Kisten claimed—this man would still be old enough to be her father. That Kisten had a twin brother was something she knew but had never really thought about; the idea that there might be two of them in the world hurt her brain.

  She turned back to her book, determined to think about something else—anything else.

  The story was a good one, and she was more than a little relieved at the prospect of some alone time, but Aria still felt unaccountably depressed—like she’d missed some opportunity, but didn’t know what. She sighed. She was tired, that was all. Tired and discouraged. But as she began to relax and lose herself in the story, those bewildering feelings of loss began to break up and drift apart. As tired as she was, she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep, so she was glad that the tale of a strange man in a strange land had proved so absorbing.

  She was still reading several hours later—and truly enjoying herself—when Kisten appeared in front of her.

  He’d lost his dress uniform—or most of it. He was still wearing the pants, thank God, the wool draping his muscular physique in a way that suggested expensive tailoring. His boots were still polished to a mirror shine. But there his resemblance to the reserved and serious-seeming officer she’d had dinner with ended. His white shirt was untucked, the collar open and the first few buttons undone to expose his chest. Both tie and rank insignia were missing. His sleeves were rolled up almost to his elbows, making him look like an expensively attired day laborer.

  His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was set in lines of grim determination.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  She was beautiful, even now.

  She sat, dainty little feet tucked up under her, almost lost in the expanse of leather surrounding her. Her hair had been loosely bound, tendrils of spun gold escaping to frame her face. She glowed in the light of the lamp, the corona of light making her look like an angel. The thin cotton of her pajamas molded to every curve, revealing the swell of her breast and the slim line of her thigh. Her skin was like alabaster.

  They regarded each other in silence. She’d been reading a book, he saw, one of his own personal favorites. She’d folded it closed, but her fingers still held the page. It was details like that, little glimpses into her inner world, that hurt his heart.

  She was frightened, and as well she should be. She moistened her lip, just the tip of her tongue darting in and out, a nervous gesture that drove him wild. Her trepidation and her vulnerability made him want her—to possess her, wholly and utterly, but also to protect her.

  God, what was he doing?

  She put the book down on the side table, movements careful.

  She met his eyes. “You’ve been drinking.” Her tone was cold.

  “You’re goddamn right I have,” he replied. He’d been drinking since she’d run off on him and now, having considered the subject for some time, he’d determined to get a few answers. He wasn’t black-out drunk. He was still sober enough, in fact, to know that this was an extremely bad idea. But he’d passed the point of caring. She couldn’t escape him forever.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, trying not to betray her nerves.

  “That depends on you, sweetheart.” He leaned back against the map table, ankles crossed. The map table had been a gift from his grandfather. He and Ceres, his father’s father, had always been extremely close. If Ceres could see him now, he’d either laugh or put Kisten’s eye out. He crossed his arms over his chest. “This is my cabin and I’ve half a mind to sleep in it, for once, and to hell with you if the idea offends your virginal sensibilities.”

  What was he trying to do, shock her? She wasn’t easily shocked, or she wouldn’t have lasted this long with him. Indeed, she regarded him coolly. To someone who knew her less well, she might almost have seemed unmoved. But knowing how she really felt gave him a sick thrill. He wanted to affect her; he wanted her to notice that he was in the room.

  She got up and, moving silently on her bare feet, walked over to him.

  “I’m sorry for…earlier.”

  “Do you think that’s what I want to hear?” he asked, voice harsh.

  “I don’t know,” she said in a small voice, looking up at him. “But it’s true.”

  He grabbed her, digging his fingers into her upper arms, and pulled her to him. She was breathing very shallowly and rapidly, and her lips were parted slightly as she stared, eyes wide with fear. She stiffened, but made no move to escape him. He didn’t know what he would have done if she had.

  “Do you love him?” he demanded, his voice raw. When she didn’t respond, he shook her like a rag doll. “Answer me, goddamn it!” Tears welled at the corners of her eyes and something stabbed at his gut. “So that’s it,” he said, “you’re going to put him on a pedestal for the rest of your life?”

  “No!” She bit her lip and then, ever so slightly, she shook her head. “You don’t understand.” She paused, regaining control of herself, and he relaxed his grip. After a moment, she continued. “I don’t love him. He…hurt me. Betrayed me. I thought he was someone…but he turned out to be someone else.” She swallowed. “I thought he needed me, but he didn’t.”

  �
��Tell me,” he said, but more gently.

  And she did.

  Halfway through her story, he put his hands around her waist and, turning, lifted her onto the table where she sat, feet dangling. Now they were eye to eye. When she was done, she sighed. She looked so forlorn. “I’m only glad we didn’t….” She blushed, realizing what she’d said. That she was a virgin didn’t particularly surprise him; he doubted that she’d been kissed much, and certainly not by anyone who knew what he was doing. Aiden clearly hadn’t; after learning more about him, Kisten’s hot, unreasoning jealousy had been replaced by a mixture of contempt for the man and a strong desire to kill him.

  He brushed her hair out of her face, tucking a stray tendril behind her ear.

  She glanced down at herself, suddenly aware that she was almost naked.

  If it had been that Aria was still in love with another man, he might have known what to do. But she’d convinced herself that, because she’d been treated horribly by first one man and then another—Kisten also had a strong desire to kill her worthless wretch of a father—she couldn’t trust any man. She’d met him under difficult circumstances, and now she didn’t know how to separate her anger at her own powerlessness from whatever she might feel for him.

  “What were you looking for when you left home?” he asked her, voice low and heated. “Did you—do you—want to spend the rest of your life alone? You don’t want to be here, but where do you want to be? Am I supposed to leave you on one of the rim planets with no friends and no way of supporting yourself, to starve or be picked up by slavers again?”

  She opened her mouth to respond, and didn’t.

  “You tell me you hate me, but—”

  “I don’t hate you.” The words were barely more than a whisper.

  “I have a duty,” he said, voice strained. “However much I might like to disappear into space in search of some golden paradise where there are no rules, I can’t. I have to resign from the only career I’ve ever wanted and live on this accursed planet because—it’s the right thing to do.” Because his brother needed him, and other people needed him, and he had no choice. “And however much you might want me to, I can’t leave you out there to die.”

  “I know,” she said.

  He was fascinated by her eyes. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. “You’d be justified in hating me,” he told her. “I hate myself more than you ever could.”

  Her brow furrowed slightly. “Why?”

  “Because I’m not a good man.” And he wasn’t. He’d done things he doubted she could even picture, much less understand. He felt old before his time. But she…she was so innocent. Pure. The part of him that wasn’t selfish knew that she’d be better off with someone else—someone kind and decent who’d never known war, or abandoned himself to meaningless lust. He couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to her, if he kept her with him.

  “Yes you are,” she contradicted him softly. She lifted her hand and, tentatively, brushed her fingertips along the side of his face. He captured her hand and held it there, closing his eyes. Her hand was warm and dry and fine-boned and soft. The silence held for a long moment.

  “Don’t do this to me,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

  And then somehow his lips were on hers and her hands were in his hair and there was no room for rational thought. If he were a good man, he would have left—wouldn’t have come in the first place. But he was, because he couldn’t help himself. He hadn’t been able to help himself since he’d first held her, unconscious, in his arms. This, now, feeling her small form against him, was everything he’d ever wanted.

  He’d said what he said, earlier, because he’d wanted Setji to leave her alone—and because he’d wanted it to be true. It was true, for him. He couldn’t stand the idea of any other man touching her but, more than that, he couldn’t stand seeing her subjected to the kind of treatment that he himself gave women. For the first time, he regretted the fact that men and women were no longer segregated. He wanted to shroud her in silk and lock her away and not let the world touch her, to protect her from men like him.

  Her skin smelled of sandalwood and roses and her lips were warm. So were her young, lithe curves beneath the thin cotton. She molded sweetly, perfectly to his body, as though she were meant to be there. He slid his hand over the curve of her breast, feeling the hard nub of her nipple.

  He pushed her back onto the table and then he was on top of her and she gasped but made no move to escape. Her mouth opened under his as he caressed her, first over and then under her clothes. Her skin was prickled with gooseflesh, but it felt warm to the touch.

  He pulled back slightly, studying her in the dim light. She was here, and she was his if he wanted her. He did. He couldn’t believe how much.

  She gazed up at him. “Please don’t hurt me,” she whispered. Her expression was so open, so trusting. So accepting. It was like a slap.

  He wanted her, but not like this. She wouldn’t fight him and might even think she wanted it, but she’d wake up hating herself tomorrow. He didn’t want to do that to her—or himself. He was too selfish; he wanted her to look at him like she was looking at him right now, and he couldn’t bear to think that, after tonight, she might not. He wanted to believe that she’d meant what she’d said, first at dinner and then later, but he knew that she didn’t. She was feeling vulnerable due to an emotionally charged situation, and she was scared.

  People reacted strangely in those situations, and not always with any real understanding of what they were doing or what the consequences might be. Fighting in two wars had taught him that. He’d seen men lose their minds over much less stressful situations than this.

  Gently, still holding her against him, he pulled her upright. She sagged slightly in his arms, as if overcome by exhaustion. His poor girl had been through so much, and she was so scared. “I’m sorry,” he said, caressing her hair. She didn’t respond. He would have given ten years of his life to know what she was thinking in that moment. She looked so sad.

  He set her, unresisting, on her feet. They studied each other. He couldn’t kiss her again, he wouldn’t be able to stop. “Goodnight,” he said.

  She still hadn’t spoken when he turned and left her alone.

  He strode down the hall, oblivious to his surroundings and cursing himself for a fool. What had he been thinking, to come to her like that? What must she think? He’d yelled at her, demanded explanations and all but forced himself on her—and then he’d left, without a word. He wanted to believe that she’d be worried she’d displeased him, but thought it far more likely that she was simply relieved. He knew how she felt.

  It was his great misfortune to have fallen in love with a woman who didn’t love him back.

  Because he had to admit the truth, if only to himself: he was in love with her. As hard as he’d tried to fight these strange and unwanted feelings, in the end he’d been unable to stop them. He’d always been a cold-blooded, unemotional man; he wasn’t given to fits of feeling and, truthfully, the only human being he’d ever loved had been his twin brother. He’d been fond of others, over the years, but they weren’t a part of him. But he was as powerless before Aria as he was before the endless vacuum of space. He couldn’t help his longing any more than he could survive without oxygen.

  At first, he’d been able to dismiss this madness as a reaction to his banishment. He’d lost everything in one swift stroke and only his family’s intervention had kept him alive; his father, who’d had his sentence commuted and his brother and his grandfather, who’d forced him to accept the governorship when it was offered. His brother, who’d talked him into resigning the commission that he hadn’t wanted Kisten to accept in the first place.

  He’d thought that perhaps he was clinging to Aria like a drowning man might cling to a spar of wood but it had been more than that. He didn’t believe in fate—fate was a creation of the old gods, the old religions that were now suppressed—but fate had found him regardless. While she might learn to care
for him, he doubted very much that she would ever love him; if not because she was in love with another man, then because she saw him as her captor.

  And he was, but he couldn’t let her go. He knew that she was his bahana aatmaa, his sister soul, even if she didn’t. He pondered the archaic phrase, remembering it from something his brother had read to him once. That same poem contained the line, as birds are made to fly and rivers to run, so the soul of a man is made for duty. But he thought that, where Aria was concerned, the more apt line was this: O Lord, wandering with thee, even Hell itself would be to me a Heaven of Bliss. He didn’t want this life, didn’t want to live in exile while he furthered someone else’s political ambitions, wasn’t sure he wanted to live at all.

  But if he could have her, he might be able to face the future.

  In the meantime, he had to decide what to do. He’d put off the miserable task this long, telling himself that he had time. But Atropos would reach Tarsonis within a week or so; if he couldn’t convince her to marry him by then, would he take her by force? What would that do to her? Did he care? If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t sure he did.

  He reached his other cabin and, stepping inside, stared down at the woman asleep in the disheveled bed. She was beautiful by any definition, dark and voluptuous, and he felt nothing for her. Whether she felt anything for him, he neither knew nor cared. She was a diversion, nothing more. He didn’t know why he should have kept her this long, except that he was lonely.

  But he wanted love, not license. He thought with a stab of self-loathing that if Aria knew about his little arrangement she’d be disgusted. She was such an innocent and he couldn’t keep throwing himself at her, frightening her, hurting her. He had to avoid her until they reached Tarsonis, there was no other option. At least he could give her time to know her own mind—to heal. She’d had a far worse go of things than she’d let on, he knew. And if God should ever bless him with a chance to lay hands on that creature she’d called fiancé, Kisten would cut him up, a piece at a time, and feed him to the pigs.