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

by P. J. Fox

  He stood up and, gently, helped her to her feet. Turning a single piece of fabric into a gown took skill; unraveling it was the matter of seconds. Still, he went slowly, his eyes never leaving hers as he slid the silk down over her arm. Eventually it lay pooled on the floor, forgotten. “You’ll sleep here,” he told her, “with me.” She was his, and she’d be available if he needed her—or, for that matter, if she needed him.

  She nodded slightly, the movement almost imperceptible.

  The scent of roses was intoxicating, the feel of her trembling under his hands more so. She was still half-dressed but he cupped the back of her head and, sliding his fingers up into her hair, tilted her head back and kissed her. His other hand found the small of her back and pulled her against him. Her instinctive reaction was to stiffen, and fight to free herself. He held her where she was, not pressing the issue but not letting her escape, and after a moment she relaxed. Her small hands rested on his chest and her lips were soft as she opened her mouth to his.

  He unzipped the back of her form-fitting blouse and slid her skirt down over her hips, thinking as he did so that it was a shame her bellybutton wasn’t pierced. An exotic stone, perhaps a red diamond or a black opal, would draw attention to the slim curve of her stomach. The idea was enticing.

  And then she stood before him, clad only in wisps of mesh and blushing scarlet from the shame of having him see her naked. She was unaware, of course, that her shame and her innocence only made her more lovely. He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. She met them with reluctance. “You’re beautiful,” he told her.

  “You won’t enjoy yourself,” she replied, and it was such a bizarre thing for her to say that he laughed.

  “Yes I will,” he assured her, “and so will you.”

  He kissed her again, his hands firm on her tiny waist as he walked her backwards toward the bed. He hoped very much that she did enjoy herself. He lowered her down onto the coverlet, still lost in the wonder of feeling her under him and feeling her lips on his as he began to explore her. As the last of the mesh vanished, he concentrated most of his efforts on helping her to feel comfortable with him and safe. She didn’t realize this yet, but not all men were her father—or Aiden. Besides, Kisten wasn’t wholly ignorant of women. He’d benefitted from several frank talks with courtesans over the years, occasionally soliciting the odd piece of advice because he’d been genuinely interested in their opinions. He’d had a number of lovers, too, who’d been very keen on instructing him.

  Aria’s skin began to flush, with arousal instead of shame. She felt warm to the touch, and when he kissed the hollow of her neck her lips parted slightly and she sighed. Her eyes had developed a slightly glazed look, and she gazed up at him with what could almost have been mistaken for detachment.

  He pulled the coverlet back and helped her under the covers. Rain still lashed against windows, and the air had developed a slight chill. She shivered once, and then reached up and drew her fingertips down the side of his face in a simple, intimate gesture. She smiled another small smile, and he favored her with a smile of his own. Inside their cocoon of covers, it was warm.

  “I’m going to hurt you,” he said. She nodded once.

  Her eyes widened and she gasped, and a little while later she gasped again.

  FIFTY

  Aria woke up alone in Kisten’s bed, sore and tired and nauseous.

  It hadn’t felt real until last night—none of it had. But as hard as she’d tried to run from them, her circumstances had finally caught up with her. The dazed dream bubble she’d been floating around in had popped when she’d discovered herself in bed with the same man she kept telling herself she hated—and that she was married to him, in point of fact, and marriage was forever. This was forever, this bed and this room and this house.

  She’d arrived in the city that would probably be her home until she died. Since those first breathless moments aboard the shuttlecraft when she’d left Solaris, life had been one big adventure—and had possessed the same sense of unreality as a vacation. The same rules didn’t apply, because a vacation wasn’t real life. It was a slice out of life. Except the vacation was over and she couldn’t lie to herself anymore.

  Adventure was fine in the abstract, but she wasn’t ready to face the gaping maw of unknowns that waited outside her door. She’d pretend to be asleep a little longer, and then she’d see.

  Except there was nothing to do under the covers, and boredom forced her to think. Kisten was at work, of course; he’d told her last night that he was leaving before the sun rose. She shifted position and groaned; everything hurt. She’d always imagined her first time as being with someone she loved and Kisten had been kind but it wasn’t the same. A single tear trickled down her cheek, and she sniffed, annoyed with herself. There was no reason to be so emotional.

  She was just exhausted and overwhelmed, at least in part because this supposedly magical experience hadn’t been what she’d expected in certain other arenas, either. She’d heard stories, but nothing had prepared her for the stinging, ripping pain and the feeling of being pulled apart from the inside out. She’d thought, at first, that she must have just been built wrong; that her body was defective and that was that, no sex. Ever. Nothing that hurt that much could possibly not kill you.

  But then she’d begun to not hate the feeling of him inside her and the second time they’d had sex she’d actually enjoyed herself. Which made her feel intensely conflicted: what were her feelings for this man? He was a ruthless autocrat who’d all but abducted her—she couldn’t possibly care for him, could she? She rolled over and buried her face in the pillow.

  Minutes later, Garja appeared. “Good morning!” she trilled, plopping down on the edge of the bed. That enormous edifice, which had so intimidated Aria last night, had been carved from some fragrant wood and boasted a curving canopy that reminded Aria of a palace dome in miniature.

  Garja pulled the covers back and Aria squealed, wincing at the unexpected bath of bright white light.

  She sat up, almost in self-defense, looked out the window and gasped. There weren’t words to describe the transformation that the night had brought. She’d arrived on a world of fog; that world had vanished, replaced by emerald green grass as soft and rich as velvet. The lawn stretched out before her, undulating in a series of gentle hills that ran to the banks of a small lake. Its smooth surface reflected the first stands of trees in what appeared to be a dense forest and—astonishingly—the purple mountains beyond. Only in her dreams had Aria imagined such a place.

  Thin fog still hung in the air, blurring the outlines of the trees and giving the water a smoked glass effect, but the sun was shining. Aria drew a long, deep breath. A part of her that had been frozen, that she’d thought had died, was stirring. Half-drugged, as if rising from a long sleep, she blinked. And then she laughed. Seized with a wild urge to rush outside and smell the growing things, the tang of smoke in the air and the sharp, mineral scent of lake water, she swung her feet over the side of the bed and almost fell flat on the floor.

  She hissed at the sudden cramp, convinced again that she must be suffering from internal injuries. Garja made a sympathetic noise and Aria reddened, horrified that anyone should be privy to her personal details. This vaunted privacy apparently didn’t extend to either one’s husband or one’s servants, all of whom felt equally entitled to know whatever there was to know. “The pain passes,” Garja said matter of factly. “You have things to do.”

  Aria stared at her balefully. She was naked except for one of Kisten’s shirts and she was cold and she was tired and she wanted Garja to go away. Garja was her slave; didn’t that mean that she should be telling Garja what to do, and not the other way around? She thought “commanding” Garja to take the rest of the day—or month—off and leave her alone was an excellent idea. But the little maid had other ideas, as she demonstrated by standing up and holding out her hand.

  “Come on,” came her favorite refrain, “into the tub.”
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  There was water in the bathtub and a total stranger perched on the marble rim. Aria balked. The stranger smiled.

  “This,” said Garja, “is Rabia. She’s one of your junior attendants.”

  “Good morning.” Rabia smiled cheerfully.

  Aria groaned inwardly; this was awful.

  Stripping the shirt off, she disappeared into the tub as quickly as possible and was grateful for the covering surface of bubbles. The water was almost too hot and smarted against her skin, but she was grateful for it. She was, she’d been mortified to discover, still covered in dried blood and all manner of other disgusting substances. Everything itched abominably, too, making her feel even dirtier than she was. But as the evidence of her night began to dissolve, she began to relax and let her mind drift to other things. She didn’t even mind when Garja scrubbed her back and, using separate water, began to wash and condition her hair.

  Garja’s fingers were strong and Aria shut her eyes and reveled in the sensation as she slipped further beneath the perfumed surface of the water, feeling amazing. She could get used to this, she decided. In fact—

  “Good!” exclaimed the little maid, declaring her clean. “Now your nose.”

  Aria sat bolt upright, her calm shattered. “What?”

  She and the other woman stared blankly at each other. Then, slowly, the light of comprehension dawned—not in Garja’s eyes, but in Rabia’s. She tugged on her friend’s sleeve, and the two women shared a look. “Oh,” said Garja slowly. “Oh!” She turned to Aria. “Rabia is going to pierce your nose.”

  “What?” Aria shrieked, eyes widening. She felt like, being naked and in the tub, she was at a distinct disadvantage. “I did not consent to this,” she said, as forcefully as possible given the somewhat unfortunate circumstances, “and she will do no such thing!” But still, she felt ridiculous.

  “But you’re married.”

  Aria stared at the slave blankly.

  Rabia explained the situation as calmly and patiently as though she was talking to a child—and a stupid one, at that. The piercing had, for thousands of years, been a sign to the world that its wearer—its female wearer—was married. Aria didn’t fail to miss the inequality of that gesture. “It is also a symbolic way of saying, by the woman, that she has surrendered fully to her husband.”

  There was entirely too much surrender around here. “Voluntarily?” Aria asked.

  “Yes, of course.” Rabia chewed her lip. “Ideally.”

  Aria stepped out of the tub, wrapped a towel around herself and retreated to the small upholstered bench in the corner. “Absolutely not,” she said firmly. She liked her nose just the way it was, and she wasn’t surrendering to anybody—especially not a man who, after hearing that this was his expectation, she was certain she didn’t like! If he thought for one minute that she’d mutilate herself just so he could—

  “This is awful!” Garja wailed, and promptly began to weep. “My beloved mistress,” she gasped between sobs, “is so displeased with her husband that she refuses to acknowledge her marriage. This is my fault, I know it. I should have tried harder to extol his virtues. His mother is a very kind mistress and….” Garja trailed off into a series of hiccups. Rabia patted her shoulder, looking more than a little perturbed. Aria didn’t blame her.

  “All will be well,” Rabia said nervously.

  “Ananda will beat me!”

  “Why should Ananda beat you?” Rabia snapped, losing patience. “His Highness might beat our mistress, if he is not too discouraged by her rejection.”

  Garja sobbed harder. “I will beat myself!”

  “How have you failed?” Aria asked her, so shocked by what was happening that she ignored Rabia’s remark—which, in other circumstances, would have had her fuming. Within a minute, Garja had once again gone from bubbly to teetering on the edge of a meltdown.

  “As your attendant, my purpose is to serve you and to be a companion to you and to make you happy. You are not happy,” she said sadly. “I have failed.”

  “I don’t know whether I’m happy or not,” Aria replied truthfully. Inexplicably, she felt guilty—as though she’d somehow let Garja down by asserting her right to avoid an unwanted cosmetic procedure.

  Garja brightened. “Really?” she asked, as though this were good news.

  “Go ahead,” Aria told her, relenting. “And hurry up, before I have a chance to change my mind.” Anything but the guilt—and the weeping. She couldn’t stand the weeping. She’d begun to feel responsible for the little maid, even though she couldn’t articulate why. That she’d stolen those suitcases proved Garja wasn’t half as pathetic as she seemed, and hardly needed coddling. But she cared about Aria, and most people didn’t.

  “Excellent!” Garja clapped her hands. “And your bellybutton.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  An hour or so later, Aria was coaxed out of her room by the promise of an egg.

  She didn’t want to leave; she wanted to hide. But mere hunger had become an overpowering desire to devour the first thing she came across—including the furniture, if nothing else came along.

  The nathuni was a tiny stud, a diamond bezel set in gold, but nevertheless made Aria feel self-conscious in the extreme. Seeing it winking back at her also made her feel irrationally violated. Rabia had, at least, come equipped with a professional-looking piercing kit and seemed to know her business. As she’d worked, she’d talked. Originally, the purpose of the stud had been to pay the woman’s expenses if she was abandoned. Modernly, she wore it her whole married life and only took it out when her husband died, as a mark of respect. The stud itself really wasn’t that offensive: it had a low, smooth profile and was capped on the other side by an almost unnoticeable post screw. She couldn’t even feel it, only a dull throbbing from where her cartilage had been pierced. That, at least, would heal.

  Still, she wasn’t sure she liked the new and improved Aria.

  And if this place weren’t barbaric enough, now everyone would know that she’d done things. With her husband, she reminded herself. People would guess that. Back on Solaris, she’d always wondered if there was some way people could…tell. If after she’d finally—that she’d somehow look different. Horrifyingly, there was a way and she did look different. This was like every nightmare of her teenaged years come true. Garja and Rabia, of course, had no shame and thought discussion of—certain things—was perfectly normal. Which it was not!

  Steeling herself, she opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

  And as for her bellybutton, that hurt. In a culture where a man rarely so much as glimpsed a woman’s ankle, she supposed it made sense that a certain esthetic would develop around the idea of celebrating the forbidden. Piercings, lingerie and other hidden adornments all emphasized the fact that a woman’s beauty was something sacred to be shared with her husband. The Bronte valued beauty as a manifestation of the divine, and the idea would have been romantic—if it hadn’t been so damnably sexist.

  She appeared in the small dining room, hoping for her egg, and instead found her husband’s grandfather.

  He was reading something on a tablet, and looked preoccupied. She stood in the door, unsure of what she should do. She didn’t want to disturb him, and he appeared to be in a singularly foul humor. Then he looked up, and her chance was lost. He paused a beat, and then smiled. “For a minute I thought you might be Zerus. But since you’re not….” He gestured to one of the couches. “Sit.”

  She sat.

  A few minutes later, she was presented with her so-called breakfast. I wanted an egg, she thought sadly. Instead, she’d been given what appeared to be balls of fried dough with powered sugar and, distressingly, curried potatoes. She loathed curry, the mixture of onion, ginger, garlic, pepper, coriander, cumin, turmeric, mustard, cloves, and who knew what else that seemed to be in everything. A great deal of the dishes on offer, too, appeared to be vegetarian; Kisten himself, she’d noticed, rarely ate meat. She wondered, briefly, what he’d make of the foo
d she grew up with.

  “Udit had some concerns about the food, as well.”

  Aria looked up, remembering that Udit was from Charon II and as different from the Bronte as she was.

  “She thought it was too mild,” Ceres added, the corner of his mouth curving into a small smile. Aria’s eyes widened. “There’s one particularly revolting dish she loves,” he added, “roast duck with red curry. One of the main ingredients is a paste of fermented fish entrails.”

  “Oh,” Aria said faintly.

  “You’d better learn to like coffee, too,” he said. “It’s all your husband lives on.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” Aria smiled, feeling momentary warmth for the man she didn’t like. Sitting here, like this, was so surreal—and the fact that Ceres accepted her so easily, treating her as though she’d always been here, made it even more so. He treated her, in point of fact, like a member of his family. Her own family had never done that. And with everyone around her acting like she belonged, she found it hard not to feel like she did belong. The nose stud, the bizarre clothing, all this time she’d felt like they were trying to dominate her, change her, when it occurred to her now that maybe they were only trying to include her.

  “How did you two meet?” Ceres poured himself another cup of coffee. Clearly, Kisten wasn’t the only one who lived on the stuff. He was like no grandfather she’d ever met; it seemed impossible that he was one. Then again, Solarian men married late, if ever—most of them viewing matrimony as a form of death—and spent most of their adult lives looking forward to retirement. Perhaps what made Ceres seem so young was that he actually enjoyed his life.

  “He rescued me,” she said.

  “Udit rescued me, too.”

  “How long have you been married?” she asked.

  “Almost sixty-four years.” He sipped his coffee, and smiled appreciatively. “My turn,” he countered, clearly relishing their interchange. “Under what circumstances was this rescue effectuated?”