by Amy Miles
At first, I struggle to comprehend what it is that I see, yet as we draw near to the gates, I realize the poles lining the top of the castle walls are actually spears with severed heads impaled upon the spikes. Mouths gape in a silent scream of horror. Empty eye sockets are tilted so it appears as if the dead watch the entrance. Torn flesh dangles from what was once a neck. Dried blood stains white bone that protrudes from snapped spines still attached to the heads.
It is a gruesome sight to behold. I cower back, horrified, as we roll beneath dozens of men and women. My only consolation is that I do not see any children.
“Is this your first encounter?”
I glance over at Alamesia with growing wariness. However, this time I see nothing beside curiosity in her eyes. “Yes,” I manage to find my voice. It is weak, to be sure, yet thankfully present.
She points to the tall wooden gates as they slowly open, as if on their own. “There are more within. The great hall once boasted heads of great bears and lynx. Now they have been replaced by Vladimir’s greatest conquests. Kings and lords from across the land now perch upon his walls.”
I glance up at a head and shudder. “How can murdering a woman be so great a conquest? There is no honor in this.” I wrap my shawl about me as if it might somehow protect me from the horrors of my new home. Nothing could have prepared me for this sight.
“Honor is determined only by the one taking it,” Lucien says in a clipped tone. He whistles to the horses and they eagerly attack the final incline. They bray and dip their heads as the wagon levels off and we roll through the gates of Castle Bran.
The doors close behind us. I turn to watch as two men, draped in dark hooded cloaks, push the giant-sized doors. A wooden beam booms as it falls into place to seal out intruders, reverberating through my chest, though no one in their right mind would dare come here willingly.
Alamesia bangs on the side of the wagon, her rings giving off a metallic rap against the wood. When Lucien pulls on the reins, she leaps from the straw-covered carriage and lands lightly on her feet. With a final glare cast in my direction, she rises up beside Lucien and whispers something in his ear before sinking back to the ground and trouncing off in a flurry of skirts.
“Be careful with that one, brother.” Vladimir warns. “Many men have awoken beside her with a dagger at their throat.”
I catch Lucien’s smile from the corner of my eye. “I am not most men.”
“Indeed you are not.” Vladimir claps him on the back and leaps from the seat. He lands soundlessly and comes around to the back of the wagon. He holds out his hand to me.
When I do not accept, his lips press into thin white lines. “I am not a patient man, Roseline, nor am I commonly forgiving.”
“My apologies,” I whisper meekly, thinking back on the fright I saw in Alamesia’s eyes when Vladimir’s tone dropped similarly. Although terror seeks to root me in place, I know to refuse would bring far greater pain. “It is my leg. I fear I shall not be able to move easily.”
He casts a glance down and frowns at the obvious swelling. My ankle is double the size and discolored with bruising. “This will not do.”
He turns abruptly. “Atticus!”
A tall, dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes and light stubble along his jaw appears from an open doorway at the base of the castle. His steps are controlled and his swagger pronounced. I noticed a slender sword at his hip and a matching dagger tucked into the top of his calf-high boot.
“You have returned,” he calls with an air of exaggerated welcome. He approaches with his arm outstretched to clasp Vladimir in a familiar greeting.
“My lady needs help to her room. See to it that she is mended and prepared for the feast. I am sure she is weary from her journey.”
Weary from the journey? Not from being stabbed in the chest, mauled through the night, and dragged halfway across the country while my family’s embers still burn? Bitterness rises high within my throat, though I swallow it back down as the man turns to acknowledge me.
“My lady.” His bow is low and forced. “I had not expected you so soon.”
“And when were you to expect her?” Vladimir snaps as the man rises in a sweeping flourish.
“I only meant that I presumed you would extend your stay in Brasov,” he amends quickly. Atticus is a sly one. I can see the cunning within the depths of his carefully guarded expression. I will have to mind myself about him. He turns and offers me an abbreviated bow to the one he offered Vladimir. “Come, my lady. I will see to your preparations.”
He scoops me effortlessly into his arms and I am forced to be carried yet again like an infant. The thought makes me shudder and draws forth a smile from his lips. “I vow that I will not bite.”
“Why does that sentiment not bring me any comfort?” I mutter. He snickers and holds me close to his chest. Close enough to feel the rigid definition beneath.
“Atticus?” He turns swiftly, and I see Vladimir marching back toward us. His face clouds over with barely concealed animosity. “I requested that you take her to her room. Nothing more. Is that understood?”
Atticus’s finger flinches ever so slightly against my waist as he nods. “Of course. I would never think upon doing anything more. I will send Verity to attend to her more personal needs.”
“No.” Vladimir shakes his head. For the first time I realize he has begun to show signs of weariness. Perhaps the journey was more arduous for him than I originally thought. “Send Emeline. I do not trust Verity with her.”
“As you wish.” He turns only after Vladimir spins on his heel and marches into the castle.
I do not feel comfortable in this man’s arms. His grip is tighter than necessary, boasting of an intimacy that I am sure Vladimir would not approve of. It is difficult for me to focus on my surroundings as we weave through the darkened interior of the castle.
“Should I be wary of this Verity?” I ask, counting the steps as we mount higher into the stone building. The draft flowing down from above feels delicious against my flushed skin.
He smiles, though there is a tightness to it that concerns me. “Verity would toy with you as a cat toys with a meal. She is cruel, though that description would be fitting for most who live within these walls.”
I cast a glance at him. “Even yourself?”
This time his smile is instantaneous and broad. “Especially myself.”
I can hear several voices behind closed doors as we pass on the second floor. However, Atticus does not leave me in one of the spare rooms. Instead, he begins to ascend to a third floor.
No sounds come from these heights and my heart rate begins to increase with doubt. Why is he taking me away from everyone else? Does he plan to attack me? Will Vladimir come if I scream?
I am surprised by a chuckle that rumbles deep in Atticus’s chest. I glance up to find him smirking down at me. His sharply handsome features are dulled by the dim flickering of candlelight at the top of the stairs. “You look as a little lost lamb being led to the slaughter.”
“Perhaps I am.”
His smile broadens as he ascends a set of stone steps so narrow he is forced to hold me upright, almost to the point where I am staring eye to eye with him. I see the slight darkening of his eyes and the widening of his pupils. His scent shifts and I tense in his arms.
It is too dark here, too remote. “My husband seems rather protective of me,” I comment purposefully
Atticus blinks and nods slowly, his grip loosening minimally as he reaches the top step. “He always is… in the beginning.”
“And after?”
When he shrugs, I come dangerously close to his lips. I press down on his arm as we slip through the narrow doorway into a wide hall and he concedes, letting me settle back in against his chest, a safe distance from his lips. “Vladimir has fine tastes in women, though over time they wane.”
“Do they always?” I pray he does not notice how I hold my breath in anticipation of his answer. Is it possible that Vladimir will tire of
me? That I will be cast aside? That I can be free once more?
There is a flickering of torch light at the top of the stairs, and I feel hope. Surely this was prepared for my arrival, yet if that is so, then why was Atticus so surprised to see us return today?
“Vladimir has yet to remain with one woman.” He lifts me so my head does not connect with the doorway as we enter another small hallway with low-hanging wooden beams. The ceiling above is vaulted into a peak, and I realize with a start that we have entered the tallest turret that I spied from below.
Atticus pauses before a wooden door and looks down at me. “Eventually you will be given over to us when he tires with you.” He leans forward to whisper into my ear. My skin prickles at his touch. Fear nestles firmly into my heart. “I look forward to that day.”
I feel numb as he kicks at the bottom of the door and carries me across the threshold into a darkened room. A chill is on the air and the hearth lies cold and dormant. The only light to see by is from the moon that spills in through a glass-paned window on a far wall. “I will send for someone to stoke the fire for you, if you would like.”
Thinking back on the heat of the noonday sun, I shake my head. “That will not be necessary.” He sinks low to place me atop the bed. A small puff of dusts rises around me. “This is to be my room?”
“Indeed.” Atticus rises and dusts off his hands, as if needing to erase the memory of me in his arms. “As I said below, I had thought Vladimir would take his time with you. He does so enjoy the first night.”
I look up. “There have been other wives?”
“Many.” He laughs and moves toward the door, pausing with his hand upon the latch. “And I have bedded every one of them.”
SEVEN
