Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy

by Amy Miles

The moon is high overhead. Its light pools on the floor beside the bed. I stare at it, blinking sleep from my eyes as I realize that it is nearly transparent on the wooden floor in the light of the crackling fire nearby. I groan, rubbing my hands over my face, feeling beads of sweat that cling to my brow.

  I sit upright, wincing at the throbbing pain in my ankle. Lifting the hem of my dress, I see it is wrapped in cloth and the pain has lessened.

  “Just a few more spoonsful and all will be well again,” a singsong voice says from beside me. I shriek and fling out my arm to push the strange girl aside yet feel as if my hand connects with a stone wall. She is nothing more than a wisp of emerald silk and snowy hair. However, I hardly make her bat an eyelash, though she does curl her lip with disapproval. “It is rude to try to strike someone attempting to heal you,” she scolds and rises from the bed.

  A bowl stained with a thick crimson liquid sloshes as she sets it on a small wooden table beside the bed. A wooden spoon rattles around the edge of the dish. “Finish this, then call when you need help dressing.”

  With her nose lifted high into the air, she turns and slams the door behind her. No name given. No kind word. I assume this must be the Emeline that Vladimir mentioned earlier. She is merely doing Vladimir’s bidding, like everyone else around here.

  I stare at the door for several moments after I hear her steps trail off in the hall beyond. There are no other sounds in the turret, though I can hear plenty of action in the castle below. It would appear that a grand feast has been prepared, no doubt in Vladimir’s honor.

  Thrusting myself back onto the bed, I sink into the soft blanket. It rises around me, offering comfort where the straw bedding beneath does not.

  The blood collecting in the corner of my mouth makes my stomach turn sour. I wipe at my lips until they are raw and aching, spitting to the side until the taste of blood diminishes. Even as I appreciate the fading pain in my ankle, I cannot help but wonder to whom the blood once belonged.

  I roll my head to the side and look about my room. Now that there is fire in the hearth, I can easily see my surroundings. The room is nearly as large as the bottom floor of my childhood home. Richly woven tapestries line the stone, giving the dreary walls a splash of color. Wide wooden beams run from wall to wall overhead, the wood a dark mahogany.

  The table beside me rises to the top of my thigh, with an intricate carving to match the design that spirals about the four posts of my bed. The linens atop my bed are the finest material I have ever felt, soft and extravagant. Everything about this room boasts great wealth and lavish tastes.

  I wonder which of the former wives chose this décor. I turn away from my thoughts as I stare at the dress that has been laid out for me. It is unlike anything I have ever seen before. The design is foreign to me even though my father insisted I remain in the height of fashion when out on parade in Brasov.

  The dress is two toned, a soft green of a beautiful spring meadow and the other in rich gold. The tightly fitted corset has been replaced by flexible stays to enable breathing and maneuverability. Flowing lace collars have replaced the stiff ruffles that my sister so dearly loathed.

  I reach out and touch the fine material and realize the golden skirt is layered and slightly padded at the hips, producing a full, flowing look. The overskirt opens at the front to form a small train at the back.

  The neckline plunges deeply, crisscrossing with delicate golden ribbons. The sleeves are large and gathered just below the elbow. The lace cuff is turned back to expose my wrists and forearm. Rosette ribbons and lace drape from the waistline of the dress. A strand of pearls lies beside.

  I run my hands down the front of my soiled corset and feel lost. This place, this dress, these people all feel alien to me. Tears dampen my lower lashes as I turn away to the window and let the arm of the dress fall. The moon is high in the cloudless sky. A frost clings to the glass. I stare at the spider web-like crystals, longing to be outside in the cold, to be free of the sweltering heat within my room.

  Only a gentle throbbing now rises from my ankle. I know I will not taste the remainder of the blood to ease my discomfort. I will never willingly accept blood again.

  The door opens behind me and Emeline steps through. A look of consternation is firmly planted on her pale-rose lips. “I thought I told you to call when you were ready to dress.”

  I look down at myself, noting each speck of grime under my cracked fingernails, each splatter of family blood that tarnishes my beautiful dress. “I am not fit for entertaining.”

  Her dark eyebrows rise with surprise. “Do you honestly think you have a choice in the matter?”

  She laughs and steps into the room with a rustle of fabric. Her small, pointed shoes tap loudly against the wooden plank floors. “Come.”

  When I hesitate, she hisses and points a finger at a low-backed wooden chair that has been placed at the end of my bed. “He is not a patient man.”

  “So I hear,” I mutter as I approach the bed once more with great tenderness. She frowns her disapproval, however says nothing. Her silk dress brushes against my arm as she moves past with a fresh bowl of water and cloth in hand.

  She does not say a word as she begins removing my corset. I clutch to the front of it as she grows weary of the lacing and tears it apart. “Modesty is unbecoming of a new bride.” She tsks and yanks the corset from my hands.

  I cover myself with my hands as she dips the rag into the water and begins scrubbing my flesh with such intensity I fear there will be nothing left. “I am not your bride. You are a stranger to me.”

  Her hand clasps down hard onto my shoulder. I gasp in pain as her nails dig into my muscle. “Do you think I enjoy this? I intended to dine with Marcus at the feast. Instead, he is left to the cunning wiles of Verity while I am here tending to the likes of you. If he takes her to bed this night, I will make you atone for this grievance.”

  I wrench out of her grasp and spin to glare at her. “I do not care about your love affairs. I want to be left alone. Nothing more.”

  A cruel smile tugs at her lips as she leans in and shoves me back into place. Her whisper unsettles the hair at the nape of my neck as she dips low. Her nails draw blood as she increases her grip on my arm. “Vladimir has a taste for pain. How long do you think you will manage to endure before he breaks you, just as he did the others?”

  “Are you all so contemptible?”

  Emeline laughs as she rises and scrubs flakes of blood from my back. “I am one of the nice ones.”

  “Brilliant,” I mutter and clutch my arms tighter beneath my armpits.

  She forces me to rise and remove my underclothes. My skin feels feverish from the fire as she works, making sure not to miss a single spot. By the time she helps me ease into my dress, I feel laid bare, violated.

  I see the way she smirks at my chest and feel her mockery like a swift kick in the stomach. Her own dress does little to hold back the ample flesh attempting to spring free. While she may have more depth to her curves, I have grace on my side. I am taller than her and my body is clothed in lean muscle that she will never possess.

  Yes, she is strong, though it is a mirage of the soft, curvy girl before me. Perhaps men prefer that. I sincerely hope they do so they will leave me be.

  “You will have to work hard to make up for your… shortcomings.” She gives my chest a pointed look as she adjusts the fabric overtop. It feels cool against my skin, a pleasant contrast to the hearth fire.

  “Perhaps you overestimate the value of your own assets,” I spit back at her. Emeline flushes red and yanks me by the hair until I am seated on the chair once more. She combs through my wet strands with merciless vengeance. I bite down on my lip to stave off my cries. Many strands detach from my head as she hits snag after snag.

  Emeline twists my hair at the base of my head with enough force to snap a human’s neck. I gnash my teeth as she jabs a pearl comb into my hair to hold it in place. “Do that again and I will speak with Vladimir of this.”
>
  She grips my face and turns me so I can see her from the corner of my eye. I had anticipated the same fear that Alamesia and Atticus displayed earlier, though what I see is haughty confidence.

  “Do you really think he would take your word over mine?” She runs a long fingernail down the side of my cheek, grazing just deep enough to part the skin.

  “Do you?” I grab her finger and snap it backward. Pain flares in her eyes as she yanks away her hand, hissing at me like a viper.

  Crimson blotches her cheeks as she lurches upright. Her dress is wrinkled and her hair falling from her combs, though she takes no notice of it as she trounces to the door. She turns back in the threshold with a savage grin. “Vladimir will take you tonight and the whole castle well revel in your screams.”

  She slams the door behind her and I am left with fear nestled firmly in the pit of my stomach. I know he will come… and pain will surely follow.

  EIGHT