Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy

by Amy Miles

The man kneels in silence beside me for a moment. Neither of us speaks nor does he expand upon his previous words. He has known my true identity from the first moment I met him at the masquerade ball, though I am still in the dark to exactly who he is. I do not even know his name. I certainly am unclear as to his motive for being here.

  He clears his throat and shifts back after a moment. When he does, I can barely make out a veil of gold that drapes over his rigid jaw. His eyes are shielded from me. I find this secrecy to be maddening. You can tell much of a man from his eyes.

  “Vladimir sent me to tend to you,” he says as he rises to his full height. “It would seem he grows weary of your… exile.”

  “Exile.” I laugh bitterly. Wracking coughs bring tears to my eyes as it feels as if a thousand knives slice through my exposed flesh. He places a hand atop my shoulder, holding me in place until the coughing fit subsides. The instant it does, he releases me and steps away again.

  I grimace at the lingering heat of his touch against my flesh. He admits he works for my husband. I was correct about him!

  “I do not need your assistance,” I whisper hoarsely. My vision swims as a moment of lightheadedness washes over me. It passes quickly enough, though leaves me feeling weakened.

  “How long have you been left unattended?” My pain mingles with mortification as I feel his gaze trail down my body. In the dank dungeon, I was clothed in shadow, yet here in I know nothing is hidden from his gaze.

  He takes his time observing my various wounds. Several times he acts as if he means to reach out and touch me but draws back. He tucks his hands into his sides, clutching his thighs instead.

  I feel unforgivably exposed and my emotions lay as bare as my body. “It is none of your concern.”

  I attempt to roll my head away; however, a light touch against my arm stops me. “Please. I would like to know.”

  Taking a haggard breath into my lungs, I count to five before releasing the breath. It comes out shaky, though I feel measurably calmer.

  If he was going to attack me, he would have done so already, I attempt to argue, though the fact that he may yet be toying with me lingers in the back of my mind. “Three days.”

  A low growl rumbles deep in his chest as he steps away. I attempt to follow his movements with my eyes, though it is useless. He steps outside of my vision and I am left to wonder about his action. Weariness tugs at me, though I fight against it, knowing I need to remain alert in his presence. Moving has drained too much of my energy and further inflamed my pain.

  His boots shuffle across the floor as he moves. The sound of sloshing perks my ears and the scent that follows floods my face with heat. His steps are far more careful this time as he moves toward the window. The latch groans as he opens the windowpane and dumps out the contents of my chamber pot.

  “Please leave,” I whisper, mortified beyond belief. I am too tired to do anything more than plead and pray this stranger does possess some small amount of dignity that the others do not.

  “I am not permitted to do that.” I hear the splashing of liquid and feel my cheeks flame with heat as he washes the residue of my chamber pot from his hands in a bowl of water on the side table. The sound of the cloth rubbing against his calloused hands grates against my nerves.

  Why is he doing this to me? If this is some new form of torture Vladimir has concocted for me, he is doing a marvelous job at getting inside my head.

  “Your wounds are not healing well.” He tosses aside the cloth with little care as he turns back toward me. “You have not touched your blood.”

  The sparse contents of my stomach curdle at the thought of the cup of blood that was left for me while I slept the day before. It reeks of Vladimir.

  “You cannot make me drink it.”

  “I have no intention of forcing you to do anything.” Glass bottles clink together as he searches along the top of my wooden dresser for something. “I was merely stating a fact. Nothing more. I seem to remember your aversion to blood from our previous encounter.”

  Sucking in a breath, I rise up just enough to twist my neck so I may see him fully, deeming the pain worth finally knowing to whom it is I speak.

  My eyes widen with surprise at the man standing before me. He is younger than my husband and utterly beautiful. His damp blond hair flows down the back of his neck and a brown leather thong drapes over his shoulder, darkened by moisture. His leather tunic appears richly made, obviously handcrafted to taper along his chest and waist to perfection. His black riding boots are speckled with thick clumps of newly drying mud.

  It is hard not to notice the breadth of his chest through the low cut of his vest. The skin beneath is golden and smooth, though it is not his physical beauty that ensnares my thoughts… It is his lopsided grin.

  “It is nice to finally meet you in the light, face to face.” He bows low, sweeping out his hand in greeting. Never in my wildest imaginings could I have drawn up an image of such raw beauty.

  The firm set of his chin and the taut muscles of his shoulders draws my gaze as he rises back up, and for the briefest of moments, I forget my pain. His smile remains, though there is a humorous glint in his eyes as he surveys my growing blush. “My name is Fane Dalca and I have been charged with your personal care and training.”

  I sink back down, too weak to hold myself upright any longer. My vision darkens as the room begins to blur. I take several calming breaths, fighting back the growing nausea.

  “I have heard your name before,” I mutter into my pillow. The scent of sweat seems all the more potent as I breathe in deep against the pain. “You are a ranger. I suppose that would explain your odd selection of clothing.”

  I roll onto my cheek and watch as he shifts to move toward a chair to the left of the window. He lifts it off its feet and sets it closer to my bedside so I do not have to strain to see him. My brow furrows at the thoughtfulness that fuels this action. Do not lower your guard. He is cunning. Do you let him fool you once more?

  He reaches for a pitcher of water and douses the fire. Steam rises from the grate. I breathe out an audible sigh of relief as sweet coolness returns to the room, soothing the fever that clings to my flesh.

  Fane kneels before the grate and works for several minutes to smother the flames, ensuring none might spark back to life. Dusting the soot from his hands, he sinks back into the chair.

  As a chill creeps back into the room, I find myself breathing easier. Fane seems to sense my need and remains silent. He casts a curious gaze about my room and I am reminded of how different this space is to my childhood home. It is far larger than the house I was raised in. The wooden floors aren’t warped and the ceiling is tall enough so I do not have to stoop low when I pace the length of my room.

  The space is bright and airy, despite the dreary skies outside. Tall glass-paned windows are scattered about the room, letting in far more natural light than I am used to. My own home, although not the smallest in Brasov, only had a handful of windows in the entire structure.

  A handmade rug adorns the floor, stretching nearly from wall to wall. It is soiled with splotches of my blood. The beautifully woven tapestries that hang from the walls attempt to conceal the dreariness of the stone with their vivid colors. Waxed candles stand resolute in black sconces at random places. A candelabra dangles from the pitched roof overhead. When lit, it casts a warm glow to chase away the shadows. The chair that Fane perches himself upon is beautifully stitched, the fabric rich in both texture and color.

  I find the way he watches me, though appearing not to do so, to be both exhilarating and unnerving. His gaze is somehow intense yet thoughtful at the same time. Watching him watch me is exhausting and I am reminded how much the pain has wearied me.

  “You have a lovely room,” he muses, fixing his gaze upon me once more.

  “You are welcome to it, if you would like, though I fear you might not enjoy the company of the man living next door.”

  His lip curls into a smirk. “No. I dare say I woul
d not.”

  I watch him closely, marking the steady rise and fall of his chest. His pulse is strong and even. His breathing measured. He is completely in control. A fact that I find both annoying and intriguing at the same time. “You are not like the others, are you?”

  He cocks his head to the side. “Why do you say that?”

  “You do not smell of blood,” I say simply.

  “Ah, I see.” He nods in an exaggerated fashion that somehow makes it seem all the more genuine. I search for any change in his pulse that might hint to a falsehood, though find none. “Perhaps it has been a long day and I have merely been too busy to feed.”

  “No.” I attempt to shake my head yet immediately fall still. I close my eyes as I feel the new layer of freshly mended skin tear along the top of my spine. Warm blood seeps down my neck and onto the sheet. “You did not smell of it in the dungeon either. Nor did you seem interested in joining in with the savagery of the masquerade.”

  “I was downwind from you. It would have been impossible for you to smell the blood upon me that night.”

  “True, though I doubt you would have wasted your time speaking with me if you had attended the ball for a more carnal need.”

  Fane watches me, his brow furrowing with an unknown emotion. If I were to hazard a guess, I would say that there is anger simmering behind his carefully guarded gaze, yet I am unsure why.

  No one has shown me an ounce of sympathy since I arrived. In fact, I have only been greeted with barely restrained lust from the men and blackened jealousy from the women. Mockery and cruel jest has been my companion.

  “I do not think you forgot to eat at all,” I say weakly as my cheek presses heavier against my pillow. The weariness of my efforts is starting to take its toll on me, though I dare not sleep while he is near. Even an animal will not slumber when threatened, though am I becoming confused as to whether or not I am truly being threatened? It is hard to say.

  I know what it is that my eyes see, though the mind and men can play tricks. Fane appears innocent enough, and perhaps even overly polite, yet I know not to let my guard down.

  My limbs grow heavier, my thoughts slightly muddled, as Fane rises to his feet and for the first time I notice a small glass bottle in his hand. The cork stopper appears to be slightly ajar. My shoulders tense as he approaches and sinks down beside me, low enough that I can make out each distinct feature of his face.

  His hand rises to meet mine. His touch is delicate as he slowly uncurls my fingers and places the bottle within my grasp. “It will not work as well as the blood, though it should ease some of your pain.”

  I try to look down at the label on the brown glass surface, yet I already know what it is: a draught of herbal medicine that tastes worse than maggoty apples on a fall morning. Fane is right; it will help with the pain, though only to the extent of sedating me enough that I no longer feel anything at all.

  Therein lies a grave danger. I watch him, searching for any hint of malice as he leans in close. “I am not here to cause you harm, Roseline. I spoke the truth before. I am a friend. Nothing more.”

  “How can I extend trust to a complete stranger?” I ask, clutching the bottle in my fist as if it were a lifeline. After three days of little sleep and more pain than I care to withstand, I am nearly willing to give it a shot.

  “I suppose you will have to take a leap of faith. When you wake, I will endeavor to prove to you that my intentions are pure.”

  “And if you fail?” I ask, unconsciously wiggling the cork from the lip of the bottle. It is not easy singlehandedly. The cork drops to the floor and rolls away.

  Fane lowers his gaze, and for a moment I sense a profound sadness within him. “Then my life will be forfeit.”

  I hesitate a moment longer, my pain mounting to dizzying heights. When he looks down upon me, I realize his eyes are the purest blue I have ever glimpsed before. Clear and vivid.

  “I will hold you to that,” I whisper. My hand quakes terribly as I bring the bottle to my lips.

  “One sip only.” He rises as I tip back the bottle, then crosses to the fireplace where he stacks the remaining logs into his arms and moves toward the door. I grimace at the thick, sludgy herbs that trail down my throat, making me green with nausea.

  “I will see to it that you get your rest tonight and will return on the morrow to check on you.” He turns back to look at me, nodding his approval as my eyelids begin to droop. The medicine has never worked so quickly on me before. I realize only after it is too late that there was another scent mingled among the strongly scented herbs: poppy.

  My mother used to crush this flower and create a draught that could ease pain and riddle the mind with lethargy the likes no man can resist.

  My fingers tremble around the narrow bottle, my need for oblivion growing by the second. Soon I will not be able to keep my eyes open or even care to try.

  “Rest,” he whispers as beads of sweat along my brow begin to cool as the temperature of my skin begins to diminish. I sink into the pillow, feeling cocooned by softness.

  “Why do you aid me?” My words are heavily slurred.

  “I believe you and I are far more alike than you know, Roseline Dragomir.”

  The room begins to spin about me on an uneven tilt as I hear my human name echo through my mind. Fane closes the door behind him and I slip into a dreamless slumber.

  NINETEEN