Page 5 of A Crown of Darkness

He pulled back, releasing her so abruptly it was almost like a slap. ‘I promised I wouldn’t take anything from you that you didn’t offer freely. But I want you to admit that you still want me. I want you to be happy. I could take you, you know. Nothing could stop me.’

She glared at him. Of course she knew that. She also knew what she’d do the moment she did have access to her magic again. Perhaps that was what was stopping him from forcing himself on her. What she had once given freely and with joy, he now held over her like a threat. What they had shared, and the memory of every exquisite moment, was a torment.

Or perhaps it was something else. He wanted her to give in, to beg him, to be his, body, mind and soul. That was the most important thing to him now, that she accept him as he was now, that she surrendered.

It was all part of his wretched game. He wanted her subservient, bound to him. He wanted the powers of the Nox.

‘Let me go.’ It was all she was going to say to him. She just had to be strong. But with his gentle caresses, his kisses, the strokes of his hands against her skin…it was so difficult. She wanted him still.

‘My poor little Wren,’ he said scornfully. ‘That’s never going to happen. You are far too precious. And you’ll get yourself in such trouble outside my chambers. Don’t you know that? In this court, you’d be fair game. A witch without her powers, a princess without a crown. They would fall on you like a rabid pack of hounds. You’re lucky my guards are so loyal.’

He turned away from her, leaving her dangling there, and settled himself on the divan opposite her, where food and wine had been left on a low table. He’d been eating, she realised, waiting for her to wake up. Glancing around the room she saw a number of his servants, gifts from his father to welcome him home, women and men, all young and beautiful, obedient and devoted to him. Concubines, lovers, slaves. Whether that devotion was derived from magic or drugs or the sheer need to survive in this benighted city she didn’t know. They wore soft leather collars around their throats, like pets.

And that was how he treated them. She loathed him for it. That was what he wanted to make of her now. A pet. A slave.

Shadows of old, part of her wanted that too. She didn’t want to fight anymore. She just wanted Finn to touch her, to hold her and to love her.

Sometimes she wondered what Lynette would have said about that. Something scathing, with disgust rolling off it. Light, she missed Lynette’s overprotective hovering now.

Wren would not let herself join them. So far he had not turned them on her, though sometimes he threatened to and they eyed her hungrily. He preferred to keep her to himself and drive her to distraction with soft touches and caresses, with the lies that he still loved her and that if she could only submit to him everything would be all right again. Sometimes she almost believed him. He sounded sincere.

But Finnian had been as good as his word, for all that was worth now. He wanted her to beg for him. He hadn’t forced herand he had not allowed anyone else to lay hands on her without repercussions. She thought of Captain Elendris, loathsome little man that he was, the way the malice in his expression had turned to shock when Finn had thrown him from the window. Wren shuddered, turning her face away. No one dared touch her without their prince’s permission.

Perhaps she could be grateful for that small mercy. But gratitude to him could lead to something more and she couldn’t have that. She had to be strong.

Finn…no, Finnian. This was not her Finn, not a Knight of the Aurum, not her Paladin, not the ward of Asteroth who had loved her and cared for her and done all in his power to protect her from the first time they met. That man had vanished the moment he had broken the charm and released the spell which had brought the two of them here to Sidonia. This was Prince Finnian of Sidon, the Ilanthian crown prince and next in line to the throne, and she didn’t know him at all. How could she? They were not the same man.

Except they were. He was. She only had to look at him to know that. Something had changed. Either he had been lying all along, or something had happened when that spell was cast to change him, or now, when faced with a future of ruling this kingdom and spending the rest of his life in this hedonistic court, he had decided to embrace it and all that it entailed. He was an Ilanthian to the core. She had been warned.

She hated him.

And a treacherous part of her still longed for him as well. Her memories were too vivid, too intoxicating, and the love they had shared…

…had been a lie.

Finn sank back in the cushions, lifted a glass of wine to his lips and watched her while a lithe young woman with long black hair settled herself between his splayed legs, running her handsup his breeches towards his belt. He never took his eyes off Wren, watching, waiting.

All the servants watched as well. Watched him hungrily. Watched her jealously, or in disbelief, or simply watched…

They would report back to the king, she knew that. So did Finn. So he generally let them fawn all over him. He had to, he told her in quieter moments; it was expected.

She didn’t believe that either. He was enjoying it far too much. Enjoying them, enjoying tormenting her with them.

The woman between his legs moved eagerly, up and down, and Finn reached out to tangle his hand in her hair and pull her in closer. He let his head fall back, exposing the long line of his throat, and his breath quickened.

Wren closed her eyes, but that didn’t stop the sounds reaching her. She kept her eyes closed, even though her tears leaked from the corners and she could do nothing to stop them.

Later, so much later, when he had finished with his lovers – his slaves, she reminded herself and detested him for it – Finnian dismissed them. He waited until the two of them were entirely alone before checking the room and locking the door. He paced the perimeter like a caged tiger and pulled the heavy curtains over the stained-glass windows. Then he untied her, releasing her arms at last.

She was too exhausted from standing in that awkward position to resist him, her aching body folding into his embrace. He lifted her in silence and carried her to their bed, where he settled her in that sea of luxurious material, pillows and cushions.

‘Drink,’ he said and lifted a glass to her lips.

What could she do? Her throat was parched and he knew it. So she drank.

He would do this, tending her, feeding her, caring for her, as if he still loved her. He would brush her hair until it shone. But Wren knew it for the trap it was, the trap it had to be.

How could he still love her and do everything else he did?