Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 6

  “I doubt she enjoyed being groped by her mistress’s brother.”

  “Uh-uh. I can tell when a girl fancies me, Myrellis.”

  “You slammed her into a bookcase.”

  He shrugs. “She likes it rough.”

  “You have a wife and a newborn son at home.”

  “And a couple elves on the side.” He nods as if this is common knowledge, as if everyone commits adultery with the people who work for them. “Eydis is usually too tired from dealing with the kid to be much fun in bed—she acts like it’s a chore—so I found a few girls who are better. It’s not a big deal, you know. Plenty of nobles have similar arrangements in their households.”

  “Is Eydis aware of this . . . arrangement?”

  “She doesn’t like it, but she knows.”

  “I’m not surprised that she doesn’t approve of you raping your slaves.”

  “Woah—I don’t rape.” Drake frowns. “I have some standards.”

  “Not that I’ve seen.”

  “I have standards when it suits me. I’m no rapist.”

  “That’s not what it looked like in the library. Stay away from Liselle, Drake. I’m serious. Stay away from all your slaves. You do know that rape is a crime, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. And you don’t have to worry—I keep my hands off them unless they say otherwise.” His lips twitch into a smirk and he leans forward, like he’s letting Ghyslain in on a secret. “In fact, I’ve heard quite from a few reliable sources that that’s what they like best—my hands.”

  Ghyslain makes a disgusted noise and pushes his chair back. “I don’t need to hear your technique—”

  “Don’t you? Don’t you want to know what to do when you sleep with my sister for the first time? You wouldn’t want to disappoint her on your wedding night.”

  “Stop trying to change the subject.”

  “I’m sure the library has a few books on what to do. Better yet, find yourself an elf to bed. There’s no better way to improve than to practice.” The corners of his eyes crinkle when he suddenly smiles. “That Liselle is awfully pretty—curly hair, nice body, sweet smile. You’d never expect such beauty to come out of Beggars’ End. The Creator made a big mistake when he made her a knife-ear.”

  “Cut it out, Drake. This is about you and her, nothing else. I don’t want to hear anything more about you sleeping with your slaves, understood?”

  Drake’s grin grows, and Ghyslain immediately regrets his inability to hide his frustration. Drake leans back, holding his hands up in supplication. “Very well, my lord and liege. No more sleeping with slaves. May I go now?”

  “Well—” Ghyslain begins to say more, but . . . what can he do besides issue a warning? Drake hadn’t actually raped Liselle—although he doesn’t doubt that he would have had Ghyslain not interrupted—and he had promised Liselle not to let rumors of Drake’s behavior spread to the people. He doesn’t like it, but she had sworn him to secrecy to protect her parents. He will keep his word. “Yes, you may leave. I’m serious, Drake. Keep your hands off her.”

  “Got it. Message received the first two times.” He stands and starts toward the door. When he passes Ghyslain, he leans down and whispers, “But if you change your mind, I can get Liselle for you. I’m sure she’d be happy to help you prepare for your wedding night. And don’t worry—it would be on the down-low. Elisora would never find out.” He claps Ghyslain’s shoulder, then saunters out of the room.

  Son of a bitch, Ghyslain thinks the second the doors bang shut behind him. Snake. He waits a few moments, then rises and opens one of the doors. He peers down the hallway to make sure Drake is out of earshot, then hisses to one of the guards, “Samson, have a guard stationed outside his house from now on. I want someone to keep an eye on him and the slaves. If the guard hears anything out of the ordinary—anything suspicious—he has my permission to intervene.”

  8

  The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of meetings and reports and documents. By the end, Ghyslain wants nothing more than to crawl back into bed and finally get the full night’s sleep he had been craving since the day his father died. Right after he returns to his chambers and sends Jett and Orson for hot water to fill his bath, a knock comes at the door, too soon to be his servants returning from their task. He quickly finishes undressing and wraps a black silk robe around himself as he moves to the door, frowning. It’s much too early for his mother to send for him for the dinner she had arranged with his father’s—now his—councilmembers. He opens the door.

  “Oh, good. Ghyslain, Jett said you were still in here—” Elisora pauses as she takes in his appearance. Her face flushes slightly, causing his to do the same. She had seen him in less, of course—when they were children, they had often passed entire summer days swimming just off the shore of Lake Myrella behind the castle—but knowing that they are soon to be married (and having Drake’s disgusting comments about pleasing her on their wedding night still ringing in his ears) changes things. “I, um . . .”

  Ghyslain tugs at the belt of the robe self-consciously. “What is it, Elisora? What do you want?” He regrets his impatient tone the second he speaks, and tries again. “How do you feel after last night?”

  She offers him a small smile. “Not terrible. I saw Drake in the Plaza earlier today, looking perfectly fine. How he drinks so much without any repercussions is beyond me.” She shakes her head. “Pierce is quite a bit worse for wear, though. I passed him in the hall on the way here. He looks like he’d keel over with the slightest breeze.”

  “I know. I sent him to the infirmary a few hours ago to ask Healer Alyss for something for his headache.”

  “Well, apparently it didn’t work.”

  “Oh, if you’d seen him earlier, you’d be saying otherwise. From your description, it sounds like he’s feeling better.”

  Elisora’s grin grows, some of the awkwardness between them disappearing. “May I come in?” When Ghyslain hesitates, she adds, “I’ll be brief, I promise.”

  “Um, sure. Come on in.”

  “Thank you.” She marches into his room, stops in the middle of the floor, and turns on him the second he closes the door. “What were you thinking about last night?”

  “This again? Elisora, I told you, nothing.”

  “Come on, I know you better than that.” She crosses her arms and frowns at him. “As you reminded me yesterday, I’ve known you since we were five years old. We’ve hardly spent more than a day apart since we met. Do you think you can fool me? Do you think I don’t know what goes on inside that head of yours?”

  “If you know so much about me, why don’t you tell me what I was thinking about last night, hm?”

  “I want to hear it from you.”

  “So you don’t know.”

  “I have my suspicions.”

  “There’s nothing to be suspicious about—”

  “Then there’s no reason not to tell me the truth!”

  “Fine!” Ghyslain throws his arms out to the side, exasperated. He’s aware of their voices rising—anyone passing in the hall can likely hear every word—but he doesn’t care. “You want to know what I was thinking?”

  “I’d like a little honesty. I don’t think that’s such a terrible request, since I’m to be your wife.”

  “Do you love me?” Ghyslain asks, his voice so soft it catches her off guard.

  “What?”

  He looks away. “You heard me.”

  “I did. I’m just trying to figure out if you’re joking or if you’re really so stupid that you would have to ask.” Her arms drop to her sides, her expression shifting from annoyance to honesty. “Of course I love you.” She opens her arms and steps forward to embrace him, but he backs away before she can.

  “Do you love me like a best friend, or do you love me like my fiancée?”

  She stops.

  There.

  All of a sudden, he sees it. It’s a minute change in her expression, so fast that he would’ve missed it had
he not been searching for it.

  Guilt.

  “Ghyslain—”

  “Be honest, please. That’s not a terrible request, is it? As your future husband?” He feels terrible throwing her words back in her face, but he needs to know the truth. He hadn’t realized until recently how much the doubt had been gnawing at him. She had been pretending the whole time. He’s sure of it, but he needs to hear it from her.

  “Please don’t make me answer that question,” she whispers.

  That’s all he needs to hear.

  “Get out.”

  “Ghyslain—”

  “I need some time to think. Elisora, please, just leave.”

  “No.” She plants herself on his bed and crosses her arms. “We’re going to discuss this.”

  “What were you planning to do after we got married? Keep pretending? Keep lying?”

  “I’m not lying! Ghyslain, listen, okay? I love you. I do,” she insists when he rolls his eyes. “You’re my best friend in the whole world. I don’t know what I’d do without you. And no, if I’m being honest . . . I don’t love you romantically.”

  “Elisora—” he begins, her name coming out like a pitiful whimper. He’s too hurt to care. Something inside of him fractures with every word she says.

  “But,” she continues, “I’ll get there.” She stands and clasps his hands, her grip tightening until it’s almost painful. She waits for him to meet her gaze. “Just because I’m not in love with you now doesn’t mean I never will be. I just need some time.”

  “But what if you never do? What if you wake up twenty years from now and realize you still don’t love me? What if you begin to resent me?”

  “That will never happen. Do you hear me? Never.”

  “You can’t possibly be sure of that.”

  “Of course I can. I want to marry you, Ghyslain. The betrothal was as much my idea as it was yours. If I don’t love you in twenty years, that’s my problem. I will never hold it against you, do you understand?” She shrugs. “And who’s to say I won’t fall in love with you along the way? Stranger things have happened.”

  Ghyslain takes a deep breath. “There’s still time, you know. No plans for the wedding have been made. You can still back out of the betrothal if you want.”

  “What, so I can stand in the back of the Church and watch some other girl become your wife? Not in a million years, Ghyslain Myrellis. I chose you, just like you chose me at that New Year’s feast so many years ago. We’re meant for each other. So what if our marriage isn’t like everyone else’s? It’ll be special; it’ll be ours.”

  “You sound like you’re trying to talk yourself into this ludicrous plan as much as you are me.”

  She wraps her arms around his neck so that they’re standing face-to-face, their lips inches apart. “I just don’t want you to enter that Church for our wedding with any regrets,” she whispers. “You love me. I love you. That’s more than most married people I know can say.”

  “But—”

  That’s when she kisses him.

  It’s slow and sweet, her lips soft against his. She cups his face and smiles when his hands slip around her waist and tug her close. She moves backward until the backs of her legs bump the foot of his bed and she stumbles, half-sitting, half-falling onto the mattress. He laughs when she grabs the front of his tunic and lies back, pulling him down with her. He kneels on the bed, straddling her hips, and presses a line of gentle kisses down her neck and along her collarbone.

  “You’re tickling me,” she murmurs, shivering.

  “Sorry.”

  She grins and cups his chin with a hand, guiding his mouth back to hers. After a few seconds, she breaks off the kiss, breathing fast. “You see? I can play the loving wife as well as any woman.”

  ‘Play?’ he thinks as reality crashes back down. He stands up and backs away so quickly he knocks over the stool in front of his vanity. He stumbles and rights it, looking everywhere in the room but at her. “I think you should leave now,” he says, loathing himself for the way his voice trembles.

  Elisora frowns, looking hurt, but she nods. “All right.” She rises and tugs the strap of her dress back onto her shoulder. “But think about what I’ve said, okay?”

  “Oh, I doubt I’ll be able to stop thinking about it.”

  She pauses, her hand on the door handle. “Just . . . don’t do anything rash, okay? Keep this between us?”

  He nods, and she slips out of his room without another word. A few seconds later—so soon after Elisora leaves that Ghyslain is certain they had been waiting in the hall to keep from interrupting—Jett and Orson let themselves in with large buckets of warm water in their arms. A few slaves Ghyslain recognizes, but doesn’t know, help them fill the porcelain basin in the adjacent bathing chamber. While they work in silence, Ghyslain buries his face in his hands.

  Creator, look at the mess I’ve gotten myself into.

  9

  After bathing, scrubbing every last hint of Elisora’s intoxicating perfume from his skin, and dressing, Ghyslain sulks for longer than is appropriate before dragging himself to the regal dining hall. His mother and the councilmembers are already inside when he arrives. He expects Guinevere to shoot him a warning look or whisper a rebuke for being late once again, but his haggard expression must be enough to convince her that he has no need for further punishment.

  “What’s wrong?” she murmurs as they take their seats at the long dining table. As the king, Ghyslain is seated at the head of the table, his mother at his left, and the empty chair where Elisora would have sat is on his right. Mercifully, she had chosen not to show up.

  “Just tired, that’s all.”

  Guinevere raises a brow. “Are you sure?”

  Thankfully, he’s saved from having to answer when several of the elves from the kitchen appear with platters of steaming soup. The councilmembers chitter amongst themselves as the slaves place the shining silver bowls of broth before them. A few of them offer Ghyslain and his mother compliments on finding such a talented group of cooks, while more remark on the beauty of the fine silverware set before them. Guinevere accepts the compliments with humility. Ghyslain merely forces a smile and nods in agreement.

  A few minutes into the second course, one of the councilmembers—a middle-aged man named Cassius—says, “So, Your Majesty, any idea when you would like to be married to Miss Zendais?”

  Ghyslain nearly chokes on the piece of rabbit he’d been chewing. He coughs and takes a sip of his wine before sputtering, “What?”

  His mother nudges him under the table, but he ignores her.

  “Your wedding. Would you like a spring wedding? Summer? Autumn?”

  “Um, I don’t know. I haven’t thought much about it.”

  Cassius smiles. “That’s all right. I bet Elisora has plenty of opinions on the matter. When I married my wife, I couldn’t get her to shut up about it.” He chuckles. “It’s a shame she couldn’t be here tonight.”

  “Yes, I believe she wasn’t feeling well.”

  “A pity,” Guinevere says, then gracefully changes the subject to another of the councilmember’s daughters.

  Ghyslain ducks his head and studies the plate before him as if it could somehow save him from the awkwardness of state dinners. Please, please, please, let me make it through this dinner without making even more a fool of myself than I already have.

  A few hours later, Ghyslain and his mother bid farewell to the councilmembers as the kitchen staff flutter about and clean up the dishes from the meal. Cassius thanks them for the meal and—again—expresses his well-wishes for the impending wedding, which Ghyslain accepts with a tight-lipped smile. The minute Cassius bows and leaves the room, Guinevere closes the doors behind him and whirls on her son.

  “What is wrong with you?” she hisses. “You’ve been late two days in a row, you couldn’t bear speaking to the council, and you look like you haven’t slept a wink in days.”

  “Maybe that’s because I haven’t been s
leeping, Mother,” he snaps. He sinks into one of the chairs and rests his head on the cool wood of the table.

  “What’s wrong?” His mother’s voice is concerned, bereft of the annoyance it had held seconds before. She touches his shoulder gently, and when he looks up, she’s kneeling beside him—she’s kneeling on the floor in her fine lace dress. “Are you all right?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Do you feel sick?”

  Yes, but not for the reason you think. I feel sick because Elisora and I are fighting, and we haven’t fought since we were eight, arguing who would take the blame for breaking the crystal vase Father had kept in his study. I feel sick because the woman I’ve loved for twelve years doesn’t love me the way I want her to, and I don’t know if she ever will. I feel sick because I’m terrified of the future.

  “No,” he says.

  She sighs. “Look, my son. I know what you’re going through. I know you miss your father and that this is all a big change. You weren’t planning to inherit the throne for years. None of us foresaw what happened; your father was always a paragon of health—"

  “Until he wasn’t.”

  “Right—until he wasn’t. It’s going to take time to get used to living without him, but we’ll figure out a way to keep going. You’ll adjust to being king. No one expects you to know everything about running a country on your first day. There’s a learning curve, just like any other job. I’m here to help you. Your advisors and councilmembers are here to help you. If you trust your instincts and let us guide you where your own knowledge is lacking, then the thought of ruling Beltharos suddenly doesn’t seem so impossible, does it?” She smooths the hair from his brow and smiles. “Plus, you’ll have a strong, confident woman beside you. Despite her lack of a title, I know Elisora will be a great wife to you and a wonderful queen to our people.”

  At the mention of Elisora, what little relief had been mounting inside Ghyslain crumbles. “Yeah, right. Elisora.”