I slammed my fist sideways into the wall. It hurt, but it made me feel a little better. If only I could strike my husband, when the time came.
If only the Rhyme were true.
I didn’t believe it, I didn’t, but I still drew the knife from its sheath and waved it slowly, feeling how its weight shifted in my hand. Of course Father had never trained me to use a knife; he’d never wanted to train me in anything that wasn’t useful to the plan. But now and then Astraia had stolen kitchen knives and talked me into “practice”—which meant waving the knives in the air and shrieking, mostly. Nothing useful.
I knew that Father had been right, that I should get rid of the knife—but there was nowhere to hide it, now that I was locked in this room. And it was true, also, that this was my sister’s last gift to me. If I couldn’t love her, at least I could wear her gift like a token into battle. (She’d always loved stories where warriors did that.)
I slid the knife back into the sheath and rearranged my skirts. Then I noticed how tired I was. For a little while I tried to stay awake, but the air in the room had grown warm and heavy. It was still silent; there was no sign of any monster. And so I fell asleep.
Somebody had piled blankets over my shoulders. That was my first hazy thought as I awoke. Heavy, warm blankets. Something tickled my neck and I twitched.
The blankets twitched back.
My eyes snapped open. In one moment I realized that what tickled my neck was a tuft of black hair, the blankets were a warm body, and the Gentle Lord was draped over me like a lazy cat, his head resting on my shoulder.
He raised his face and smiled. The stories were right that called him “the sweet-faced calamity,” for he had one of the most beautiful faces I had ever seen: sharp nose, high cheekbones, framed with tousled, ink-black hair and stamped all over with the arrogant softness of a man just out of boyhood who had never been defied. He wore a long dark coat with an immaculate white cravat tied at his neck and white lace foaming at his cuffs. If he had been human, I might have taken him for a gentleman.
But his eyes had crimson irises, with cat-slit pupils.
My heart was trying to pound its way out of my chest. I’d spent my whole life preparing for this moment, and I couldn’t speak or even move.
“Good afternoon,” he said. His voice was like cream, light but rich.
I pushed myself off the ground and sat up. He sat up too, with languid grace.
“What,” I managed to choke out.
“You were asleep,” he said. “I got so bored waiting that I fell asleep too. And now here you are.” He tilted his head. “You were a good pillow but I think I prefer you awake. What’s your name, lovely wife?”
Wife. His wife. I could feel the knife against my thigh, but it might have been a hundred miles away. And it wouldn’t matter if I had it in my hand. I was supposed to submit to him.
“Nyx Triskelion,” I said. “Daughter of Leonidas Triskelion.”
“Hmm.” He leaned closer. “I’ve seen prettier, but I suppose you’ll do.”
“Then my lord husband is an expert?” The words snapped out of me before I knew what I was doing, which was all wrong because I was supposed to be pleasing him, beguiling him.
He’ll like it if he thinks you’re helpless, Aunt Telomache had said.
“Your lord husband has had eight wives before.” He leaned forward, and I could feel his gaze traveling up the length of my body. “But none of them quite”—his hands slid up my skirt in an instant—“so”—I clenched my teeth, ready to endure—“prepared.”
And he had pulled the knife out of its sheath. He twirled it once, then threw it up at the wall. It sank in almost to the hilt, lodged in the wall at least twelve feet up.
Then he looked back at me.
This was where I should beg for mercy.
“But just one knife?” he said. “A prudent warrior would carry two. Or did I miss one?” He leaned forward. “Will my lady wife let me check?”
I smashed my fist into his face.
The blow was hard enough that he fell over backward. I caught my breath; even facing the Gentle Lord, my first impulse was to apologize. Then I sprang to my feet, heart pounding, only to realize that the doors were still locked, my knife was beyond reach, and I had probably just doomed myself and my mission.
As he sat back up, I dropped to my knees. There was only one thing to do. I started to undo the top button of my dress, then simply ripped it open.
“I’m sorry,” I said, staring at the floor. “I just, my father made me promise to bring a knife, and—and—” I stuttered, acutely aware that I was half-naked in front of him. “I’m your wife! I burn for your touch! I thirst for your love!” I didn’t know where the terrible words were coming from, but I couldn’t stop them. “I’ll do anything, I’ll—”
I realized he was laughing.
“You don’t do anything by halves, do you?” he said.
“I didn’t even get halfway with killing you, but give me the knife and I’ll fix that.” I crossed my arms and remembered that I was still half-naked, but I was not about to show embarrassment in front of him.
“Tempting, but no. If you did that, I’d have to kill you, and I want a wife that lives past dinnertime.” He briskly pulled my bodice back up, so that I was at least half-covered, then grasped my arm and pulled me to my feet. “Time to show you to your room.”