Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Tonight, after a long session with a spurred whip, I lie across my bed while Luthian tends the wounds on my back. He passes his hand over the slashes he left behind, and my skin tingles as it knits back together.
“If anyone ever fails to heal you when they’re finished with you, come to me,” Luthian tells me. He doesn’t sound as he usually does, cocky and in good humor.
“Guardian? Is anything the matter?” Asking him is better than imagining the harm that could come to me, harm that someone might not heal. That is a concern for later.
He sighs heavily and trails his fingertips down my now-smooth back before giving me a pat on my ass. “Let’s get you into the bath.”
Usually, he would join me in the tub, but tonight he simply carries me to it and lowers me into the steaming water. He doesn’t remove his shirt, a black one with billowy sleeves and laces to draw it tight at his trim waist, or his black leather breeches.
I reach a hand out and touch his hip. “I like this, Guardian. You look very handsome.”
“Thank you,” he says benignly, but there is still a sense that something isn’t quite right. His smile is tight as he holds up two bottles of soap. “Stargrass or Sorrow Lily?”
“Sorrow Lily, please, Guardian,” I say and watch silently as he adds the soap to my bath. With a snap of his fingers, the water in the tub begins to froth, stirring up a cloud of suds.
The movement and temperature of the water is exquisite on my exhausted body, and I close my eyes and recline my head with a soft moan of contentment.
Luthian inhales suddenly.
“Did you think of something?” I ask, opening one eye, just a bit.
What I see freezes the breath in my lungs. Luthian composes his expression quickly, but it’s too late. I saw him. It was as if he looked at me through another faery’s face, for in that brief moment, he was unrecognizable to me. Every time he’s looked at me before, it’s been with a self-assured, almost cocky smirk. As if he delights in owning me, delights in holding me prisoner to our bargain. As if he knows something secret that he won’t disclose, and that secret gives him power over me.
But I caught him staring at me the way a lost dreamer looks up to the stars. The way someone gazes longingly at a thing they desperately desire but cannot have.
He clears his throat and turns away to face the fireplace. “We leave for the court tomorrow.”
My heart plummets to my stomach.
“So soon?” I squeak out.
He chuckles without humor. “It’s been weeks, Cenere. I’ve taken you as far as I can with your training. You’ve learned to be adaptable, obedient, and alluring. It’s time you try out those skills on a broader audience.”
I don’t want to.
Of course, I knew this was the end goal, the sole reason I’m with Luthian in the first place. I should be pleased that I’m moving a step closer to my revenge on Thrace. But I’m also a part of Luthian’s assassination plot. This feels quite a bit like stepping into a pit of broken glass carefully to avoid cutting my feet.
“I like it here, Guardian,” I say softly.
He turns to me with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m glad to hear it, honey flower. And I’ve enjoyed having you. But we can’t drag our feet. We have an agreement and a plan.”
“Yes, Guardian,” I agree in a whisper.
He kneels beside the tub and takes up a sponge, applying more soap to it. He starts at my shoulder and works his way down my arm, pausing now and again to tickle me with sudsy fingers. “Beautiful Cenere. I dare say you’re one of my finest creations.”
I blush. I thought I was past that now, but his praise lightens my blood, sends it floating upward in joy like dandelion seeds on a breeze. “I hope I live up to your expectations.”
He washes me dutifully, the way he usually does, but instead of magically drying me, he uses the towels beside the tub. I support myself with a hand on his shoulder as he bends to dry one foot, one calf, up to my thigh, then the other. For someone who doesn’t want to drag his feet, he certainly takes a long time doing something he usually does by magic.
Perhaps, I think, my throat thick with tears, he’s saying goodbye.
“Will you be with me at court?” I ask and hope my sadness doesn’t show.
He looks up. “Of course, I will be. You’re my ticket back into society.”
“And will you continue to advise me?” But what I’m asking, desperately, is will I be alone with you? Will this strange bond between Guardian and ward continue?