15
Marguerite yanked pointlesslyon the doorknob. It would not turn. With both hands, she grasped it and rattled the wood slab against its hinges. Letting out a whine of frustration, she finally gave up and kicked it with her bare foot.
Which was a mistake. She hopped, hissing and swearing under her breath in pain. She was still covered in cuts and bruises from her attempted escape. Limping back to the bed, she sat on the edge of it.
Their bed.
At some point while she had been unconscious—again—he had bathed and bandaged her. She would feel indignant about it, if she had not known the other option was that he leave her naked and coated in the dried blood of the mercenaries. She honestly preferred it this way.
When she woke up, he had been gone. His side of the bed was still made, the lines of the linen crisp and showing that he had not slept there that night.
Rubbing the back of her neck, she bit back a fresh flood of tears. He had locked her inside their bedroom. She supposed that was not a surprise. Better here, where there were windows—also locked—than some dank, dark hole in the castle basement.
“What am I to do?”
She said it aloud, knowing no one was there to answer her. Or perhaps there is. Perhaps this place is filled with spirits that do his bidding. She shivered at the thought and decided to keep her thoughts internal from that point on.
Unless the dead could read minds.
She did not think they could. But then again, she was not certain they could not. Placing her head in her hands, she ran through the options before her. But found she quite literally had none. Well, that was not entirely true. She had two.
Endure whatever torture Gideon would levy against her for her transgressions…
Or shatter the window with the end table and jump to her death.
Neither seemed pleasant. But the latter seemed far more so than the former. And so, she lay back on the bed, stretched her arms wide, and waited for Gideon to return.
She did not have to wait for long.
When the door clicked open, she leapt from the bed to put as much distance between her and the man who walked inside. But he was not a man, was he? No. He was a wraith. A demon of the shadows. She shuddered at the memory of seeing his true self, and quickly found herself with her back pressed to the far wall.
Gideon shut the door behind him, his expression unreadable. He carried a tray of food—bread and butter, and a small jug of water. Without speaking, he placed it on a table by the opposite wall.
They watched each other for a long moment, neither moving, neither speaking. With a long sigh, he finally shook his head, walked to the edge of the bed—their bed—and sat down. “I am not going to hurt you.”
“You are a wraith.”
“Lich.” He smirked, but the expression did not reach the hardness in his eyes. “There is a difference. I had hoped to teach those designations to you. I hope I still can.”
Trying not to panic, she took in a slow breath and let it out. She believed him that he did not wish to hurt her. If he wanted her dead or maimed, he would have likely done it already. But he was a monster. And there was one burning question in her mind that would quickly settle whether or not he was her enemy. “Am I now your prisoner?”
Silence.
He nodded once.
At least he was honest with her. At least he did not try to claim this was anything else. She respected him for that. He was still a murderous, evil, inhuman “lich,” but she could respect his honesty.
Those silver eyes of his slid shut. “You were going to let those men have you.” There was such defeat in his voice, such sadness, that she could not help but suddenly feel…guilty for what she had nearly done. Not just that, but shame.
Clenching her fists, she tried to hold on to her dignity. “I had no choice. Nothing else with which to barter.”
“So you said.” He opened his eyes again and shifted his attention down to his lap. He turned his palms up, as if pondering his own existence. “As a man, I am jealous. As your husband, I am furious. But in all other ways, I cannot fault you. In your position, with your gender, I do not think I would have acted differently.”
That was a vision I never needed.Any other day, perhaps she would have laughed. Instead, she forced the tension out of her limbs as best she could. “You murdered everyone.”
“Yes. I did.”
“Simply to block off my path to escape.”