Dionne
The darkness in my tiny room felt suffocating when I woke. No windows meant no natural light, no way to tell if dawn had actually broken or if I'd woken too early in my panic.
I couldn't risk being late.
My body protested as I pushed myself upright, every muscle felt stiff and it ached slightly. The thin blanket had done little to ward off the cold that seeped through the stone walls, and I'd spent most of the night shivering, unable to find any position that didn't make something hurt.
But physical discomfort was nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest when I thought about my baby. Had she cried herself to sleep? Did she understand why I wasn't there? The questions had circled through my mind all night, keeping me from any real rest.
I splashed cold water on my face from the basin, wincing as my hands brushed against my swollen cheek. My reflection in the small, tarnished mirror showed a stranger with hollow eyes and bruised skin. I looked away quickly, tying my hair back with shaking fingers.
The instructions from last night echoed in my head. Sarah, one of the serving girls who had attended the King in the past, had pulled me aside before I'd returned to his chambers. Her voice had been low and urgent as she'd explained what would be expected of me.
"The bath needs to be exactly forty-two degrees. Not hotter, not cooler. Test it with your elbow three times to be sure. Lay out two towels on the rack, folded in thirds. Put his robe on the hook by the door. Don't forget the soap, the one in the glass container is his favorite, not the others."
My hands had been shaking then too as I'd written it all down on a scrap of paper she'd given me. Now, standing in the dimness of my room, I pulled that paper from my pocket and read through it again, even though I'd memorized every word.
I had to get this right. I couldn't afford another mistake.
Taking a deep breath that did nothing to steady my nerves, I opened the door to the narrow corridor connecting my room to his chambers. I shivered slightly, noting how much colder his chambers was compared to mine.
The sitting room was dimly lit by a single lamp. And he was there, standing by the window with his back to me.
The smell hit me first.
Blood. Fresh and metallic, so strong it made my stomach turn. It soaked into the air, clung to everything, made it hard to breathe without tasting copper on my tongue.
His clothes were spattered with dark stains that looked black in the low light. His hands hung at his sides, and I could see more blood coating his fingers, dripping slowly onto the floor.
He had just fed very recently. The bodies were probably still warm wherever he had left them.
Terror froze me in the doorway. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to get away from this predator who'd just killed and was still riding that high. But I couldn't run. I had nowhere to go.
"Your Grace?" The words came out as barely a whisper.
He didn't turn around. Didn't acknowledge that he'd heard me at all.
I stood there, my heart hammering so hard I felt dizzy, unsure what to do. Should I speak again? Should I just start preparing the bath? What if I did the wrong thing?
Minutes crawled by. The only sound was my own ragged breathing ringing continuously in my ears.
Finally, I forced myself to move toward the bathroom. Maybe he expected me to just do my job without waiting for permission. Maybe speaking had been the mistake.
The bathroom was as cold as the rest of his chambers. I turned on the taps, watching steam rise as hot water began filling the large tub. My hands shook as I adjusted the temperature, testing it against my elbow over and over. Too hot. Still too hot. A little cooler. There.
I laid out the towels exactly as Sarah had described, folding them in perfect thirds. The robe went on the hook. The specific soap, the one in the ornate glass container that probably cost more than I'd earn in a year, went on the small table beside the tub.
Everything had to be perfect.
When I returned to the sitting room to announce the bath was ready, he still hadn't moved from the window. The blood on the floor had pooled slightly, forming a small dark circle that reflected the lamplight.
"Your Grace," I tried again, my voice barely audible. "Your bath is prepared."
Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.
Panic clawed at my throat. What was I supposed to do? If I left him alone, would he be angry that I hadn't properly informed him? If I spoke again, would that anger him too?
I stood there trembling, trapped between options that all felt wrong, until finally he turned.
His eyes were gold. Completely, utterly gold, with no trace of gray remaining. The beast was still there, still riding just beneath his skin, and looking into those inhuman eyes made every hair on my body stand on end.
He stared at me for a long moment that stretched into eternity. Then, without a word, he walked past me toward the bathroom.
Relief flooded through me so intensely my knees nearly buckled. He was going to bathe. I'd done something right. I thought about waiting in the sitting room until he was finished, maybe prepare his clothes for the day, anything to stay out of his way.
"Attend me." His voice came from the bathroom, sharp and irritated, like he couldn't believe I hadn't already followed.
Attend him. The words echoed in my skull as their full meaning settled over me like ice water.
Sarah's briefing hadn't included this. She had said nothing about being present during his bath. This couldn't be what he meant. It had to be something else.
"Now, Dionne."
My feet moved before my brain could catch up, carrying me toward the bathroom even as every instinct screamed to run the other way. The doorway felt like the entrance to my own execution.
He stood beside the tub, still in his blood-soaked clothes, watching me with those terrible gold eyes.
"Undress me."
The words punched the air from my lungs. My face burned with humiliation so intense it felt like fire spreading across my skin. This was worse than being collared, worse than being dragged to that auction house, worse than anything I'd endured because this required my participation in my own degradation.
"I'm waiting."
I approached on legs that barely supported my weight, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor because I couldn't look at him. Couldn't meet those eyes without breaking completely.
My hands reached for the buttons of his shirt, and the trembling made it nearly impossible to grip them properly. The fabric was stiff with dried blood, the scent overwhelming this close. I could feel heat radiating from his body, could hear his breathing just above my head.
The first button came free. Then the second. Each one felt like it took an eternity.
"Look at me while you work."
The command made fresh tears prick my eyes. I lifted my gaze slowly, terrified of what I'd see, and found him staring down at me with an expression I couldn't read. Those gold eyes tracked every movement, drinking in my discomfort like fine wine.
I fumbled the third button, my fingers slipping, and suddenly his hand shot out. His grip on my wrist was crushing, grinding the small bones together until I gasped in pain.
"Be more careful." He said sharply, pressing even harder on my hands, "If you can't manage something as simple as buttons, what use are you?"
"I'm sorry, Your Grace." The words came out choked.
He released my wrist and I forced myself to continue, peeling the blood-soaked shirt from his shoulders. His skin was marked with scars, some old and faded, others fresh and still healing. I tried not to look, tried not to see the evidence of violence written across his body, but it was impossible.
The shirt finally came free. My fingers moved toward the button of his pants and I felt my throat close up completely.
I couldn't do this. I couldn't.
His hand fisted in my hair without warning, yanking my head back with such force that my neck cracked. A cry of pain escaped before I could stop it.
He leaned down until his face was inches from mine, those gold eyes boring into me with such intensity I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but stare back in absolute terror.