“He has a type?” Now that he’d asked, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
She shrugged. “I just figured he had a kink for the more submissive types. You don’t look like you’d bend for anyone. No offense.”
The two men eyed him warily, but not without their own kind of interest, probably assessing where best to stick a dagger.
“I don’t intend on staying.”
She laughed again and turned to the two men. “He thinks this is an inn! He’s so special, he can leave any time.” Her good humor vanished and Josephine’s hooded eyes spoke of more than her words ever could. “Try the door and you’ll find it locked. The steel bars at the windows are fixed in place. The only way out of here is in a casket. The Cavilles own you now.”
He slept restlessly that night with Josephine’s words haunting his dreams—or were they memories? Around and around the images flew, a spinning vortex pulling him under. Cold, dead hands jutting from mounds of the dead. Rivers of blood. Silent killers moving through the dark. Curved blades glinting in the moonlight.
He snapped open his eyes. His heart pounded. Slick sweat soaked his skin, sticking the thin sheet to him. The killers in his dreams weren’t here. They were far away, on the borders. The war was over. There was peace between the races. Because King Caville had surrendered too soon.
One lone candle illuminated the dark, and there, in the shadows, he saw them. Figures moved like smoke, silent as they leaned over each cot, smothering the mouths of their sleeping victims, and drawing their deadly curved blades across their throats. Elves. Here. Impossible.
Blood scented the air, made it wet and heavy. He couldn’t move. His body refused to obey. Thoughts came fast, demanding he run. There was no escape. The windows were barred; the only door, behind them. Closer they crept, no more substantial than ghosts.
The single candle snuffed out.
Niko jolted awake a second time, this time for real, gasping back into cruel reality in time to see candlelight lick off a blade raised above his chest.
With the dream still fresh in his head, he grabbed the wrist and rolled, twisting his attacker on top of him. The man grunted. Niko locked a hand around his throat and squeezed. The knife clattered to the floor. Niko had him now, and he would not escape. Someone screamed. The elf could not be allowed free, because it would kill and kill and kill and never stop—that was what they were. Monsters in the night. Monsters the Cavilles had invited into their land.
A pair of new hands grabbed his arm. Someone else yelled at him. But he had the creature in his grasp, and he’d never stop. Damn the elves for taking everything, for ruining it all. Damn them for taking Marcus, leaving behind his hollow, heartless corpse. They always took the hearts. Every single fallen soldier had lost his heart. Niko hadn’t died like the others, but after finding Marcus’s body, he’d lost his own heart.
A blow to the side of his head almost tore the consciousness out of him. He still had hold of the attacker. He’d never let go, not until it was dead. He’d kill them all if he had to. For Marcus. For revenge. The man’s mouth gaped, his lips blue, his fingers clawing at Niko’s grip.
Screams and hollers, then someone rammed a cloth over Niko’s nose and mouth, and the world came undone in front of his eyes, unspooling and falling free. He fell with it, lost to the ravages of his own mind.
He woke in chains.
The guard who came to collect him wasn’t Julian, and they weren’t taking him into the palace, but outside into its courtyard where a colorful crowd stood fanning themselves beneath unrelenting sunlight.
His mouth tasted bitter, his throat was thick, and his head throbbed. He recalled the dream and more, wincing at the feel of the man’s neck in his grip. There hadn’t been any elves in that room. Just criminals and one had tried to attack him. Fuck if he knew why. Maybe to get back at Vasili. Maybe they always attacked the new one. Was the man dead? Had Niko killed him? Another life slipped through his fingers?
And now he was on his knees on a wooden stage, chained to metal loops so he couldn’t flee, squinting into the sun with sweat dripping down his back.
“Fifteen lashes,” Vasili said. Niko searched for him among the people and saw only strangers’ faces peering back at him. Was this some kind of nightmare, an extension of those haunting him through the night? The sun on his face, the boards beneath his knees, it didn’t feel real.
The first lash struck before he’d had time to brace. He barked a cry, falling forward onto his hands. The second lash landed too fast after the first, ripping a second cry from him. He almost buckled completely—the shock was more vicious than the lashes.
“Slower,” Vasili ordered. “We might as well enjoy it if we have to stand in this wretched heat.”
Niko’s thoughts spun. His back blazed, and the flogger came down again. This time he barred the cry behind gritted teeth. And when the fourth lash landed, he barred that one too, swallowing it as he willed his body to relax. Fighting the whip-blows was useless, but he could lessen them if his muscles relaxed. Retreating inside his head, he thought of the time he’d first met Marcus. Marcus had been the quiet sort, preferring to listen rather than talk. He’d listened to Niko, and then brushed his thigh in a way that suggested there was more between them than being brothers in blood. He’d been too kind for war; he would have made a good teacher.
Thoughts of Marcus lent Niko strength. Did these people think a whip could subdue him? They were all pretty, fragile fools. When the elves came—and they would—they’d tear through Loreen’s bejeweled high classes. Whipping a doulos achieved nothing. They should turn their spite on the enemy.
Blood soaked through Niko’s thin shirt and dripped on the timbers beneath him. He took another blow, quivering in the heat and sweat and blood. This time, when he looked up, he found the prince dressed in black among the colorful crowd. Vasili didn’t smile, just stared back and watched unblinking as every blow landed.
There were others here. Other royals, gentlemen and ladies with titles to hide behind. Prince Amir smiled as though he were watching some humorous performance. He leaned across to speak with his brother, but Vasili didn’t hear, or deliberately ignored him. All Vasili’s attention was drilled into Niko. Niko twitched and breathed and thought of better people in better places than this, because these lashes would end. All pain ended, one way or another.
The lashings finally stopped. Niko’s teeth chattered, his body a trembling wreck, but he was conscious. Vasili nodded and promptly left as the guards unchained Niko from the loops. As he was unceremoniously dragged from the square, Amir’s sly gaze caught his eye. The prince licked his lips like he’d just tasted something delicious, something he desired, and wanted more.
Chapter 5
He didn’t see any royals for the ten days it took for his back to heal enough that moving didn’t immediately make him want to drop to his knees and heave his guts up. He’d spent many of those days lost to fever, but the palace healers had brought him back quickly from the worst of it, and had done a grand job of covering the weeping wounds until they’d scabbed over.
He was almost relieved to see Julian when he finally arrived to escort him through the palace. It seemed likely he’d return Niko to the doulos chambers, and if Josephine and the others hadn’t wanted to kill him before, they would now he’d tried to kill one of their own.