“What are we doing with him?” asked Rachelle.
“Annoying as it is—if we can stop the news getting out that he was involved, we’ll probably keep him the same way as before, because he’s just so useful. And unfortunately, nobody has yet implicated the Bishop.”
“I can’t guard him again,” she said.
Erec stepped closer. His fingertips brushed her cheek. “Oh, my dear lady,” he said. “Did you start to trust him?”
“No,” Rachelle snapped.
Start was such a short, small word for all the trust she’d given him. She hadn’t realized how much she’d trusted him until now—now when he hated her, when the memories of him were stuck beneath her skin like needles and poison.
“You can’t blame me,” Erec went on reasonably. “I didn’t tell you to be so kind to him.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m only saying—”
Rachelle grabbed the back of his head and kissed him, as savagely as her forestborn had once kissed her.
Erec kissed her back, and then at last the memories fled away. It was like fighting—not because of how fiercely he was kissing her, but because the world narrowed down to a single white-hot moment where she couldn’t think, couldn’t remember, could only feel and react. When he finally released her, she staggered back a step.
And the memories were there again. She could still see Armand looking at her. It wasn’t enough.
“Eloquent, but hardly informative. What are you trying to tell me? Is something wrong?” He raised an eyebrow, unruffled as ever.
Rachelle’s heart was pounding. Her body was a clanging discord of hate and grief and raw desire. She’d told herself again and again that she had too much pride to give in to Erec. But what was the use of pride? She was just the king’s mad dog, kept on a leash until she grew dangerous enough to kill. She was just the scraps from the Devourer’s table, useful for killing him but never beloved.
Too much of a coward to face what you’ve done.
It was true. She still liked to believe there was something honorable about her. There wasn’t. She didn’t deserve to have anything good.
If there was something good in her, she would tear it up right now.
“What’s wrong,” she said, her voice low but clear, “is that I’m wearing clothes and you’ve stopped kissing me.”
She really must have surprised him, because he was silent a moment before he laughed and said, “Love me or hate me, you’re never subtle. But you can’t expect me to stop and start at your demand.” He traced her cheek with a fingertip. “Maybe I don’t feel like enjoying you now.”
“Yes, you do,” said Rachelle. “You are desperate for me.” Her fingers wrapped around his. “You belong to me, just like I belong to you.”
His mouth curved upward. The next moment he pinned her to the wall; Rachelle’s body shivered with something not quite fear, not quite desire.
“You’re right,” he said. “You belong to me, and I don’t let go of what’s mine. But I still want to hear you say the words.” He leaned down till their noses were almost touching. “Tell me what you want, my lady.”
She could feel his breath against her face. He was so close, and she was so tired of pretending there was anything right about her.
“I will take your damned ruby,” she said. “But I won’t beg. And if you want me, you can stop talking and make me stop thinking. Or I leave now.”
For a single, jagged instant, she thought he might refuse. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or hope that pounded through her heart.
Then he grinned. “I will hold you to that, my lady,” he said, and kissed her again.
Erec kept his word. He stopped talking, and she stopped thinking.
But later—much later, when they lay tangled in his bed—Rachelle stared out at the darkness and couldn’t sleep and couldn’t stop thinking. She could feel Erec’s breath against the back of her neck, his arm around her waist. His skin against hers. It didn’t seem real, and yet she could remember everything they had done with perfect clarity.
She had resisted him for so long. She realized now that she had thought she would somehow stop existing if she finally gave in. Certainly her mother had always given her that impression when talking about girls who lost their virtue.
But Rachelle should have known better. She was bloodbound, after all, and being bloodbound meant knowing how easily I could never turned into Yes, I will.
Once upon a time, she would have sworn that she’d rather die than make a covenant with the forestborn, because if she did such an evil thing, she wouldn’t be herself anymore. Then she had discovered that her true self was quite willing to do any evil thing so long as she could live.
She had, all along, been a girl who was willing to sleep with Erec d’Anjou. It had just taken her three years to admit it. And admitting it hadn’t allowed her to escape anything, because she could still remember Armand, and her eyes stung with useless, helpless tears as she remembered.