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Her agreement was the best hope for her survival in that moment. That was all she had to do. All this was. One step after another. And at each one, she simply had to choose the path to surviving. To freedom. “Yes,” she breathed. And his magic coiled around her like the jaws of a wolf promising a beautiful death.
“Good,” he crooned.
That was not the word she would have chosen. But she was not dead—and so she had won this step in this very real game of chatura she now found herself playing. Exhaustion dragged through her, and she sagged against the stone.
At once, his hand was at her arm, steadying her. Her stomach swooped with the threat of his proximity as his citrus and musk scent washed over her. She pushed him away and stood, swaying slightly. They had an agreement—yet it did not mean she trusted him. She had let her guard slip over dinner, lulled by warmth, unthreatening conversation, more food than she had ever been allowed to eat, and a seemingly generous host, but she had since shown her hand. There was no way that his kindness was genuine and without motive. Or that he would trust her in the slightest after the stunt she had just pulled.
“You must be beyond exhausted. Come, rest.” Fear bloomed in her belly as her thoughts turned to sleeping arrangements. Would he expect payment for his hospitality? He knew she had no money and nothing else to offer, which meant… She knew what men wanted from women—the men at the inn, at least. She wouldn’t. She would fight him tooth and nail if he forced her.
“Come,” he repeated at her reluctance. “I have a spare bedchamber that you are welcome to use. No one else knows you are here, so you are safe tonight. I promise you.”
She blinked. That wasn’t what she had expected from this dangerous male. Am I safe from you? She did not dare to ask. No doubt the bedchamber had a latch on the door that would be equally as ineffective as the bathing room’s at keeping him at bay.
Dimitrius tsked. “Sleep in there, sleep on the floor out here. I care not. For your own safety, however, you may not leave my quarters, may I make that expressly clear. I can return you to the dungeons, if you find that a preferable option.” He smirked at her visible shudder, and those violet eyes drank her in. “I thought not. Come.”
She followed him in and he led her a short ways down a dimly lit panelled hallway. “This chamber is yours for the night. I shall not bother you, have no worry of that. Good night.”
“Wait,” she called, then swallowed, worried at her boldness.
Dimitrius turned and fixed her in an impassive stare, an eyebrow raised.
“There…” Harper took a deep breath. “I had a bracelet with me. A leather thing, old and worn, with a silver bead on it. It’s nothing much. It has no worth to any but I. I don’t suppose you have it?”
Dimitri narrowed his eyes. “Why do you want it?”
“It’s the only thing I have left of home.”
“Where did you come by it?”
“I’ve had it for as long as I can remember. Please, it really is worth nothing to anyone else. I don’t even think it’s real silver. May I have it back?”
“I shall see if I can find it. Perhaps.” He inclined his head and slipped down a corridor to what she presumed were his own quarters.
She walked to the bedchamber and opened the door. Harper swallowed, looking around. She doubted even Lord Denholme had chambers so fine. With a backwards glance at the empty living quarters, she slipped inside and shut the door behind her, before leaning against the cool wood and letting out a lengthy exhale. None of this seemed real anymore.
It was almost dark but for a few lamps dotted about, all of which contained small, bobbing faelights that cast the room in a faint, warm glow. Harper edged into the centre of the room and spun on the spot, taking in every detail of the wood panelled room as her toes scrunched in the furs beneath her feet. She looked down. It must have been a huge beast to almost cover the parquet floor, but its fur was as soft as a rabbit pelt.
Slowly, she approached the bed—a giant four-poster that shamed her rough, wooden pallet—and ran her fingers along silken oversheets, thick undercovers, plump pillows and cushions. It was hard to put a price on such luxury. Certainly more than she could have earned in ten lifetimes of eking out an existence in Caledan. It put a lump in her throat.
The room was hers. Again, her gaze flicked to the door. The image of Dimitrius between the sheets before her flashed through her mind. He terrified and attracted her in equal measure, and she was not entirely sure what to feel about that. She crushed the thought.
Trust… Do I trust him? she wondered. Not in her lifetime. Yet it was no prison, at least not the same one she had been in earlier that day, nor did she seem to be in mortal danger from Dimitrius. Another yawn threatened. She swayed with tiredness, but remained standing. What’s better? To knowingly sleep in the home of my enemy, or to collapse from exhaustion?
57
DIMITRI
He couldn’t sleep, though her light snores showed she had no such qualms. Exhaustion had finally taken Harper. Dimitri leaned against the doorframe, his eyes narrowed, watching the gentle rise and fall of the covers on Harper’s prone form. Despite their conversation, he still could not fathom how she came to be there, from Caledan to Pelenor, and the strange series of events, not the least of which was the Dragonheart’s bizarre destination.
Had he not seen the Mark of Saradon that she carried so preciously at the expense of any other treasure or talisman—and the only thing she had asked for to be returned to her—he would have said it could be nothing of his making. But with the mark of the infamous half-elf, and the elven blood running through her veins that marked her as different from all others in the non-magical realm of Caledan, there had to be an element of destiny within it all.
Why did it come to you? he silently asked her still form. Did it have something to do with Saradon? Perhaps because he had somehow recovered the relic when his magic had failed, the stone had found some form of Saradon’s likeness somewhere else. Did it have something to do with her tattered bracelet and the Mark of Saradon upon it? What did that mean far away in Caledan? It all seemed entirely impossible, yet there he was, grasping at the smallest explanation.
An enigma.
Was it his own miscalculation, or fate? He did not believe in chance. No, it was by some design that she of all individuals had found the Dragonheart, that she of all people had come to be there. The mystery of her consumed him. What an individual she was. He uttered a quiet laugh and shook his head. His spirit leaped at the challenge in her. He could do little else but wonder at her.
The first time he had seen her, he might have forgiven her misdemeanour to draw a bow with an arrow nocked in his very face. He had been so amused then by the defiance in her silver eyes. She might have not known his identity, but she had recognised him for the danger he was and she had not backed down. But now? Now, she knew precisely who he was, had seen—had tasted—his power, and still, it had not brought her, practically a mortal, to her knees begging for mercy.
