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Chapter 19
Clara’s foul mood swirled around her in a fog of frustration. Not only did the air in her chamber hang thick and bitter over the pointless adornments and fluffed-up furniture of her supposed station, but it also burned the back of her nose and throat with the stinging truth of what she faced.
What she truly faced.
The eager morning sun had taken its liking to her quiet room for some reason, shining through the window with a cheerfulness that belied the sad realization of her circumstances. Another day, another dawning enlightenment that though she’d grown up under her father’s rule and spent her lifetime studying the manipulative maneuvers of his males, she simply couldn’t hack it when push came to shove.
Her wolf prowled about in her mind, just as restless. After their evening meal, Clara had said her goodbyes and bolted for her room, where she promptly locked herself away to shed hot tears of feminine embarrassment. The session hadn’t been an entire lost cause, however. Though low in number, there were a few moments of clarity where her wolf had calmed down to the point that Clara could sanely evaluate just where the encounter with Lord Raff had gone awry. Once she started there, she told herself that whatever brave new logic that had taken hold of her brain and had charted this course for her in the first place would surely come back around like a hired transport who’d left a passenger or two behind by mistake. Except it didn’t.
Clara walked to the floor-length mirror, her steps slow and ghostlike, afraid to encounter what would stare back at her. Was there something about her innate appearance that instinctively identified her as a dupe? This morning, she’d gathered her hair into a high ponytail before brutally securing the thing into the tightest bun imaginable, lest it prove to be the reason the two males currently holding the power did not take her seriously. Not a stitch of makeup touched her features, which wasn’t unusual, as she never cared much for the stuff. Surely, that would be less of a distraction, right? Less frivolity to lend to her form. Or would a sharp cat-eye slash of black eyeliner deliver a sharper statement to the males? If she recalled correctly, the ancient Egyptians were quite fond of kohl rimming their lids, as much to widen their eyes and command attention as it was to protect themselves from the sun.
Oh, nonsense. Clara could tattoo skulls and crossbones beneath her eyes and her father would likely not notice. Similarly, whether she wore skirts and sweaters or her preferred leather trousers and loosely tucked tops and tunics, she didn’t think her wardrobe would paint her as anything more than the foolish fraud she’d been labeled as at that dining table last night.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she huffed, swatting her reflection away and pulling a sleeveless emerald-green tunic over her long-sleeved white shirt. But as she pulled each wooden toggle through the small leather loops on her bodice, another tumultuous worry tugged back. Hard.
What if she couldn’t maneuver the pieces on the board the way she’d planned? Lord Raff was a ruthless sort, that much was clear. And her father seemed more than happy to fall in line with whatever the brute had in store. It was obvious the westerner had strength and command on his side. All her father had to bring to the arrangement was a bit of money, some arms, and a kingdom full of people tired and jaded enough to follow the hand that fed them.
The king, her own father, had no qualms about playing her like the pawn he no doubt imagined she fancied herself to be.
A pawn. Not a queen. Never that.
Even Bronze had proven that point so eloquently and in front of a foreign audience. She’d started so strong too and was prepared to fire back at her father’s decidedly intentional gloss-over of the games. And she’d done so. Boldly. Quickly. Gladly. But she hadn’t been prepared for Lord Raff’s tale or, perhaps, the warlord himself. No, his ruthlessness struck the heart of her emotions, for how could she abide suffering akin to what he’d described of the poor Anya? Clara would be no better than the hunters themselves if she didn’t feel some small semblance of remorse.
In the end, it was Bronze who had to step in and fielded the floor on her behalf while her stunned silence dragged her back to the starting gate. For any other person, his interference would have been a blessing. For her, it was just another brutal reminder of why she’d sought him out in the first place. Her plan had always been one of manipulation, hadn’t it? Bronze should have been nothing more than a game token to move around the board as she saw fit. A smiling shield and witty mouthpiece for her to govern her people through once they were mated.
But he had been there for her and had publicly raised his voice against those in power who sought to silence her. It was, in every sense of the word, heroic. Then why did she feel as if, in saving her, he’d only succeeded in humiliating her in other ways?
Do not think about his mouth on you or what his hands pulled from your body.
That, too, had been the other reason for her sleepless night. Somewhere between being ushered into that medical suite under his strong arm and brazenly baring herself to what his skill wrought, there had been a quiet sense of, yes, completion but also happiness. A light and airy joy she’d not known before, one that wouldn’t see her miserable for the sake of the greater good. Instead, he’d only seen to her comfort, her requests, and that was only after she’d made the rash decision to finally chase what both she and her wolf wanted for once in their lives.
Ugh, did she want more of Bronze? Was that at the root of what had kept her up last night? It would be a massive problem if she did. An error of catastrophic proportions.
It didn’t help that she excelled far more at making errors than fixing them.
Clara wrenched the door open and made her way toward breakfast, though she was loath to return to the scene of her mortification and wondered how she’d feel if her and her father’s situations were reversed. Could she truly be the one to shame another so publicly if it meant her end goal would be achieved? Would that be who she needed to become? A ruthless, heartless, manipulating deviant with no moral compass except for what rang true in her mind, regardless of the consequences? Would she need to continue that ruse with Bronze and manipulate him into the player her people needed?
Boy, did she need a coffee and perhaps one of those extra-buttery croissants the cook prepared when her father wasn’t keeping tabs on the butter stores. Anything to prevent her mind from trying to balance out the scales of the mess she’d gotten herself into.
The struggle continued to bumble around her brain while her stride—and stomach, thankfully—led her safely toward her destination. A few rooms down from the staff’s quarters, a door swung open, and Bronze spilled out into the hallway, looking far more perturbed than she’d seen him the night before. Back then, his tight features had shown a cheerful restraint, as if what was happening in front of him didn’t matter, because he was happily going about murdering someone in his mind. Now, however, his face was drawn, downcast, with deep furrows pulling at the corners of his brows.
“Good morning,” she said.
He stalled out a bit, then turned around. “Oh, yeah. Good morning.”
“Are you well?”
“Sure. Peachy keen.”
“Your injuries have not healed fully, I take it?”
“Nah, they’re good. Bit slower than usual, but I’m all patched up.”
“That is good to hear.”
They walked in silence for a few beats, and Clara nervously nibbled at a cuticle, stalling for however many steps she could scrounge up before she’d have to face her father and Lord Raff again.
“So, uh, about last night . . .” Bronze said.
