The King's Pleasure (2 page)

The door shut loudly behind the king. Even though his chambers were cavernous, the rooms shrank as the man in front of her seemed to fill every available bit of space with the power of his presence.

As he looked her over, she almost wished she hadn’t been such a coward. She might have survived having her hand cut off, and the king wouldn’t have been dragged out of bed. He would never have been the wiser about her foolish mission. But it hadn’t just been about her. Her family was home waiting for something to eat. Now they’d have nothing except worry about what became of her.

“Come, let’s get you cleaned up.” His voice was gentle, like one might speak to a stray cat or a wounded bird, not what she’d expected at all.

He led her to a large bathroom. It seemed odd that he’d do this himself, rather than send her off to some servant to be bathed and groomed for him. But maybe it was the lateness of the hour that had him taking care of the chore instead, though he’d had no problem waking the cook.

“Abigail?” he prodded.

“Yes, Your…I mean…Master?”

“Don’t look so terrified. Surely the life I can provide you is much better than the one you had. You’ll have running water, electricity, fine clothes and perfume and jewels, plenty of food, and a secure roof over your head. Most women only fantasize about being in your position.”

Abigail doubted that. Maybe if she hadn’t been caught stealing from him, if she was fair-skinned and had been selected at some ceremony from a collected group of clean and eligible women from the kingdom. But not like this. He would show his monstrous side soon enough. Then he’d get rid of her and build his real harem. She was surprised he didn’t have one yet. Why would he start with her?

She stood in the bathroom with her arms wrapped protectively around herself as he ran water in the tub, adding rich, fragrant oils and rose petals from a bowl nearby.

“Disrobe and shower the dirt off first.” He pointed to the enclosed glass at the far side of the space. She looked down at the tiled floor to discover she was tracking dirt all over his bathroom, but he didn’t seem to care.

“Servants will clean that. Do as I say.”

She hesitated for a moment, her hands frozen at the hem of the dirty dress. Abigail wasn’t sure if the garment could even properly be called a dress. It was a brown piece of shapeless fabric that covered her, with an old rope tied around the waist to give some attempt at adding shape or showing that she had one—something more than a rectangular blob of humanity.

If she’d been a full gypsy, she’d be in a colorful dress with sparkling jewelry. She would have lived in a caravan at the edge of the kingdom and would have danced and performed with the other women for coins in the street. She would have stolen—with expert precision—anything she needed. The gypsies were dancers and illusionists, and they often used their illusion to take what few would give them freely.

Abigail’s dad was the gypsy of the family, the source of her olive complexion, the striking strength of her features, and her glossy, black hair. When he’d married outside the clan, he’d been banished from the tribe. Now she and her family could live in neither world. Gypsies and non-gypsies alike hated them, wishing they’d just die off and stop being such a nuisance.

“Abby.”

She looked up sharply, shocked the king had shortened her name. Of course, he could call her whatever he wanted, it was just unexpected. It was what her family called her. She’d used her more formal name to put distance between herself and the situation she’d fallen into.

“Yes, Master?”

“Now. It’s no time to be shy. I’ll be careful with you your first time.”

She winced. It wouldn’t be her first time, and when there was no blood on the sheets, he’d know as well. Somehow she didn’t think he’d appreciate the fact that she wasn’t a virgin. Far from it. As sexually permissive as the kingdom was, there were still rules. Rules that were so unspoken and accepted that he’d just assumed her purity despite the logical likelihood that she was far removed from her virginity. Women groomed for the king’s use got used by the king first.

She knew she must tell him the truth. If she didn’t and he found out, he’d feel made a fool of. If she pleased him enough, he might change his mind about whatever awful end he’d planned for her. He might even let her go back to her family. But those odds were long if she lied by omission.

“I-I’m not a virgin.” She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for his reaction, waiting for the illusion of mercy to evaporate. She flinched when she felt his warm hand resting softly on her cheek.

“Then why are you so shy?”

Abigail opened her eyes, surprised when she found no anger in his features. He didn’t seem to care about the matter one way or the other.

Of course he would assume general shyness and nothing more. How could he understand the swirl of emotions running through her? After all, he was the king. He was rich, powerful, and beautiful. His hair was a golden blond that made him look like a god straight from Mt. Olympus. His eyes were gray, but instead of being cold, like she’d expect from such a color, they were warm and kind. Had his eyes been like that the whole time tonight? She hadn’t dared to look into them, too afraid of the disgust and loathing she might find. Was there a chance it wasn’t a trick?

She shrugged in response to his question. “I’m afraid you might not be pleased by what you see.” It was the first thing she’d thought to say, but there was a measure of truth locked inside the words. She was afraid of doing anything to add to any abuse he might heap on her simply for not being fair like the acceptable members of Himeros. She’d been reminded on a daily basis almost since birth of just how unacceptable she was, a stain on the kingdom that no one could wash out.

“I’m sure that won’t be the case.” The king brushed the pad of his thumb against her cheek. It was such a sweet, intimate gesture that she sucked in a breath and allowed herself to have the fantasy for just a moment. What if he really meant it? What if he really wanted her?

Selfish, Abigail. So selfish.
Tears began to race down her cheeks. How could she enjoy a rich life in the castle while her family starved and died in the streets? She closed her eyes and took a shaky breath. Right now her only concern had to be making sure the king didn’t regret his choice to spare her from the guard’s blade.

She gripped the hem of the fabric and pulled it over her head. As the cloth hit the ground, she looked up, self-conscious. He stared intensely for a moment, so intensely that she felt far more innocent than she was. It took all her willpower to refrain from covering herself from his gaze, but he wouldn’t like such an overt display of willfulness or modesty. It didn’t fit with the local culture and it would be another reminder of how alien she truly was to him. After a few minutes, he nodded his approval and pointed again to the glass door.

A fresh bar of lavender and oat soap sat on the shelf in the shower. She’d never seen one before—the shower, not soap. She’d seen soap. Only the richest people in the kingdom had running water. She’d never seen running water, aside from the fountains outside the castle, but that had been more decorative than functional.

Words were scrawled above the handle on each side of the faucet. Abigail guessed it told people which side was hot and which was cold, but she couldn’t read the words to know for sure. She tested each side and fiddled with the handles until she found the right temperature. It was another indication of how different she was from the types of women kings usually took for their harems. On top of everything else, they were formally educated. The only category she fit neatly into was beauty. She may be poor, but she’d seen the way men looked at her.

She lathered up and watched the dirt and grime as it swirled down the drain. God, she was disgusting. All that dirt. It was like she never bathed. She did, in fact. It was just that she’d been out all day and into the night. She’d tried several methods of acquiring food, from searching through the forest, to looking for an easier mark to steal from. No good opportunities had presented themselves, and she’d been desperate. She’d been about to turn to prostitution—assuming she could beguile a man in such a state—when she’d seen a back gate to the castle had been left open for a late night delivery.

It had been insane and suicidal, but she knew if any place had food, it would be the castle, and surely they wouldn’t miss a few loaves of bread, not with so much available to eat. If she could pass through undetected…but then it hadn’t happened that way. The second her hand had touched the bread, a bright spotlight had flicked on, bathing her in a frighteningly unnatural light.

Only the castle and the highest nobles had electric lights. To everyone else, the technology was forbidden. The power of the humming electric light had dazed her for a moment, and she almost got caught by the guard.

She’d quickly gotten hold of herself and darted through the castle, hoping to lose her pursuer in the maze of hallways. Inside, electricity had been abandoned for the older torchlight. With the high, stone walls and good ventilation, the torches posed no problems to the air they breathed. It had felt more familiar, and in that familiarity, she’d found a burst of speed. But it hadn’t been fast enough or soon enough to elude him.

Abigail shut the water off and opened the door, cool air hitting her and jolting her back to the present moment, a decidedly better moment than the one with the guard. For now at least.

“You’ll find a towel to your left.”

She blushed and took the towel off the hook. The shower door was a crystal clear glass that left nothing to the imagination. He’d stood and watched each drop of water as it slid over her curves, pressing into all the places his hands would soon stroke. She wrapped the towel around her and looked down, trying to avoid the penetration of his gaze. When she was dry, she made her way over to the tub and got in, never raising her eyes to his.

The fragrances coming off the water were a blend of jasmine, rose, and gardenia, with a touch of sandalwood. She’d been exposed to each of these smells on the few occasions she’d been allowed inside the perfumery, when the shopkeeper’s son, Bryant, had worked. Inevitably, after only a few whiffs of perfumes, his father had shooed her out.

But she’d kept coming back. Eventually, she’d lost her virginity to Bryant, and in return he’d taught her about perfume and what each scent was. Like her mother, he wasn’t afraid of the gypsies and seemed intrigued by Abigail’s exotic background and looks.

She’d had no illusions they would marry, but he’d been a nice break from the cold reality of her life. He’d intended to teach her to read when the shopkeeper had found out and sent him away to another city, presumably on business. Abigail suspected Bryant would have been disinherited if he’d kept the relationship going. The last thing she wanted was for him to end up like her, on the fringes of society, barely tolerated even as a beggar.

The king pulled up a stool to sit and brush her hair. It was such an intimate gesture; the menial nature of the task seemed far beneath royalty. It felt so wrong that it took all her willpower not to pull away. She could barely remember the last time someone had brushed her hair. She’d been a small child. Five, maybe six. In some ways she felt like that again: small, vulnerable, but also cared for. She hoped it would last.

The dizzying smells and warmth from the bath and the softness of the rose petals as they drifted against her skin made her believe the king wasn’t like his father. If his intention was to harm her, he would have ordered her into the shower, then thrown her down and had his way with her. He wouldn’t be sitting beside the tub brushing her hair, using the good oils in her bath. Even Abigail knew that much.

She sighed and sagged against the tub, finally letting the last bits of anxiety slide out of her. Then she thought of her family again, and the tears came back.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” His voice was a deep sound she could happily listen to for eons as it rumbled over her.

“I know.” It wasn’t a lie. Somehow she
did
know. “It’s my family. They’ll be worried. They’re waiting for me to bring food.”

“Don’t fret about them. I’ll take care of it.”

Abigail tensed again, but there was nothing sinister in his tone. A knock sounded on the main chamber door, shattering her thoughts. The king left her alone, and she leaned against the tub, taking in her surroundings.

Candles lined the walls, but all of them were unlit. Abigail stretched and looked at the designs on the ceiling and the light-colored stone of the walls around her. Cool air blew inside through a vent. Only the rich had the power or the right to control the temperature of the air indoors. It felt obscene and decadent, as if they were playing god by overcoming the power of the weather.

The king returned several minutes later and held out a robe. “Dinner is here.”

In her fear and panic, Abigail’s hunger had briefly disappeared. Now it came back as an angry gnawing feeling that seemed to climb out of her stomach all the way up to claw at the back of her throat, demanding satisfaction. The feeling made her light-headed, and she had trouble standing on her own.

“Careful now,” he said, grabbing her elbow to steady her. His touch on her arm felt strong and stable. Despite the situation, it felt like safety. If she could stay on his good side, she was convinced nothing could ever harm her. She wanted to feel his powerful arms around her. She wanted to feel shielded from the outside world for the first time, cocooned in the peace and warmth of the castle.

She hid the unexpected flood of emotion at such a simple gesture with a weak smile as she stepped out of the tub, and the moment dissipated like the steam rising off the water.

She gratefully put on the robe. The king pulled the plug on the water and headed back into the main room. Abigail trailed behind him, trying not to linger in the memory of his touch.

She shouldn’t long so deeply for his hands to be on her, should she? In person, he seemed so counter to all she’d heard about him. She’d expected him to be vicious and ruthlessly violent, but the way he’d been with her had been a tempered, gentle kind of strength. It was hard to reconcile that image with the way he’d been in war.