Unable to contain her boiling rage, Talia snatched a pillow and hurled it at him.
“If you have something to say, just say it! Stop torturing me!”
The feather-stuffed cushion hit the back of his head with a dull thud. Varkas, who had been unstopping medicine jars along the shelf to examine them one by one, cast a cold glance over his shoulder.
Talia shrank back, pressing hard against the headboard. She tensed, bracing for whatever retaliation he might bring, but Varkas merely exhaled a quiet breath and dropped to one knee beside the bed.
“Give me your hand.”
Talia could only blink, dumbfounded. He took her hand, drawing it into the light. Her palm was swollen and angry red.
Tsk. Clicking his tongue, Varkas poured a viscous salve across her skin. The sudden sting made her try to jerk away, but his grip on her wrist was unyielding. She could not budge an inch.
She glared down at him, irritation burning in her eyes.
“What do you think you’re doing?!”
“It is an ointment for bruises.”
His answer was flat as he smoothed the salve evenly across her palm.
The bizarre sensation made Talia’s toes curl. Every stroke of his long, shapely fingers over her tender skin sent a shiver straight through her. Heat crept up to the tips of her ears, and she wrenched at her arm again.
“Th-that is enough.”
“Hold still.”
His bass voice dropped lower than usual, sending a chill prickling down her neck.
She watched him with uneasy eyes, then looked away. His fingers slowly traced the faint creases of her palm.
Could this truly be just tending a wound?
The deliberate care with which he stroked every contour of her palm felt unsettlingly intimate.
“There are marks on your wrist as well.”
His tone deepened further. Her throat tightened, and it took effort just to swallow.
Why her heart had suddenly shrunk in on itself, she could not fathom.
Stealing a look at him, Talia braced her muscles and yanked her wrist free from his hand.
“That is plenty. Get out of my room.”
She turned her back to lie down, but in the next breath, he seized her and flipped her around to face him.
Talia stared up, startled. Looming over her, Varkas asked in a hard voice, “Why did you go to the banquet hall today?”
Her features twisted.
So that was why he was so furious. Goaded by spite, Talia snapped, “Why? Am I forbidden from setting foot there?”
· · ·
“You told me yourself that I hold the highest station in this castle. So why do you want me locked away like a prisoner?”
“…You were the one who refused to show your face before others.”
“Do you honestly not know why I refuse?”
The bitterness she had kept choked down surged to the surface.
Shoving hard at his shoulder, Talia drew her knees up to her chest and glared at him with pure blame.
“It is because I have been reduced to this!”
A dark shadow settled over his gaze. Talia yelled into those eyes like a creditor demanding payment for an old debt.
“Even if I am ashamed of myself, you have no right to be! Just because I wish to hide does not give you leave to bury me out of sight!”
The corded muscles in his neck strained. His expression was a wall of forced patience, and seeing him endure her presence like an unbearable trial only dug deeper into her wound.
Talia grabbed the other pillow and struck him with it. Varkas’s eye twitched slightly. She rained blows against his face, spewing venom with every strike.
“You ask why I went to that hall? I went to hear with my own ears what you lot were saying about me! I had to know what is in store so I can find a way to stay alive! That is why I had to crawl in wrapped in a cloak like a filthy rat instead of wearing a proper gown!”
He caught the incoming pillow mid-swing and pinned her back against the mattress. Under the force of his hands, the thin seams ruptured, and a spray of white feathers burst into the air.
Talia stared up at the swirling down drifting like snow, her chest heaving with ragged breaths.
Varkas trapped her wrists against the sheets, his gaze black and heavy. His suppressed voice fell right between her eyes.
“I understand your meaning well enough.”
Drawing in a measured breath, he spoke with deliberate calm: “The succession ceremony will be held in a matter of days. At that gathering, I will formally present you as the Grand Duchess of the East.”
The hair rose along Talia’s neck. Whether it was the terror of the fate closing in on her or the presence of the man pinned atop her, she could not tell.
He brushed aside a damp strand of hair clinging to her cheek and added, his tone softening only a fraction,
“Until then, stay quiet.”
She kept her lips clamped together, glaring at him with bloodshot eyes. A stray down feather drifted onto his broad shoulder. Brushing it away with a brief motion, Varkas rose to his feet.
Before long, the heavy latch clicked shut. Talia stared blankly at the empty space beside the bed, then pulled the coverlet entirely over her head.
In the wake of that brutal welcome, a suffocating tension settled over Raedgo Castle.
The maids, once rigid and dismissive, now treaded as if walking on thin ice. Whenever she set foot into the corridors, the guards snapped their chins down and held their breath.
Word had evidently spread that mistreating the Second Princess was a sure way to invoke the wrath of the young master.
It was a misunderstanding born from the death of the vassal who had dared insult her. In truth, that brute had merely paid the price for challenging the heir of the Grand Ducal seat, but Talia saw no reason to correct anyone’s illusions.
Being feared was far safer than being seen as defenseless. The moment you fawned or humbled yourself to win scraps of kindness, they ground you beneath their boots. That was the law of the world, learned through years of survival.
“I need nothing from you. Leave me be and get out.”
Talia flicked a dismissive hand while turning the page of her book.
The maids lingering by the doorway traded hesitant looks. When servants who would ordinarily scurry away on command stood rooted in place, her tone hardened.
“Did you not hear me tell you to leave?”
“Your Highness, the succession ceremony is set for this afternoon.”
The head maid spoke with an unyielding, sober countenance. Talia’s eyes widened.
“Already?”
Varkas had said it would take place within days, yet she had never imagined he would force the rite through before a single week had passed.
Her blood ran cold, and she swung her feet over the side of the bed.
“Where is Varkas now?”
“The young master is in conference with the High Priest who will preside over the rite. Once they conclude their preparations for the liturgy, the ceremony will begin at once.”
Talia’s brows drew together.
“Why am I only being told this now?!”
“It was the young master’s strict command that word should not reach Your Highness until the day itself.”
The head maid let the words fall like an exhausted sigh.
Talia’s face twisted. She knew exactly what calculations had led to that order.
He expected her to bolt or vanish into thin air. Whenever confronted with something she refused to face, slipping away had always been her instinct. Even now, the impulse surged fiercely. She looked out the window, every nerve screaming at her to flee. But the head maid spoke up, her voice softening into a cajoling hum.
“There is still time. There is no need for Your Highness to be unsettled.”
Talia pinned her with a restless glare before murmuring in defeat,
“What am I supposed to do?”
“We have laid out the traditional ceremonial robes of the East for Your Highness.”
With an imperceptible sigh of relief, the head maid stepped back. Broad-shouldered servants filed in, carrying armfuls of vibrant garments stiff with ornate embroidery.
“As these garments will be unfamiliar to the attendants from the capital, we ask that you permit us to assist your dressing this afternoon.”
END