I should scream. The sound would be a raw, desperate expulsion of all the terror and humiliation coiling in my chest. But that would be a terrible, pathetic waste of my voice, and I am a Devensian.
I, Eliana Devensian, the sole daughter of Grand Duke Matthew Devensian, am bound. I am not bound by chains, but by the thick, unforgiving cords of an ornate velvet rope securing me to the sturdy oak chair. I am currently staring at the polished, imported leather of my riding boots. My silk gown pools uselessly around me. And I am on the verge of being murdered by my own fiancé, Heinley Briggs.
The room, our room in the Devensian summer manor, is drenched in the golden light of the late afternoon, mocking the scene of betrayal. He stands inches from me, his presence a heavy, suffocating weight, and by his side, draped across the ottoman I bought for his reading corner, is her. The mistress.
She is very pregnant, her belly swelling beneath a gown of cheap, shimmering emerald silk. Heinley is not even bothering to look at me. His steel-blue eyes, the eyes that once held my fascinated gaze, are now fixed solely on her. They are making out—a slow, sickening consumption of breath and skin—right here, in the chamber where he was supposed to pledge his future to me.
All I can do is observe. Observe the pregnant swell, the predatory intimacy, the careless cruelty of their indifference. All I can do is listen to the soft, wet sounds of their kiss, the occasional, possessive hum Heinley makes, and the heavy drag of the mistress's breathing.
If only I could turn back time. That is the only coherent thought slicing through the paralyzing terror. I wish I could avoid this connection, this catastrophe, but I am too late. This is my reality: bound, betrayed, and awaiting death.
*************
It all began a year ago, at the Royal Palace Memorial Service for Princess Melia, the late daughter of the Emperor, who died tragically young. Our family, the Devensians, never missed the event. It was a yearly affirmation of our loyalty and our prominence.
But that year, the palace halls held a different kind of solemnity for me. I saw him.
He was dressed in an elegant, flawlessly tailored navy-blue habit à la française, the deep color dramatically accentuating his lean, well-built figure and his light, almost startlingly fair complexion. He was talking easily with a group of men, yet his concentration was fractured. His steely blue eyes cast a brief, accidental glimpse in my direction.
He was flawless. A classical sculpture brought to life. Any lady in the room would fall head over heels for him. I, the notoriously reserved, highly selective Eliana Devensian, was no exception. What was his name? The question clawed at my composure. I had never encountered this man in any aristocratic salon or court gathering. I had no choice but to find out.
This was the most daring, most calculating act I had ever performed. I straightened the bodice of my gown, adjusted my breathing, poured a glass of champagne, and approached their group. I felt a compelling mixture of curiosity and a sudden, undeniable, possessive interest. He was my target. I absolutely had to have him.
I could already visualize the perfect Devensian ring glittering on my finger, presented by his hand. He was the most attractive, most politically neutral spouse candidate I had seen in years. Why would I let my fish escape the hook? If it's hooked, it's mine.
"Good day, gentlemen. I hope I am not bothering you." My voice, carefully modulated to sound charming and composed, cut through their private discussion.
He was in a group of five men. As soon as I spoke, all five turned, their eyes locking onto me. The other four men wore the predictable expression of a predator assessing its prey—the kind of look that always made me want to pour my champagne down their velvet vests. I, however, was fixated on my single, breathtaking objective.
"Good afternoon to you, Your Highness. Certainly, you are not bothering us," one of the men stated smoothly, bending his head nicely.
The rest bowed briefly, but my gaze remained locked on my target. I was inwardly dying to discover his name. His beautiful auburn hair, which was carelessly pulled back into a sloppy bun, sparkled like copper wire when the sun's reflection caught it. I couldn't help but admire his impossibly chiseled features. He noticed my excessive, prolonged gazing, and an unsettling smirk touched his lips.
I forced myself to engage in their conversation immediately, desperately trying not to appear obsessed or gauche.
"How is the hunt for the missing youngsters going, Sir Peterson?" I had to tread carefully, choosing a topic of public, royal interest. "Is there any change in the search?"
"There have been no fresh developments in the case of the missing children, Your Highness. The royal knights are currently investigating the border regions."
As I turned to face the man who had just answered my inquiry, I raised a challenging eyebrow. "And who could you be?"
He stepped forward, his eyes locking onto mine with unnerving intensity. He was not intimidated.
"Please accept my greetings, Your Highness. Heinley Briggs is my given name. I am the son of Marquess Harland Espada."
He then did the unthinkable. He came up behind me, grabbed my hand—my hand encased in a pristine satin glove—and bent down to press his lips firmly against the back of it. He was so confident, so utterly bold, that the others were taken aback, their murmurs ceasing instantly.
As soon as his lips touched my satin glove, I could feel my cheeks flood with heat, and a ridiculous, forbidden tingle raced across my skin. I had finally gotten his name, and his brazen confidence made him even more compelling. Organizing a marriage wouldn't be difficult, I rationalized, as long as I utilized my considerable charm correctly. He was impossibly gorgeous now that I was staring at him up close.
He glanced up at me, his blue eyes holding a hint of dark, mischievous intent, as though flirting with me, but I swiftly, perhaps too swiftly, drew my hand away. My reaction was uncalled for, an instinctive recoil from the sudden blaze of intimacy, and he seemed genuinely perplexed as he straightened up. Why did I fling myself into the water if I couldn't swim?
"Please pardon my impertinence, Lord Heinley," I said, covering my confusion with impeccable politeness. "If I may inquire, why is your surname different from the late marquess'?" I gently inquired, fascinated despite myself.
The other men stared at him with sharp, expectant interest, waiting for his response. I was intrigued as well; the puzzle of his presence demanded an answer.
He replied, his composure unnervingly serene, a twisted yet serene smile touching his lips. "It's because I'm his bastard kid."
The words landed like stones in the elegant silence of the palace.
"Oh, no surprise you weren't involved in any social activities before now," Sir Peterson remarked with his hand on his chin, completely unthinking.
I instantly regretted my curiosity. Heinley didn't appear at all at ease answering such an unexpected, sensitive inquiry, even with his practiced veneer of tranquility. Sir Peterson didn't seem to know his origins, which raised a new, uncomfortable question: how did Heinley get so close to the royal knights so quickly? He had chatted about their investigation so nonchalantly, as if he were a knight himself.
I took a small sip from my glass, my eyes returning to Heinley, who was now feigning a relaxed grin that was far too forced. Count Millan, Sir Andrew, and Baron Rogers, the other three men, mumbled nervously to themselves as if they had just overheard a dangerous secret.
"I sincerely apologize, Lord Heinley, for my erroneous inquiry," I said, my voice heavy with genuine contrition, seeing the faint but palpable shadow of distress behind his smile. "I genuinely hope I did not insult you in any way."
The four men were taken aback by my unsolicited apology. Heinley began to open his lips—"Your Gra—"
"Eliana, why are you apologizing?"
Behind me, an enraged, booming voice screamed, shaking the glassware on a nearby table. I looked around and saw the immense, intimidating figure of my father, Grand Duke Matthew Devensian, marching toward us, his face a thundercloud.
"Who among you has forced my daughter to apologize?"
Oh, how I desperately wished a sinkhole would simply open up and I could crawl in and conceal myself. Everyone in the court knew how overprotective, how aggressively paternal, my father was. I had done my best to interact with the men in front of me, no matter how much I made them uncomfortable, but my father's interference was legendary.
My beloved, terrifying father kept staring at me. It was then, over my father's shoulder, that I saw Heinley smiling differently—a secret, dark amusement that hadn't been there a few minutes before. He found the drama intensely entertaining.
"No one made Her Highness unhappy, Grand Duke Matthew. We're just talking to your lovely daughter," Count Millan stammered, quickly placing his glass on a tray carried by a passing server.
"You fool! You think I don't see how impolite you are with the ladies?" My father turned around, his features softening miraculously, and tenderly stroked both of my flushed cheeks. "Did these terrible bastards do or say anything horrible to you, my angel?"
The Count shuddered, practically lunging to request another glass of red wine. Sir Peterson and the other three were clearly entertained by the performance of a parent being overdramatic and powerful. I caught a glance of Heinley and noted how hard he was trying to hide his laughter, his eyes dancing with mischief. He was undeniably attractive in his dangerous amusement.
"It's quite the contrary, Papa," I stated firmly, placing both of my hands on his, stopping his tirade. "I was the one who was being disrespectful to one of these gentlemen, and I was apologizing for it."
I turned, giving the men a stiff curtsy, and then practically dragged my father away, hand in hand. I couldn't stay in their company any longer; my father would have escalated the situation to a formal challenge.
***********
With my hand still tightly gripping my father's, we proceeded toward the royal palace's massive, manicured garden. He was clearly upset, which was no surprise. He had been juggling the duties of both father and mother since my earliest memories, dedicating himself to being a good parent after my mother's death. How could I pass judgment on him?
"Talk to me, Papa, why are you still upset?" I inquired cautiously, compelled to break the sudden stillness that had replaced his theatrical fury.
He released my arm softly and gave me a strange, calculating look. "Eli, what were you doing with those men? You seemed to be making quite a point of getting to know that group."
"What do you mean, Papa?" Perplexed by his unexpected inquiry, I responded.
My father grumbled and rubbed his immaculate beard. "To be honest, none of the men I saw you approaching today appeal to me as a potential match. Except, perhaps, one."
"Papa!" I blushed fiercely, looking around to ensure we had not been overheard, terrified by his sudden bluntness.
"Well, I could award Sir Peterson a few points because he is a knight, honest and upstanding," my father conceded, his mouth curling upwards. "But the rest, I don't think so. So, if I were you, I'd go after the knight, not the bastard."
"You do remember how we left them, don't you? They will probably avoid me for the rest of the season," I groaned.
"I put on a spectacle for the ages, my darling," he said, puffing out his chest with pride.
"No, Papa, you were being far too theatrical. Though, I am impressed by how much your acting abilities have improved," I teased, determined to lift his spirits.
My father chuckled, then gently tugged my ear, feigning irritation at my comment. "How can your father's honest, devoted parenting be called acting, you wicked girl?"
I laughed, feeling the furious emotion he had displayed a few minutes ago finally vanish. His genuine smile was all I ever wanted to see. My father, my gentle, caring, and utterly over-the-top father. I had chosen a dangerous path for myself, but with his support, I thought I could manage anything.
Little did I know, the bastard I rejected would soon become the one I embraced, leading to my current fate, bound and staring at death.