White Horse Black Nights (The Godkissed Bride, #1)(9)
I have no love for Thom, but I still look away.
Even with my eyes closed, the sound of Thom’s whines sting like wasps.
They can have my body, I recite. But my mind is my own. They can have my body . . .
At the convent, the beatings stopped one month before I returned to Bremcote. Sister Gray received my father’s letter about the engagement contract and delivered it to Matron White. The next morning, I was dragged from my cell into the main living quarters and locked in a room to give my wounds time to heal. Sister Gray and Sister Red force-fed me rich butter and fatty veal to plump me up in order to hide the evidence that they’d starved me. After a few days in that room, I started to go stir-crazy and walked in circles on the floor and did exercises.
They didn’t like that, so they tied me to the bed, so that I’d stay soft and slight. Silk ties so as not to leave bruises on my wrists and ankles, of course.
For the next thirty days, I stared at the ceiling, listening to Myst whinny for me from the stables, hating every one of those blackhearted women, hating my father for trading me to a stranger, hating him for stupidly gambling away our fortune in the first place, and most of all, hating Lord Rian for shaming him by making me endure this twisted game.
Wolf finally stands, tossing back his loose hair. Blood coats his bare knuckles. He wipes them on Thom’s shirt back as the man moans pitifully, the only sign he’s still alive.
Wolf strides back toward me as though nothing happened.
“Let’s continue,” he says, checking the sun’s position.
There’s no point in thanking him for defending my honor. He didn’t do it for me. He did it because another man dared to claim the property of his precious master.
As Myst walks on, I run the pads of my fingers over the cockleshell braided into her mane.
If I had any doubts that I had to escape this ride, they’re gone now.
Wolf Bowborn is a devil.
And something tells me his master is the same, only dressed in a finer suit and with a lot more coin in his pockets.
Chapter 4
Wolf
True to their word, no one besides that one peeping bastard watches Sabine ride naked down the streets of Bremcote, but that goodwill doesn’t last in the next town. Or the next.
Once we’re outside the boundary of Lady Suri’s influence, people flock to the streets, anxious to see if the rumor about Lord Rian’s shocking command for his new bride is true. They hang out windows, calling down slurs to Sabine. Pubescent boys snicker from the alleyways. Men hoot and holler, trying to get her to flinch so that her carefully arranged hair will give them a glimpse of curves they can beat off to later.
Through it all, Sabine remains a mask of indifference, almost as if she’s used to taking abuse and giving nothing back.
I’ll admit that I’m surprised, maybe even a little affected.
The little violet is made of tougher stuff than I thought. And frankly, that could be a problem. Pummeling that asshole at the start of the ride wasn’t just for Lord Rian’s sake—I wanted to impress upon Sabine the utter futility of trying to escape. Because I know how to sniff out a scheme, and she reeks of one.
First clue: All day, she hasn’t once asked me about Lord Rian or Duren and what her life will be like there.
Second: There’s that cockleshell she thinks she hid so well.
Third, the cincher: The taste of hope on her breath.
Put together, it tells me that Sabine Darrow has no intention of ever reaching Duren. If I had to guess, I’d wager some erstwhile lover gave her that cockleshell, and she plans to run away to be with him. Inwardly, I scoff at the idea that anyone would be so foolishly lovesick. Lord Rian will give her the world on a silver platter. She’ll never know a day of hunger, or cold, or pain.
But there could be pain, couldn’t there?
I shut up that internal voice as soon as it whispers in the back of my head. It’s true that Lord Rian can be unpredictable. It isn’t his temper that worries me—I’ve never seen a man more in control of his temper—but he tends to take out his frustrations in more calculated ways. He’ll drive a racehorse to run until it’s lame. He’ll pit brothers against each other in the arena.
And the things he does with the whores . . .
But Sabine is different, I assure myself, and scold my inner voice for doubting Lord Rian, who has given me everything. Sabine will be his bride. She’ll be his cherished prize to show off at Sorsha Hall’s parties as she converses with fucking squirrels to the amazement of his guests. He’ll want her pristine, protected at all times.
He won’t hurt her, I tell myself. Not like the others.
By the time we leave the next village, I can see the torment is wearing on Sabine. Though her back remains ramrod straight, dark smudges now ring her eyes, and the blood in her veins flows sluggishly.
“We’ll stop for the night soon,” I say, signaling to the forest ahead. “We’ll find shelter among the trees and a stream for the horse.”
She nods wearily, finally too tired to argue.
Some of her curls are still damp with spilled ale from a drunken group of men who tried to grope her in the last town, before I knocked the biggest one on his ass. The smell of it—sour brew mixed with the men’s pungent sweat—turns my stomach as much as the thought that their grasping hands were almost on her. Not that I’m looking—you know you are, Wolf—but Sabine’s skin is flawless, and something inside me will do anything to keep it unspoiled. Only my master’s hands belong on her.