"Better to let them think you are a fool and prove them otherwise, then show your true power and give them a greater advantage over you," she would say.
So, in her honor, I bite my tongue and take another bite of my meal.
As I do, I realize my arm is bleeding through the bandages.
My captor notices as well and rushes to my side, reaching for a small vial as he does. "Your dressings need to be changed. Allow me."
Since I'm a bloody mess, I don't have a lot of choice. I set my bowl down and allow him to unwind the bandages. He begins with my right arm. His fingers are cool against my fevered flesh, and his touch sends a thrill of pleasure down my spine.
Which I obviously ignore as my brain reminds my traitorous body that he is a monster. A monster I am here to kill, not befriend. He has terrorized our kingdom for far too long.
But then he looks at me so tenderly as he spreads an ointment onto my skin. It smells of lavender and osha, and he's so gentle with the application, I'm having a hard time matching him to the legend that has lived in my mind since I was born. In my nightmares I saw him as a demonic force, teeth sharpened to points, dripping with the blood of the innocent, his eyes cruel and his heart merciless.
Now, I find myself looking into the eyes of a man lost, but who is treating my wounds and being careful not to cause me more pain.
He completes one arm, then the other, then he checks my neck. I flinch as he peels off the wet bandages at my throat.
"This will take the longest to heal," he says softly, as his gentle fingers brush against my collarbone.
He finishes re-wrapping my neck then stands without turning to me again. "Rest now," he says as he walks to the door
Before he leaves, I stop him with a question. "Where did you learn to do this?" I've been trained in healing, and I can tell a fraud when I see one. He's genuinely skilled. And his herb choices suggest he’s been trained by true healers. Maybe even witches.
"I wasn’t always a monster," he says softly, before closing the door behind him.
Chapter 4
His absence makes the room feel inexplicably colder, lonelier, and I mentally swat myself for being so easily distracted by a pretty face and sad eyes. Just because he's not as ghastly as I expected doesn't mean he's not still deadly. A severe frost can be just as dangerous as a blizzard even if the snow isn't falling. You'll freeze to death either way if caught in it without shelter.
His chiseled jawline, penetrating gaze, cheekbones that could cut ice, and sculpted body hide the rot that lies beneath, and I won't be fooled by his charms.
I'm just lucky he likes his dinner healthy. It buys me time to plan.
With an extraordinary amount of caution, taking the smallest movements possible, I slide out of the bed and gingerly make my way to my pack. My muscles ache, my bones feel bruised, even my skin feels as if I'm being pricked by a thousand needles.
The fire has died down to embers, and the cold stone floor sends a chill up my spine. When I reach my pack, I pull it to my chest, relief flooding me as I glance in and see all of my belongings are there, including my Grimoire. Grabbing my cloak, I slowly make my way back to bed, having spent what little strength I had, and collapse in exhaustion. It takes me a few minutes of heavy breathing to calm down enough to go through my bag.
Turning my cloak over in my lap, I search frantically for the vial of poisonous blood and release my breath when I find it still in the secret pocket. I leave it tucked there, then look for my dagger, but that is long gone it seems. It must have been left in the snow. Which means I'll either have to find another weapon, or come up with a way to make him drink this voluntarily.
Shrugging aside that problem for a later time when I have more energy, I continue pulling out items.
My Grimoire is wrapped in leather treated with linseed oil to make it resistant to water damage. I set it aside and reach instead for my herbs and potions. I have strong healing remedies here, but if I heal myself too fast, I'll become a meal that much sooner. I need to stay injured as long as possible, but regain my strength quickly. It's quite the conundrum.
I study my available ingredients and mentally inventory what I've learned over the years.
An idea forms, and I finally pull out my Grimoire, unwrapping it from the leather and flipping through until I find the page I'm looking for. It's a spell for a tonic that will help me slowly build internal stamina, but shouldn't actually accelerate the healing of my skin and muscle. I take pinches of the necessary ingredients and drop them into my stone mortar, then use the matching pestle to grind it to fine granules. When it's ready, I crawl to the foot of the bed and grab the teapot sitting on the service table.
This is when I notice that the fire has been stoked and fresh wood added to it. How? I look around, heart pounding, to check that I'm still alone, but no one has come in since my abductor left. And though I obviously haven't had a full tour, I get the distinct impression no one else lives here.
I shake my head, confused, but too tired and in too much pain to think long on it. Instead, I check the water in the teapot. It's still hot, and though it already has a blend of tea mixed with the water, that shouldn't negatively impact this specific spell.
I dump the herbs into my empty teacup and fill it with steaming liquid, then utter the incantation that will activate the spell. It fizzes, glows a soft golden light, then fades. I let it steep for five minutes before I drink it in one long gulp, gagging slightly on the bitter roots.
As I knew it would, the potion settles into me, lulling me into a deep and regenerative sleep.
When I wake the next morning, the beast is sitting by my bedside reading another book.
My mouth feels full of cotton as I clear my throat.
"You've awoken at last," the man says, handing me a glass of water.
I drink deeply before replying. "How long was I asleep?"
"Two nights," he says, and if I didn't know better, I'd swear he sounds worried.
"Keeping an eye on your meal?" My comment is deliberate. I don't want either of us to forget why he's helping me, and he has the decency to look away.
"Now that you're awake, I will draw you a bath. I've already changed the dressings on your wounds while you slept. You're healing nicely."
At the promise of a bath, I smile, then frown. "I wash the chickens before I eat them, so I assume this is much the same," I say.
"Think what you like," he says gruffly, as he heads to a door on the other side of my room. "I just thought you would like to clean yourself up after such a long journey."
He is right, of course. I can smell myself, and that's never pleasant. And a soak in a hot tub would go a long way to easing the ache in my body and the cold I always feel in my bones. Damn him.
"If I'm going to be your captive until I heal, which given the severity of my wounds could take a month or more, what should I call you?"
He frowns. "I am Alaric, Crowned Prince of the Avondale Kingdom. Or at least I was, once upon a time."
"Alaric," I say, testing his name out on my tongue.
His eyes widen, and he sucks in his breath. "It has been too long since someone last spoke my name aloud. Say it again?"
There's such vulnerability in his request that I can't help but feel compassion for him. He lives all alone atop a mountain of ice, banished from all contact save once a year when his meal comes begrudgingly to him. That would make anyone into a monster.