Keziah 

A choice to react?  

How generous. I could choose silk bindings or iron.

Was he trying to make me feel better about switching to a new and shiny prison? Or just assuage his guilt? 

If I had the brawn to match his I would spit in his face and tell him what I thought of his options. That’s what the brave version of me would do. 

One little demonstration of shared pain wasn’t enough to overcome years of violence experienced when I let loose my sharp tongue and quick temper. Mutually assured destruction just meant we would both go down swinging. I would try to keep my reprisals and vicious remarks as thoughts in my head where I could win every time without consequence.

“Think of it as a chance to start over,” he continued. “I will do everything within my power to find you a safe place to belong once this is over.” 

“You think highly of your capabilities.”  

“Hard work, knowledge, power, money, and status,” he rattled off. “I have the resources to get most anything done.” 

Except for Uncle. But that was the game of gentlemen, wasn’t it? Using their privilege to fight proxy wars with each other. Playing with lives like game pieces.

I had two flimsy advantages in choosing his silk route. The possibility I could get something in return for information on Uncle–if I could do it without my head splitting open in sheer agony from his weavings. And secondly, the entanglement. That I didn’t understand and couldn’t control. 

Our bond was a chink in his shiny armor. I could rely on him to protect me. If my thread were cut the consequences to his life were still unknown. 

I wanted to say something that would slap the confidence off his face. Something that would give me an edge over him, even for a fleeting moment. But hope was a flightless bird and I’d woken up feeling like my brain was sloshing in ale.

I chose mockery instead. 

“You plan to place me in a gilded cage and use your vast privilege to improve my pitiful life when you know nothing about me?”  

Honestly, it wasn’t a bad deal. It got me away from Uncle, the forced marriage, and the miserable people of Verbodine, like Sir Erewald, who basked in his shadow. It just wasn’t a choice. It rubbed the wrong way, like he wanted praise for taking me hostage. 

“Aye, something like that.” I thought he might have chuckled, but he’d turned away.

He returned with a plate and a tankard and sat on the opposite side of the bed. The smell of the food hit me like a revelation. I hadn't eaten anything all day. I barely had a few sips of water. He offered the plate and the sudden reminder of my need outweighed any other thoughts.

Placing it on the bed I picked up the grapes, eating them one after another until only the stem remained. I was thirsty, and the juicy pop of sweetness as I bit into each one quenched my raw throat.  

Callum removed his boots, leaned against the headboard, and crossed his legs at his ankles. He looked far too comfortable sharing a bed with a stranger he'd tried to execute. But he didn’t interrupt or look askance at my lack of lady-manners as I attacked the food and filled my stomach.  

I placed a hunk of juicy seasoned meat on a slice of bread slathered in butter and jam; and licked the drippings off my fingers to not miss out on a single drop. "Mmm," I sighed in satisfaction with the first bite still on my tongue. 

Callum was kind enough to hand me the tankard when I coughed on the last bite. A honey mead so sweet I sucked my teeth after every sip. 

“Did you bring me cake as well?”  

He chuckled. “No, that was the first thing my men demolished. I didn’t get a taste of your wedding cake either.” 

“The wedding was never completed,” I said after another mouthful of mead. “It was just a cake.” 

His eyes widened in surprise. So I could unbalance him.  

“Did you not expect me to talk?” I asked. “I thought the meal and mead were a bribe to sweeten the interrogation.” 

“Do you want to answer my questions?” 

“Do you want me to answer your questions with more questions? Like you answered my question with a question?” I regretted it the moment I said it. I let the honey mead loosen my sharp tongue.

I tried to read the look in his eyes, the planes of his face looking for what would come back to me. But Callum cracked a smile that turned into a deep laugh. 

It sounded warm, sweet as the mead, and infectious; melting away the tense moment of fear until I fell into laughter with him. I needed to laugh. It had been too long since I’d shared a silly moment with someone else and received joy in return. 

“You are not the docile little lamb I first thought you to be.” 

“And you might not be the murderous maniac I thought you were at first sight.” 

“That a bit unfair,” he said, looking hurt at my assessment. 

“The first time I saw you, you were covered in blood. When you couldn’t find Uncle, you tried to kill me.” 

“It was a gruffallop,” he muttered, looking at his fidgeting hands.  

“What?” 

“The blood was from an injured gruffallop,” he said, fidgeting even more. “I wasn’t out slaughtering the innocent. I tried rather hard to minimize casualties. A gruffallop was injured. Remi, Jasper, and I worked together to pull a spear out of its leg, and…you're laughing at me.” 

I couldn’t help it. It was ridiculous. “The great and feared Duke of Truehorn came down upon me in all his might, fury, and big-goat blood?” 

I had come to terms with my life being over when he raised his sword over my neck. How was my life easier for him to take than a gruffallop? How could he make excuses for the blood, but say nothing about his quick decision to execute me?

Big, wet tears burned behind my eyes and spilled down my face. I hiccuped on a sob that shook my body. 

It wasn’t fair. 

Nothing had ever been fair for me and my path on the loom. I was a stray thread that kept getting beaten, tugged, and frayed. 

“I’m sorry.” His voice was soft and came from much too close. His big hand grasped my unharmed shoulder. 

His show of comfort only made me cry harder. I tried to push him away, but my protest to his touch was all for show. It had been a very, very, very long day, and I could not be sure my sanity remained intact. I felt hardened like bread left out too long. Ready to crumble under the slightest pressure. 

Large and gentle, he picked me up like I was nothing and placed me close beside him. His giant arms wrapped around me tight. I stayed stiff, unmoving, but it wasn’t long until the warmth and release from being held melted away my tension. 

I leaned into his shoulder. I was seven years old the last time I had been held like this. I didn’t know the body could miss something so much. 

The entanglement connected me to this brawny duke in a way I hadn’t felt since I'd last been held by my mother and father. It scared me.

But it wouldn’t hurt to rely on it just this once. Right?

“I promise I won’t hurt you like that again,” he whispered so close I could feel his breath shaping the words, serious as a vow. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.” 

He kept whispering chivalric platitudes until I calmed down, and the tears stopped. 

I don’t know when it happened, but we ended up lying on the bed. My back to his chest, and his arms wrapped around my shoulder and waist.  

On the far corner of the bed, what was left of the tankard of mead had spilled over the blankets to the floor. The plate was mostly undisturbed on the bed, though a few crumbs and bits were scattered on the blanket. 

“We’ve made a mess,” I mentioned, sniffling a bit as I tried to get up. 

He didn’t let me leave his arms, holding me tight. “Leave it,” he said, his voice low and hoarse in my ear. 

“We can’t stay like this,” I reasoned. “We’ll be covered in crumbs.” 

Keeping one arm wrapped around my waist, he picked up the plate and tossed it to the floor.

“What do you want from me?” I asked. 

“I don’t know yet.” It had taken him a moment to respond, and I could tell from the shift in his breathing and the beat of his heart against my back he wanted to say more. 

I waited. 

“Remi would beat me if he knew I was thinking of telling you this.” 

“Then don’t tell me. He already hates me.” 

“Mmm, but I want to tell you,” he said, shifting until his hold around me deepened. 

He sounded tired. Or was he drunk? Was I drunk?

His fingers fidgeted, brushing circles over my bare arm. The light touch felt like trails of tiny sparks passing through him and into me.  

“When I was twelve years old,” he began, “a weaver witch put a curse on me.”