Mina shook her head with vigor. “No. No. Not on purpose, anyhow. I just got lost, turned around. I wandered many halls before I stumbled across the back staircase, and then, when I turned to the left, I guess I just—”
Dante narrowed his eyes at her in a harsh, unambiguous glare: Stop talking…now!
She immediately bit her lip again and waited, even as Damian began to laugh.
“Father?” Damian turned to regard the king, no doubt in an attempt to incite the monarch’s anger, and Mina took immediate advantage of the moment.
She reached out with a crooked finger and quickly hooked it inside Dante’s sleeve to get his attention, and then she just as rapidly pulled it back, stared right at him, and leaned slightly forward, raising her eyebrows in determination. She was speaking volumes with her expression and angling her head just so as if to say…something: desperation, fear, and urgency.
Dante took a step back.
What was she trying to tell him?
When Damian started to speak again, Dante held up his hand to silence him, still staring intently at Mina. “Tell me, Ahavi,” he said, “this insomnia, the conditions in your room; were they really that urgent?”
Mina squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “Yes. I felt that they were.”
At this, Damian lost his patience.
He spun around and sauntered toward the throne, wisely stopping before taking the first stair. He bowed his head. “Father,” he repeated coolly, “it may have felt urgent to this woman, but I think we all know better. She’s lying. And what’s more, a small indiscretion today will only lead to treachery and betrayal tomorrow. Rules are rules for a reason.”
Talk about going straight for the jugular.
The king was no stranger to the treacherous, manipulative ways of a Sklavos Ahavi who was allowed too much leeway with the rules, who had been given too much room to roam.
Dante said nothing.
The king would either seek more information or render a premature judgment.
Just like that.
And there was no bargaining with Demitri Dragona once he had chosen a course of action.
The king stood up, and the entire hall fell silent.
Drake leaned back against one of the six enormous pillars that lined the center of the hall and crossed his arms in front of him, even as Damian took a cautious step back, awaiting their father’s word.
“Which one are you?” the king bit out, pointing at Mina, his hard expression otherwise unreadable.
Mina turned toward the king and curtsied. Apparently, she at least had that much sense. “Your Majesty, I am Mina Louvet, a Sklavos Ahavi from the southern district of Arns.” She bowed even lower. “And I meant no disrespect.” She froze in that posture, her eyes plastered to the floor.
The king turned toward Drake, perhaps because he was often the most reasonable of the three princes. “She was chosen among the Ahavi, why?”
Drake cleared his throat. “They say she can speak many languages, that she has an intuitive understanding of foreign cultures. In that way, she yields us some advantage. She can act as a translator with our neighbors and an unlikely spy with our enemies.”
The king harrumphed. “Hmm.”
“And she’s supposed to be unusually bright,” Drake added. His voice neither rose nor fell, absent of conviction, either way.
The king chuckled merrily. “Apparently, not too bright.” He took a step forward, but he did not descend the stairway. “Our rules are not optional, Miss Louvet.”
Mina didn’t reply. She didn’t dare.
“Do you even understand the rules?” the king asked.
Dante hoped she understood the question: His father was testing her intelligence, her memory. If she said no, he would scorch her where she stood.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Mina replied, continuing to hold her body and her head in a subservient posture.
“Yet, you broke them?”
Mina choked back a sob. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“If I let you live, will you break them again?”
Mina stumbled to the side, clearly caught off guard by the bluntness of his words or the severity of her offense. Perhaps, now, she finally understood just how fragile a precipice she was standing upon—if I let you live…
She caught her balance and groveled even lower. “No, Your Majesty.” Her face was the color of a pale harvest moon, yellowish white and absent of lucidity.
The king eyed Damian. “Son?”
He shrugged one shoulder in a gesture of disdain. “I say dispense with her. She’s only a woman. We can replace her, and I have no patience for insubordination.”
The king turned once again to Drake. “Prince?”
“Your will is my own,” Drake said, smart lad that he was.
It wasn’t that Prince Drake was cold and unfeeling, quite the contrary: The dragon had more compassion in his heart than most, but he had also lived for 146 years. And like the rest of them, he knew his father well. Any show of mercy would be seen as weakness, and more importantly, it wouldn’t further Mina’s cause. Demitri would ultimately do whatever he felt like doing, and more often than not, his choices were based solely on his passing moods.
“Dante?” the king asked, offering a seeking gaze.
Dante felt the moment like a heavy weight bearing down on his shoulders. Not unlike Damian, he took every incident of insubordination, every potential threat to the Realm, quite seriously, and a subject who could not follow the most basic rules was a loose cannon, an unpredictable element, something to be removed simply on principle. However, unlike Damian, he was not a sadistic egomaniac, and he would derive no personal pleasure in seeing a young female executed for such a petty offense.
Beyond even that, this was Mina.
He had fed from her, felt the inaugural stirrings of carnal desire for her body, begun to adopt a familial responsibility for her well-being, based on their potential future roles. He still believed she would give him strong sons and prove to be an ally one day, and he did not believe she was a threat to the Realm.
She could be tamed…
Or, at least, she could be corralled within reason.
He sighed, knowing that Demitri was merely a heartbeat away from incinerating the girl as she bowed, even as she continued to genuflect before him.
She would never see it coming.
And even a lengthy pause in Dante’s answer could set the volatile king off, illicit the sadistic reaction.
“She should not be allowed to display such impertinence before the throne,” Dante said firmly. “I think she should be soundly punished, succinctly taught a lesson, and if, after that, she commits another infraction, then her death will be on her own head.” He held his breath, waiting, trying to appear more nonchalant than he felt.
“I see,” the king replied. For all intents and purposes, he was probably trying to gauge his mood: Do I feel like killing? Do I feel like watching? Would I rather go to bed? His eyes flashed with resolution, and Dante knew the decision had been made. “Give her fifteen lashes with a spiked whip. If she lives, she will get another chance. If she dies, we will replace her. Perhaps, in this way, the gods will decide her fate.” He sat back down on his throne and gestured toward the elaborate, archaic cabinet on the eastern side of the room: The lavishly carved chest was twelve feet high and nearly eight feet wide. It sat flush against the interior wall like a statue of a feudal knight, and it contained various ornamental boxes and hidden compartments inside, all housing the king’s sadistic treasures, his favorite instruments of torture and amusement. “Do it now,” he said to no one in particular, sounding almost as bored as he did resolute.
Damian’s face lit up with zealous anticipation.
He strolled across the room to the massive cabinet, flipped open the ornamental doors, and chose a particularly gruesome but effective lash: It was a multilayered, braided leather strap, about ten feet in length, the thong protruding from a smooth wooden handle with the dragon
’s crest carved into the stock. About every three to four inches along the leather, there were barbed spikes made of iron, each one embedded in the belly like a spiny thorn. He cracked the lash in the air, just for amusement, chuckling as it echoed throughout the grand royal hall, and then he grabbed a handful of leather ties to bind her wrists and ankles and headed straight toward Mina.
The Ahavi jolted.
She gasped, whimpered, and started to run.
Dante caught her around the waist and held her in place. “Do not,” he whispered in her ear, knowing the king would slay her as she fled before she ever reached the door.
Her eyes were as wide as saucers, and there was a deep primal fear radiating out of her pupils. She was utterly terrified and aghast. “Dante,” she whimpered piteously. “Oh gods, please.” Her beautiful, deep green eyes were shadowed with tears and haunted with desperation. “Please.” She gaped at him like she had never seen his face before, like he was more than a stranger, more than an enemy, like he was a mythological monster, something to be dreaded and feared. Her knees gave way to their trembling, and she crumpled to the floor, doubling over in anguish and grasping at his shirt, his trousers, his boots, as she fell. “Please,” she cried even louder. “My prince?” She sobbed. “Dante, I’m begging you.” She pleaded with her eyes, and in that solemn moment, Dante saw only a helpless little girl who would have rather died than face the torture awaiting her. “You can’t let him do this, my prince.” Her lips literally quivered. “I know I’ve displeased you, but…but this?” She gestured to the side, indicating Damian and the lash with her hand, unable to turn her head in such a terrifying direction. Her eyes grew even wider, and her thick lashes sloped beneath the weight of her tears. “Please. Please.” The last word was a pitiable question. “Dante?”
As Damian drew closer, the king cleared his throat. “Damian,” he said brusquely. “The lashing was your brother’s idea, and this slave seems to expect mercy from him. Give him the whip.”
Mina shuddered, and her mouth gaped open in shock.
Dante showed no reaction whatsoever.
He had expected as much to happen.
Damian declined his head in deference and extended the lash and leather ties to Dante, smiling as his older brother gripped the handle and slid the wrist-loop around his arm. “As you will, Father,” Damian said. He winked at Dante and took a casual step back, copping a lean against a nearby post.
Dante held the ties in his left hand and tested the weight of the lash in his right.
His father was watching everything.
As always…
Such endless tests of obedience.
He cracked the whip soundly, sending it sailing overhead through the air. He measured its movement, felt for the subtle motion of the fall, and memorized the pop of the crack. Satisfied, he then looped it over his shoulder and bent toward Mina, flexing to lift her from the ground.
Chapter Nine
Mina tried desperately to scurry away from Dante.
She kicked her feet in a useless, backward motion, sliding helplessly against the floor. She twisted this way and that, hoping to break free of his iron grasp, to no avail. And she tugged frantically against his powerful arms before she finally ceased her struggling and went limp at his side.
She simply could not believe this was happening.
It was too horrific for words.
Yes, she understood that she had taken a risk when she chose to seek him out, especially near the throne room; and yes, she knew that the king might kill her if she got caught. But this archaic torture? It was impossible to comprehend. Being ripped apart—flesh, muscle, and bone—by a barbaric lash, like some sort of animal, some sort of seditious traitor; it was more than her mind could process.
And Dante?
The prince who would one day claim her—wed her, lie with her, father her children—he was going to do the evil deed with his own hand.
Oh, Great Spirit Keepers, Mina wanted to die then and there.
She had always been strong. She had always had a high threshold for pain. She had always been able to endure the unendurable, or at least she thought she had, but no woman could withstand a punishment such as this: the feel of the lash biting into her skin, the insult of the barbs grasping her muscles, flaying them free from her bones.
And over and over…and over?
Fifteen times?
He would kill her.
There was no question in her mind.
She felt like she was drifting far away in a tunnel, like blackness was overwhelming both her and the room, as Dante’s strong, firm hands, the ones she had almost trusted just days ago, the ones who had given her Raylea’s doll, grasped her by the shoulders, tugged her onto her feet, and began to drag her toward one of the tall imperial columns in the middle of the hall.
No.
No!
Oh dear Spirit Keepers in the afterworld, no.
She didn’t know if she was screaming. She didn’t know if she was crying or fighting or clawing for her freedom. It all felt so surreal. She only knew that she could not bear this—she could not survive this—and she had to make it stop.
She had to make it stop.
“Dante…Dante…Dante…” She heard his name coming from her lips like a mantra or a prayer, as if from some great distance, floating through an ever-darkening channel of disbelief. “No, Dante; please.” She was sobbing like a baby. She had never felt so helpless, or desperate, or terrified in her life.
“Mina.” His resilient voice cut through the fog, even as he secured her arms around the post and began to bind her wrists with the thongs, tying them high above her head. His weight felt oppressive against her back, yet she prayed it would never leave, that he would never leave, for once he stepped away, the whipping would begin.
No!
“Mina!” His voice was harsh now, almost angry, unyielding.
Her head fell back and she managed to peek at him from beneath tear-drenched lashes, her lips quivering, her eyes leaking like a sieve, mucous dripping out of her nostrils.
He tightened the bindings on her wrists and secured them swiftly to a notch in the post so she couldn’t pull away. She tugged against them and tried to kick backward in his direction, which was the worst thing she could do: He unhooked the ties, raised them another several inches until she was standing on her tippy-toes, almost hanging off the post, and then refastened her wrists against the higher notch to keep her from gaining leverage. “Oh gods, Dante…” She was panicking now, beginning to hyperventilate, ready to come apart.
Dante pressed his sturdy upper body against her back and anchored her head from behind with his powerful hands, as if to demand her full attention. He bent his head forward, and his thick black hair fell about her shoulders and chin, shrouding them in a dark silky curtain of madness.
She was going to go insane. “Please, please…please.”
He slid his hand forward and covered her mouth, nearly brushing his lips against her left ear. As his warm breath wafted across her lobe, she shivered.
This was really happening.
This was going to happen, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
“Mina,” he whispered in her ear. “Why did you come to the throne room? What were the urgent conditions in your bedchamber?”
She blinked several times, trying to gather her wits. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t reason. She was about to die, but then there was…there was…
Tatiana.
And the Sklavos Ahavi was still upstairs, lying on Mina’s bed, suffering and probably dying as a result of Damian’s cruel machinations. Oh gods, that’s why she had made this sacrifice to begin with.
For Tatiana.
Somehow, a strange clarity enveloped her; it descended upon her from nowhere, and she was able to find her words in the midst of her terror. “Tatiana,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Tatiana—the other Ahavi, the one with auburn hair.” She winced from the
stretch in her back. “Damian beat her. He raped her.” She drew in a ragged breath. “She’s in my room, and she’s dying.”
Dante froze against her. He almost seemed to quit breathing, and then he slowly stepped back, looked down toward her feet—she could only see his profile—and waved Drake over to the column. “Hold her feet while I remove her dress.”
Mina screamed.
That was it.
This was utter insanity, and she was beyond despondency.
Within moments, Drake appeared at the post, and she could have sworn Dante bent over and whispered something in his ear, something about Tatiana. But then she heard the back of her dress tearing, ripping open. Her chemise was swiftly removed, and the cold, stale air of the Great Hall kissed her bare skin like a brutal lover, her flesh now bared to the room.
She began to scream in earnest, over and over, like a wounded beast.
Dante stepped forward one last time and wrapped his hands around her throat. He didn’t tighten his fingers or try to choke her. He just bent once more to her ear. “Listen to me, Mina.” His words were guttural and imposing, and the force of each syllable felt like stiff, unseeded cotton being stuffed into her ears. “You need to scream like you are in the worst agony of your life, like you wish you could crawl through this post and disappear. I want you to hang from this column like you are dying, and you’d better make it convincing—like your life depends upon it—because it does.”
*
Dante took ten measured steps back from the column, exactly the amount needed to wield the whip with lethal efficiency, and then he waited for Drake to address their king.
“Father,” the youngest dragon prince said in a lackadaisical tone of voice.
The king acknowledged him with a slight tilt of his head.