Page 115 of Burn Her They Said
Cirrin does me the favor of taking my hand, while making no move to keep it when I drop it to my side without ceremony. Varic steps in, and I turn to whisper, “You shouldn’t have done that.”
He turns, eyes scanning the room around us as he responds, “I know.”
Drusilla appears, though no one here summoned her. Stark white hair and gray eyes set into her pale face make her head appear as if it hovers above her stiff black uniform, looking more apparition than attendant, even in the warm light of the dungeons.
“This way,” she says, and we follow behind as she guides us through the main room, then out to the corridor where she turns in the direction of the Emperor’s chambers.
Varic and Lars share a look, and my legs wobble with every step forward.
Chapter Forty
Surprise
My pulse thrums with the beat of an Ampara Deicra war drum, rising in tempo with the panic coursing through my veins.
Imperial Guards pull the grand black doors open, then stare off into the distance as they grant us entry to the Emperor’s chambers. Everything in me screams to turn around and keep from becoming trapped in a way I’ve always feared. If I have learned one thing from bringing others’ worst nightmares to light, it’s that there are worse kinds of entrapment than the one in which I’ve been imprisoned. And I don’t know if I am strong enough to survive it.
Every step reverberates up my bones as a special kind of dread rises from my stomach, expanding inside my chest, with my heart lurching after every door we pass. Any of which would be better for us to enter than the last.
Two more doors remain on either side of the hall as we near the end, and my lungs freeze when Drusilla comes to a stop outside of the Emperor’s bedchamber.
“What is the reason we are to enter His Majesty’s quarters?” Varic asks, rolling his shoulders down and back.
“Right this way,” Drusilla says, gesturing for us to follow.
Varic’s ears burn bright crimson, and the flush seems to spread with the level of his anger, appearing as if it bleeds down the side of his neck as it reddens.
My body gravitates toward him as we step over the threshold, wishing more than anything to be able to pull him away, filled with the need to bring him comfort. Yet the vast emptiness of this room leaves us without any viable options to draw any closer to each other without notice.
I scan the space, hoping for any indication as to why we are here, having spent a lifetime living in fear of the day the Emperor’s obsession grew to the point he would force me to be more than just the witch who stands beside him. Terrified that this might be the moment his ownership of my being shifts into something more physical than controlling my breathing.
Feeling as if I might burst, I blurt out, “May we know the purpose of our presence being required in His Majesty’s bedchamber?” While he is drunkenly reveling in having forced me to dance with him and after admitting his frustration with being made to sleep under separate roofs.
“His Majesty demanded that you use his bathing chamber to attend to your needs this morning,” she says, removing a black towel from the cabinet.
“Not to worry,” Drusilla says. “I sent for your things.”
Varic’s nostrils flare, his disdain validating my own. Though the mention of my hygiene items is a reminder of his theory—that they are each dosed with the essence of Dragon’s Fury.
Drusilla starts to remove my boots, then proceeds to tear off my riding leathers while my vision crowds inward, sensing the frenetic energy within my Guards as they surround me, eyes locked on each point of entry.
Voices carry from the connected hallway, and I freeze, standing naked in the center of the Emperor’s bathing chamber.
Varic’s eyes catch mine, and I bite my lip in amusement as his brown skin pinkens with splotches spreading up to his hairline so intense his ears now appear to be burnt from too much time in the sun.
He averts his eyes quickly to stare at the dark wood door just before Drusilla tugs me toward the sunken marble tub. She gestures for me to step within, then shoves my shoulders down until I am submerged to my collarbones in the opaque, scalding water. A plume of purple mist protects me from pitching to the side, as Varic and Lars force their way past Drusilla, standing guard on either side of the tub with their eyes trained toward the doors.
Drusilla steps away to retrieve a basket filled with my soaps and sponges, while Varic tracks her movement and follows until she drops to her knees beside the tub.
Varic bends down and uncaps one of the bottles while Drusilla sneers at him. He nods in confirmation, scenting what he suspected would be there.
“Who makes her care items?” Varic asks, rubbing some of the lotion over the sigil tattoo on the back of his hand, apparently testing its effects on himself while I quirk a brow in his direction.
“The same artisans who make all of our care items,” Drusilla says.
“Does anyone else use the same formula as she does?” Varic raises his brows as she begins to use said products on my being.
“Not as far as I know.” She looks up at him while he rises to stand. “Why do you ask?”
