Cruel Beauty (Cruel Beauty Universe #1)(12)

Instead I looked around. I was in a round foyer the size of my bedroom with white walls, a blue tiled floor, and a very high ceiling. Though from the outside it had looked as if there were nothing of the house but one lonely tower, this room had five mahogany doors, each carved with a different pattern of fruits and flowers. I tried them, but they were all locked.

Was that a laugh? I went still, my heart thumping. But if the noise had been real, it did not repeat. I circled the room again, this time pounding on each of the doors, but there was still no response.

“I’m here!” I shouted. “Your bride! Congratulations on your marriage!”





4

No one answered.

My whole body pulsed with fear, because surely in a moment the doors would swing open, or the ceiling would crack, or he would speak from right behind my neck—

I spun around, but I was still alone. There was no sound except for my rough gasps as I strained for breath against the tight bodice. I looked down and was mortified again by the sight of my breasts propped up and exposed, as if I were a platter for my husband’s delectation.

My fear began to fade into the dull, familiar burning of resentment. There were even roses painted on the buttons of the bodice, because the Gentle Lord’s tribute must be nicely wrapped, mustn’t she? Just like a birthday present, and like a spoiled child on his birthday, the Gentle Lord didn’t care if he made other people wait.

With a sigh, I sat down and leaned back against the wall. Probably my husband was away striking cursed bargains with other fools who thought—as Father once did—that they could bear to pay his prices. At least I had a little more time left before I had to meet him.

Husband. I clenched my hands, and the fear was back as I remembered what Aunt Telomache had told me last night. I knew that the Gentle Lord was different enough from other demons that people could look on him and not go mad. But some said he had the mouth of a snake, the eyes of a goat, and the tusks of a boar, so that even the bravest could not refuse his bargains. Others said he was inhumanly beautiful, so that even the wisest were beguiled by him. Either way, I couldn’t imagine letting him touch me.

(Father never said what it was like to bargain with the Gentle Lord. Once I had dared to ask him what my enemy looked like. He stared at me as if I were a fascinating insect and asked me what difference I imagined it would make.)

I slammed my fist sideways into the wall. It hurt, but it made me feel a little better. If only I could strike my husband, when the time came.

If only the Rhyme were true.

I didn’t believe it, I didn’t, but I still drew the knife from its sheath and waved it slowly, feeling how its weight shifted in my hand. Of course Father had never trained me to use a knife; he’d never wanted to train me in anything that wasn’t useful to the plan. But now and then Astraia had stolen kitchen knives and talked me into “practice”—which meant waving the knives in the air and shrieking, mostly. Nothing useful.

I knew that Father had been right, that I should get rid of the knife—but there was nowhere to hide it, now that I was locked in this room. And it was true, also, that this was my sister’s last gift to me. If I couldn’t love her, at least I could wear her gift like a token into battle. (She’d always loved stories where warriors did that.)

I slid the knife back into the sheath and rearranged my skirts. Then I noticed how tired I was. For a little while I tried to stay awake, but the air in the room had grown warm and heavy. It was still silent; there was no sign of any monster. And so I fell asleep.


Somebody had piled blankets over my shoulders. That was my first hazy thought as I awoke. Heavy, warm blankets. Something tickled my neck and I twitched.

The blankets twitched back.

My eyes snapped open. In one moment I realized that what tickled my neck was a tuft of black hair, the blankets were a warm body, and the Gentle Lord was draped over me like a lazy cat, his head resting on my shoulder.

He raised his face and smiled. The stories were right that called him “the sweet-faced calamity,” for he had one of the most beautiful faces I had ever seen: sharp nose, high cheekbones, framed with tousled, ink-black hair and stamped all over with the arrogant softness of a man just out of boyhood who had never been defied. He wore a long dark coat with an immaculate white cravat tied at his neck and white lace foaming at his cuffs. If he had been human, I might have taken him for a gentleman.

But his eyes had crimson irises, with cat-slit pupils.

My heart was trying to pound its way out of my chest. I’d spent my whole life preparing for this moment, and I couldn’t speak or even move.

“Good afternoon,” he said. His voice was like cream, light but rich.

I pushed myself off the ground and sat up. He sat up too, with languid grace.

“What,” I managed to choke out.

“You were asleep,” he said. “I got so bored waiting that I fell asleep too. And now here you are.” He tilted his head. “You were a good pillow but I think I prefer you awake. What’s your name, lovely wife?”

Wife. His wife. I could feel the knife against my thigh, but it might have been a hundred miles away. And it wouldn’t matter if I had it in my hand. I was supposed to submit to him.

“Nyx Triskelion,” I said. “Daughter of Leonidas Triskelion.”

“Hmm.” He leaned closer. “I’ve seen prettier, but I suppose you’ll do.”