Chapter 25 Chapter Twenty-Five
What are you doing here? Sylvan mindlinked out of habit before realizing her wolf being bound would prevent her from hearing him.
As though his eyes were communicating enough, she raised one brow and turned her head. Isla walked toward Rose and refilled her wine glass. Rose blushed and thanked her with a light nod. Sylvan’s brow crashed down over his eyes while Tristan’s own brow furrowed with curiosity. Rose did not blush, nor did she thank servants. Sylvan sat back in his chair, his turkey leg forgotten. Rose pushed her food around her plate, ignoring the curious eyes of the two brothers.
Isla returned to her spot against the wall like a dutiful gargoyle, though her jaw visibly ticked in aggravation. What was she doing there? She should be in his apartments. Had Missus gone against him again? He had not delivered her punishment as of yet. Had she thought he’d come to his senses? He reached for his glass and downed the wine in a few gulps. Isla didn’t look at him but smirked nonetheless as a different slave stepped up from somewhere behind him and refilled his glass. He narrowed his eyes at her. Fine, he could wait until after dinner to figure out what the hell was going on.
“We were discussing your great success earlier today, Prince Sylvan,” Charles, one of his father’s oldest advisors, piped in.
“Hm,” Sylvan responded, raising the turkey leg to his lips and ripping off a piece with his teeth.
“Those barbaric Trideans sure did put up a good fight, considering,” another advisor remarked. Isla’s demeanor shifted at the mention of her people.
“Considering?” his mother asked.
“Their alpha, Slade. His antics should be studied and documented for incompetence,” Charles elaborated for his companion. “The way he sacrificed his people was despicable. There was no art, finesse or strategy other than sending his men out to be slaughtered in the hopes that one broke through the line and made an impact.” The man scoffed, and while everything he said was true, Sylvan’s focus remained on Isla and how her face contorted with what she wished to say but couldn’t. He found himself holding his own tongue because, if they were in a different setting, he may ask her to voice her opinions out loud. He was certain they would be amusing.
“Your sacrifice, Prince Sylvan,” Charles continued. “Ended the suffering for both our people and theirs. I imagine today they are celebrating you as much as we are.”
Isla scoffed, and everyone looked around to try to find the source of the sound.
“It was really the queen who should be commended,” Sylvan argued.
“Cecelia?” his mother asked. “I met her many times. Such an honorable woman.”
“Honorable indeed,” Sylvan agreed. “She did what her mate couldn’t. She should be applauded, not me.”
Isla’s aquamarine eyes met his again, and he swore he saw a sheen of moisture before she blinked and her gaze turned to one of hatred.
“The women of Tridea are fiercer than the men, I hear,” another of his father’s advisors, Alexander, piped in. “Beautiful, sun-kissed and glowing from the bounty of the ocean. Unlike many of the women here… O-of course, not you, my queen,” he was quick to interject, to which his mother rolled her eyes and flicked her wrist in dismissal. “The trade we will gain from the Tridean waters…” He nudged Charles beside him. “And the genes from their women will help our nation to flourish.” He raised a glass of wine. “To Prince Sylvan, who brought about a victory, and to our king for his foresight in seeing a valuable asset and having the gumption to take it.”
“Here, here,” everyone echoed.
“And what of your prize?” the king finally interjected, causing a momentary hush to fall over the room while the servants stepped up to refill all of their cups.
“Yes!” Charles exclaimed. “Perhaps a ship to enjoy sailing the sea?”
“I have heard Slade held quite a collection of fine art,” Alexander commented.
Everyone around the table began to throw in their own guesses as if he hadn’t already made his decision, and they could live out their own fantasies through him.
“A woman,” Sylvan said quietly, cutting through the melee.
The room grew quiet for several heavy minutes.
“A woman?” his mother asked.
“Finally, Silly,” Tristan said, clamping his hand around the back of Rose’s neck like a collar of ownership. “Glad to hear you’re finally stepping up.”
“But, a woman?” his mother asked again, her voice unsteady.
Sylvan tried not to look at Isla for too long, for fear they would guess it was her he was referring to. He merely gazed at her until the realization settled on her face and then looked down at the table. He picked up his knife and speared the tip into the wooden table.
“I am allowed to claim whatever I wish as my prize, am I not?” he asked, watching the blade as he slowly turned it. “As Charles said, the Tridean women are fearless. This one in particular nearly succeeded in killing me the first time we met. Got closer than any man ever has.”
“As a mistress?” his mother asked, aghast. “You’ve brought a Tridean mistress home?”
Sylvan’s eyes flicked up first to measure Isla’s response, her face bloomed red in disbelief, and then to his mother, who was casting nervous glances toward Rose. He realized what Rose had said was true; she believed their relationship could be salvaged.
“I have not quite decided yet,” he lied. He knew exactly what he wanted her to be.
“Now?” the queen probed. “Why now?”
“I apologize, mother, perhaps if I had known you’d be throwing eight desperate women at my feet the moment I stepped through the castle doors, I would have reconsidered.” He wouldn’t have.
“Let the man have his fun, mother,” Tristan added. “I’m sure none of these other girls will mind sharing so long as they can call themselves Princess to Eredhal. What would you think, Rose?”
The queen’s glare focused on her husband.
“Tristan,” the king warned, letting Sylvan know his mother had just mindlinked him to interject. “Enough. Leave the poor girl alone.”
Tristan lifted his hand off Rose’s neck and held both upward in surrender.
“And if Sylvan wants to take a woman to bed, let him,” his father added. “He’s worked hard for five years, and if he wishes to take a woman as a prize, it is within his customary rights to do so. Just be discreet,” he warned with a pointed look. “Do not embarrass your mother. She has worked hard on creating these matches for you. You have not found your fated, and so there is no law or bond preventing you from having multiple women, but there is an etiquette to these matters. While these women are here and for the first few months of your bonding, you will keep this woman a secret. Once your new mate is carrying an heir, you can move her into your apartments or dispose of her, whichever you’d prefer.”
“I’ll take her when you’re done with her,” Tristan suggested helpfully.
Porcelain shattered on the ground. Everyone turned to see Isla staring down at the broken pieces of the pitcher she’d been holding. The wine had splashed up onto her legs and uniform, coating the walls and floors with the sticky red liquid. She glanced up and around.
“My apologies,” she said, ducking her head and using a rag from her apron to pick up whatever shards she could manage. Two other servants rushed forward to help her clean the mess. With everything she could carry securely in her arms, she ran from the room.
Tristan chuckled. “Servants, such a jealous breed.”
Sylvan waited a few minutes, long enough for it not to be suspicious, before he excused himself from the table. He left through the main door, but rather than head back in the direction of his room, he turned the opposite way toward the kitchen. The room was chaos; he could hear it before he even stepped foot inside. There was shouting and the sound of pots clanging in desperation as they tried to ready dessert before the royals upstairs could realize it was a few minutes late. He entered the room, and everything went quiet.
He spotted Isla with her palms spread wide on an island, her head hanging between her shoulders while she took deep breaths to calm herself.
“Your Majesty.”
“Your Majesty.”
“Your Majesty.”
The slaves repeated with a bow as he made his way through the shocked crowd. Royals did not enter the kitchens. As he grew closer, Isla appeared to realize what was happening. Maurice, the head chef, gave a small bow as he slid a cup of wine over to Isla, who downed it before she turned to face Sylvan. She did not bow. She crossed her arms.
“Are you alright?” he asked, touching her forearm where a piece of the pitcher had cut her arm. She ripped her arm away from him.
“I’m fine, Your Highness,” she answered, anger simmering beneath her words. She gave a short, mock curtsy before turning back to the island and taking the next cup of wine.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Consuming wine, hoping to find some laced with poison that I may feed to you before it kills me first,” she hissed, her back still turned. Maurice’s eyes widened, and several servants nearby gasped.
“Leave us,” he ordered. Everyone paused and glanced around, knowing they must obey but also terrified of displeasing the people upstairs waiting for their tarts. “Now!”
Everyone scattered, racing for the closest exit. Isla stayed turned away from him, her knuckles turning white against the wood she gripped.
“You may not speak to me like that in public,” he reprimanded.
She spun around, catching him off guard and forcing him back a step. “Am I not? Perhaps the king can hand over his mistress contract so that I may know my proper place as a prince’s prize!” she spat.
“I never said you were my mistress. They assumed,” he said, jutting his head angrily toward the stairs.
She guffawed. “I will never be your mistress. I will never warm your bed,” she vowed, raising her chin and taking a step closer in defiance.
He clenched his jaw as his blood raced through his veins at her proximity. Her scent only increased with her anger, the flush of her skin made her skin hotter. Everything about her defiance made him want her more.
“What were you doing in that room? You are meant to be in my apartments. You are meant to be healing.”
“Delilah healed me just fine. I am a slave to Eredhal. I was told to serve wine, thus I did.”
Sylvan opened his mouth to remind her exactly who she belonged to when pounding feet sounded on the stairwell.
“Why has dessert not been served?!” Missus yelled. “Is it true? Did that pathetic Tridean girl really…” She stopped dead at the foot of the stairs. Her eyes bulged at the sight of Prince Sylvan standing mere inches away from the girl she had just insulted. Isla stepped back, and he repressed a growl. “Your Majesty,” Missus said on an exhale before she dropped into a deep curtsy. “I apologize, I wasn’t aware that…”
“You assigned her to dinner?” Sylvan interrupted.
Missus rose and looked between the two people. “Yes, not originally. I wished to assign another girl, but this prisoner requested to take her shift.”
Sylvan turned to look at Isla, who avoided his eyes and crossed her arms.
“I wished to punish another girl for dropping food on your guard’s feet yesterday but the Tridean insisted on taking the punishment herself, unless she made a fool of herself, which she did.”
Sylvan’s glare pivoted back to Missus, who shrank under his gaze. “And what punishment will befall her for making a simple mistake?”
Missus turned white. “Not her, Your Majesty,” she assured him. “The girl whom she took the shift for will be punished.”
Sylvan looked back at Isla, who swiped a tear from her cheek before he could. He touched her chin and forced her eyes up, though she did not meet his gaze.
“You will come to my apartments tonight so that I may see to your wounds.”
Isla’s jaw set in anger. He released her chin, knowing he wouldn’t get a response before he swiveled again to Missus. He stalked toward her until he was towering above her.
“There will be no punishment given to anyone tonight, or I will have you removed from service. Do I make myself clear?” he asked.
Missus gaped up at him until remembering who she was. Her head bobbed quickly and then lowered in submission. Sylvan cast one last lingering look at Isla, whose face had smoothed to one of disbelief, before he went for the stairs.