This scene takes place before Defy.
Damian
I hovered near the door, waiting in
tense silence, until I heard the plodding footfalls of Nolan crossing my outer
chamber and then the thud of the other door. Even then, I remained still as my
muscles burned in protest, until I was absolutely certain he was gone for the
night. I was finally, completely alone. With a sigh I rolled my shoulders,
trying to shrug off the stress of keeping up the constant façade. The air was
thick with the weight of another storm, a heavy, pressing dampness that coated
my skin and dragged through my lungs like sludge with every breath. After
peeling off my shirt so I could practice unencumbered, I crouched and withdrew
the sword that was hidden beneath my mattress.
With a deep, slow breath, I sank
into a low fighting stance and methodically began working through a series of
warm-ups, loosening my muscles, ignoring the sweat that built around my
hairline and began to slip down the sides of my face. Gradually I increased the
speed of my movements, faster and faster, always on bare feet, always silent
except for the whisper of the blade slicing the thick air, so that no one could
hear me—not even the guards who lived on either side of my room. No one could ever
find out that the prince they knew—the lazy, irritable, selfish man they
thought me to be—was no more so than Iker was but a harmless, annoying old man.
The storm broke outside as the
familiar pain of muscles working slowly led to a growing fatigue. And then,
finally, as the rain lashed at my window and the trees beyond the palace wall
were completely encased in shadows, came the welcome numbness. There was
nothing but me, the darkness, and the sword I wielded. I tried to keep from
imagining all my foes as I lunged and parried, spun and jabbed, both those
unknown, and those within the palace. Iker. My own father. If I let myself see
them, I lost the numbness. I lost the chance for a dreamless sleep.
But not matter how hard I tried, no
matter how quickly I carved my blade through the air, I couldn’t keep my father
out of my mind tonight.
With a ragged gasp, I halted, my
chest heaving and my shoulders and arms aching. I couldn’t let myself think of
him. Not now. If I let myself go down that path, I would be plagued by
nightmares, which were exactly what I was working to avoid. Even when I was
able to exhaust myself to the point of being able to fall into bed and
immediately drift off to sleep, the blood-drenched dreams still found me more
nights than not. But sometimes, sometimes, if I worked hard enough, long
enough before giving up and lying down, I could avoid them. I could steal a
night free from my mother’s screams, from the blood washing across my vision as
she was killed in front of me . . . from the memory of Victor telling me to
run, to hide, to save myself even as the enemy was breaking in to his room—leaving
him to die alone.
An ache blossomed deep in my body,
somewhere below my heart, a terrible, wrenching pain that stole my breath as I
tossed the sword onto my bed and grabbed a rag to wipe the sweat from my head
and neck. I held the cloth over my eyes, my hands fisted around the smooth
fabric, willing the memories, the horrific images and sounds to go away.
Probably only because I was so
still, so focused on the silence as I stood near the wall that separated us,
was I able to make out the sound of a small clatter, of something hitting a
stone floor, barely audible from the room next to mine followed by the muted
sound of laughter. I had to strain to hear it, but immediate recognition drove
the pain inside to become even more piercing.
Alex.
It was her laughter. I could tell,
even through the wall that separated us. But Marcel’s quickly followed, a
deeper timbre than his twin sister’s. When they were alone, she didn’t work so
hard to moderate her voice, though she was quite good at it in public. I
noticed a difference even then—but it was probably because I’d known she was a
girl from the first moment I met Alex and Marcel, when they were presented to
me as the newest members of my guard. They were nearly identical, so everyone
believed that Alex was a boy. Especially after she beat everyone in the ring to
earn her spot on the guard.
But because of what I was, I could
sense that she was a girl, and it had taken me by such surprise I’d barely been
able to maintain my aloof guise, to keep the condescending sneer on my face as
she and Marcel bowed to me. A girl. . . . a girl who was a better
fighter than even Deron? And in the year since that time, my original shock had
quickly given way to admiration and even, if I was honest, something akin to
jealousy. Because even though she had to play a part, at least she had her
brother. At least she had someone.
She wasn’t completely alone in her
disguise. Like me.
However, it wasn’t true jealousy
that I felt. I stood there silently, hoping for another burst of sound, but
there was nothing else. If they were still up, I could no longer hear them.
I was grateful she had her brother.
What I felt was more of a . . . yearning. I watched her, and I yearned for
something that could never be. Because the worst part of all of it was that
somehow, stupidly—uselessly—I’d allowed myself to start to care for her.
It was undoubtedly one of the worst mistakes of my life to give her even a
moment’s thought beyond her duty to protect me. Especially since I could never
reveal that I knew she was a girl.
We were alike in so many ways. I
longed to truly know her—to let herknow the real me. I was tired of the
annoyance in her changeable hazel eyes and the barely veiled dislike she
labored to conceal from me when she was on duty. If she only knew...But it was
an impossible wish. An incredibly risky and potentially lethal wish.
I turned away from the wall, grabbed
up my sword, shoved it back into its hiding spot, then lay down on my bed
without bothering to rinse off. I had to stop letting my mind wander. It was
taking me down dangerous paths tonight. With a sigh, I shut my eyes, hoping I
would be spared the nightmares, but knowing they would probably come anyway.
