The Infernal King | 1 ✓

CHAPTER XXVII | THREATS AND THEATRICS

       MAARIT NOTICED IT when she awoke: there was something both less ostentatious and more welcoming about this guest room than the previous one. She had slept in a four-poster bed made of a light brown wood. Ornate carvings spiralled upwards around each of the four vertical columns. Drapes were drawn around the bed, hanging from the rails—they shimmered and undulated like a river of gold, seeming as though they had been spun from silk.

       She had always wanted a bed with drapes; if she ever wished to be alone, all she had to do was give them a tug.

       The walls were a plain white and the floor was made of a crimson-coloured carpet rather than dark wood. A window overlooked the stables, where sunlight washed over Maarit. She squinted and burrowed her head under the covers. She was disoriented only for one shining, ephemeral moment of blissful ignorance.

       Then, she felt soreness in her neck and everything came rushing back again. The nervous churn in her stomach that hadn't disappeared in her sleep made sense to her. She lifted her hand to her mouth and pressed it against her lips to keep from crying out at the vivid memory.

       He's dead.

       He cannot touch you anymore.

       No one can.

       "Rot in Hell," she muttered angrily as she thought of her predator.

       Shaking her head to rid it of the combination of murderous and self-pitying thoughts, she stood from the bed. The first sensation she felt was soreness—the pain had had time to seep into her muscles and bones overnight, causing them to ache and throb in a pathetic attempt at mimicking her burdened heart.

       It's going to be fine. It's over. There is no point in worrying about it anymore. There is nothing you can do.

       Over and over, she tried to mentally talk herself out of her pain—but comforting herself had never been a very effective way of filling the void. It had become a habit, especially after her parents left.

       What good can it do to dwell on something that is long over?

       She bit down just a bit too hard on her bottom lip. She needed to get out of the castle—not to leave, but just to feel the sun on her skin and the wind in her hair.

       Maarit whirled around until her eyes fell on a wardrobe in the far corner of the room. She sighed and hung her head, knowing that everything inside it would be extravagant. Dread filled her—she wasn't in the mood. As she opened it, she was once again blinded by the bright colours.

       She undressed as quickly as possible, trying not to look at the bruises—she failed miserably. All Maarit longed to do was scrub them all away, but not even a million baths could remove her bruises. Her eyes lifted to the ceiling and she took a deep breath, urging herself not to look at her body.

       She found the least opulent-looking gown—which proved to be quite difficult—and reluctantly pulled it on. It was the one that dragged on the floor the least. It stopped just at her ankles. Visually, the material appeared to be stiff and uncomfortable, but, in fact, was far from it. The only true discomfort Maarit experienced was due to how tightly it fit her body, nearly pushing her ribcage inwards.

       It was white, with a dash of royal blue that bled in the folds of the skirt and sleeves.

       She wore no corset, no girdle.

       She couldn't bear to wear either with the injuries on her body. The dress was constricting enough.

       A voice from just outside the door floated to her ears. At first, she was frightened, but when she stopped to listen, she realized it was Theodoracius giving orders. She could only tell it was his voice, but couldn't make out exactly what he was saying. Curiosity prickled at her skin and she swept towards the door.

       To her surprise, it was not locked and immediately swung open.

       There were guards lining the corridor leading to her room. Each of them had sheathed swords at their belts and armour on their bodies. They were on their knees and their heads were turned to the king, who stood in the midst of all of them, incognizant of the fact that the prisoner had just joined them.

       Her eyes fell on him, taking in his current appearance. His handsome face was stern and threatening, his eyes frigid—but it was what he held in his hands that caught her attention.

       He held his sword like a torch, or a pike, with the pointed tip skewering Sergius's neck, where his head had been separated from his body. Waving it in front of the stoic faces of the guards, Theodoracius barked menacingly, "Do you see this? This is the fate of all of you if a single one lays your hands on—"

       His gaze cut to her and he stopped talking mid-sentence. A nearly imperceptible gasp and wide eyes punctuated his abrupt halt; he swiftly drew the sword and the head behind his back.

       Most of the guards' heads turned in her direction, trying to find the source of their king's sudden silence. Her eyes were wide as well, but with a dozen stares on her, she felt a familiar sensation clawing at her neck and chest.

       She could not swallow with the growing lump in her throat; she could not breathe with a pair of grubby hands squeezing her lungs. To her, their stares seemed predatory, just as Sergius's had been...

       "No, look at me," he said succinctly.

       Their heads gravitated back to him.

       "If one of you has the audacity to disobey me in the way that this worthless parasite of a man did," he stated, his eyebrows arched in fury, "I will personally slice each of your heads off and mount them in my trophy room. Meanwhile, you shall be burning in the fiery depths of Hell for the rest of eternity."

       Though he was viciously threatening their lives, Maarit suddenly found herself struggling to retain her laughter at his theatrics.

       "Resume your posts. Immediately."

       Theodoracius only looked at her once all of his guards had dispersed to their usual position along the corridors. Two of them positioned themselves not far off, keeping the king within their line of vision.

       He cleared his throat.

       "Well hello, darling," he said distractedly, adjusting his grip on the sword behind his back.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

Current thoughts on Theo? Other characters? The story? I love hearing them.