Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy (26 page)

I buck and writhe
upon the floor, tearing at my dress with my nails to be free of his
grasp. The outer layer of my skirt comes loose and sends Atticus
tumbling backward. His head smacks against the wall, though it only
gives me a second to flee.

I
dart for the door, fumbling with the latch with trembling hands.
This
cannot be happening.
My
only thought is to hold out long enough for Fane to arrive. Surely he
will come to see me, forgoing the feast to ensure I am safe.
What
if he does not come?

My terror mounts as
the scent of Atticus’s lust grows bold and nauseating. He leaps
upon me, clawing at me with nails sharp enough to shred the bodice of
my dress. I cry out and beat my fists against his arms.

He grunts as he
fights to still my hands, trapping them in one great hand while the
other grabs me by my waist and pushes me beneath him. His knees land
on either side of me, pinning me in place.

“Get your
hands off me.” I thrash in his grasp. I spit into his face and
watch as his eyes darken with rage. Snatching my wrists, he slams my
hands into the floor with enough effort to shatter bone. My fingers
throb as tears fall freely from my eyes. Tears of fear, disgust, and
anger.

Atticus shoves his
knee up into my ribs to silence me. My cries turn to labored gasps as
I curl in upon myself. I wheeze and blink to clear the darkness that
threatens to steal away my vision.

His hot, rancid
breath washes over my face a second before he crushes his lips
against mine, grinding my lip against my teeth. He muffles my screams
as his free hand tears away at my skirts. Only a thin barrier now
lies between us.

Blood seeps between
my lips and fuels his desire. His tongue darts over my split lip. He
groans as his hands rise above my thigh. I squeeze my legs together
as terror washes over me with the ferocity of a winter storm.
Countless times has my innocence been stolen by Vladimir. I will not
allow Atticus to do the same.

His gaze shifts as
he draws my torn skirts up to my hip. I seize the moment and slam my
forehead into his temple and ram my knee right up between his legs.
Atticus groans and his grip on my hands diminishes.

Desperate to be
free, I clamp my teeth down upon his arm and dig in until his blood
pools in my mouth. He beats at my jaw, striking blow after blow. I
glare back at him as rage sharpens my gaze.

His cries of outrage
spurn me on. I clamp down tighter. He releases my hand and slams a
fist into my jaw. It snaps open of its own volition, though the
instant he is free, I grab the front of his shirt and toss him aside.
He slams into the wall and rolls back to his feet, crouching low as I
have seen Vladimir and Lucien do before.

I mirror his
movements, keeping my weight shifted forward. It feels the natural
thing to do. Blood drips from Atticus’s arm, splattering
against the woven rug. His lips peel back into a fierce snarl. He
looks like a crazed man. “You whore. Look what you did to my
arm.”

A slow smile tugs at
the corners of my lips. “I will do far worse if you dare touch
me again.”

“Insolent
wretch!” He flies at me with greater speed than I anticipated.
I barely have time to dive to the side before he is upon me, covering
my back like a bear mauling its victim. I slam my elbow back into
him, unsure of what area I connect with, though I am hoping it is his
ribs. He grunts in pain yet does not release me.

Keep
your hands free,
I
admonish myself as I struggle against his grasp. I know the moment he
pins me again, I may not be able to get free.

“Help!”
I scream despite Atticus’s earlier statement that we are
completely alone.
Has
Fane arrived at the stables yet? Has he entered the castle in search
of me?

My thoughts fragment
as I scramble across the floor, carrying the weight of both of us on
my back. He latches his arms about my waist, tearing at the
underskirt of my dress until it comes free, exposing me fully.

Aghast at the feel
of his hands upon my bare flesh, I dive toward my bedside table. I
jerk my head to the side at the last second, narrowly escaping the
wide wooden leg. A sickening thud overhead and the slackening of
Atticus’s grasp gives me a second to breathe.

He slumps from my
back and collapses onto the floor. I crawl out from beneath him. My
arms tremble as I kick him off my trapped foot. He does not move as I
claw my way up the table in search of anything I can throw at him.

“I will make
you scream for that,” Atticus growls in my ear as he snatches a
handful of my hair, yanking my head back so far I fear it might snap
off completely. I can feel the flesh of my scalp starting to tear. My
screams echo off the stone walls. Blindly, I grasp the edge of my
hand mirror and bring it down atop his head.

Blood splatters me,
seeming to explode from his face. A wide gash appears over his eye.
Others open along his cheeks, nose, and chin. A rain of glass falls
about my feet as I claw at him to release my hair. He shoves my face
into the edge of the table and I slump to the ground.

The room spins
before me and darkness rushes in to steal away the pain. I feel my
body thrown back to the floor, though I am removed from it all. I can
hear fabric ripping, feel his hands shredding my dress away in great
chunks

It is only when I
feel him pressed against my thighs that I revive. I shriek and thrust
up into him hard enough to knock him off balance. I grasp a broken
shard of glass from the floor and pounce atop Atticus, giving no mind
to my lack of clothing or the pains that riddle my body.

My pulse hammers in
my ears as I stare down into his bloodied eye. My lips peel back from
my teeth in a snarl as I drive the shard from the mirror into his
throat. Blood bubbles burst between his lips as his hands frantically
paw at my hand. I lean into the shard, savoring the sound of his
flesh peeling away. My arm jerks as the tip of the glass breaks off
in his spinal cord.

“Roseline?”

A rumbling growl
rises in my throat as my head whips around to find Fane standing in
the doorway. His face is vacant of color, his mouth gaped in horror.
Lucien stands over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed as he focuses on
Atticus’s gasping breaths.

I hear the flurry of
silk and the pounding of boots. Soon my doorway is filled with the
faces of Alamesia, Emeline, Amadeus, and finally Vladimir, who pushes
his way to the front.

He shoves Fane aside
as he enters my room. I sink back to the floor, crouched low. Blood
coats my body, warm yet surprisingly pleasant. I watch the myriad of
emotions splaying across Vladimir’s face as he approaches.

My muscles coil as I
prepare to lunge for Vladimir’s throat, when I catch Fane’s
gaze. His eyes are wide with warning as he shakes his head.

Reluctantly, I sink
back onto my heels, though not before I see Lucien turn his gaze upon
Fane. His complexion shifts from ashen to a pale rose as Fane averts
his gaze. I bark out a snarl and Lucien turns his gaze upon me. A
slow smile darkens his face.

“Look at her,
brother,” he whispers. The awe in his voice sickens me as he
moves past Fane to stand beside my husband. “Is she not
breathtaking?”

Vladimir nods
slowly. “Indeed.”

I force myself not
to look at Fane as Vladimir approaches. My chests rises and falls as
I seek to control my anger as he draws near. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” I
manage to say. I wet my lips and taste Atticus’s blood upon me.
I turn to the side and spit. A sniff of disgust jerks my attention
toward Alamesia. Her lip curls with haughty disapproval.

Vladimir follows my
gaze and seems to realize for the first time that we are not alone.
“Leave us!”

His fingers dip into
the pool of blood expanding upon my bedroom floor. The rustle of silk
and the rapid retreat of footsteps hardly register as he reaches out
to touch my cheek. I tense as a low growl rumbles deep in my chest,
yet I do not pull away. I am lucid enough to know that would bring
his anger down upon me.

“I will live,”
I respond tersely.

He casts his glance
to the side and observes Atticus. His neck is awash with blood, his
white shirt giving evidence to the growing stain. His mouth opens and
closes, though no sound escapes. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Isn’t
it obvious, brother?” Lucien calls from behind, his tone
dripping with boredom. “Atticus tired of your decree.”

Vladimir hisses at
Lucien and the man falls silent, though I can see defiance in his
eyes when I look up at him. My husband turns back to face me. “Is
this true?”

I nod, unable to
trust myself to speak again. Vladimir’s face darkens to match
the deep velvet of his coat. He turns to face Lucien and Fane. “No
one is to touch my wife. Is that understood?”

A murmur of assent
ripples between them, though only Fane seems to be in rapt agreement
of Vladimir’s command. “If I hear of anything like this
again, I will begin hanging every man in this castle. Heed my words,
for I am in no jesting mood.”

Lucien raises his
hands to examine his nails. “It is time for the feast,
Vladimir. You have guests to attend to.”

“I will leave
them to your care,” he responds. Lucien nods in agreement and
exits my room.

Fane turns to
follow, though Vladimir calls him back. “You let this happen.”

Vladimir
stares down at me with such intensity that I fear I might flinch and
betray myself. A trembling has already begun in my hands and arms. I
know it will soon spread to the rest of my body.
I
have killed a man.

I look down at
Atticus, knowing his life could be spared if Vladimir wills it.
Judging by the rage simmering within his eyes, I dare say Atticus’s
chances are grim. A part of me is oddly grateful for this
retribution.

“My apologies,
my lord.” Fane dips his head low. “I only just returned.”

“That is not
acceptable.” Vladimir reaches out a hand to me. I hesitate for
a second too long, and I see the storm clouds brewing in his face. I
rise up and take his hand, letting him help me to my feet.

Vladimir turns us
around to face Fane. I struggle to meet his unreadable gaze. He
stares into my eyes rather than anything revealed below. How many
times must I be laid bare to this man before he will show me
dishonor? “She is your responsibility now. If anything like
this happens again, it will be your head on a pike at the castle
gates.”

I hear his approach
long before Fane knocks upon my door. I wrap my shawl about my
shoulders and press my cheek against my knees. “Come in.”

Fane enters my room
and closes the door behind him. When he turns to face me, I can see
the slump of his shoulders, weighted down with his unspoken thoughts
from the previous night. “I waited as long as I could.”

“I know.”
The castle grounds are dreary today. A near constant rain overnight
has left craters in the deep muck. I can hear the pattering of the
rain dripping into the hog’s feed trough from the roof above.
Fane’s hair is slicked with moisture, his leather pants
splattered with drying mud. His boots look more brown than black now.

He shifts
uncomfortably near the door, inside the room, though only just. “You
blame yourself for his death.”

“No. I lift my
head to meet his steady gaze. “I do not mourn for his passing.
I fear it.”

“Why?”
This time he approaches swiftly and drops down beside me.

I suck in a deep
breath and hold it for a moment, willing the tremor in my fingers to
abate. “I enjoyed it,” I say, releasing my breath.

“His death?”

“Killing him.”
I expect him to look upon me with disgust, yet instead, he nods with
apparent understanding, so I continue. “I felt powerful when I
held his life in my hands. I knew I had a choice: show him mercy or
end him. I could have chosen mercy…”

Fane sighs and sinks
down onto the floor before me, careful to allow plenty of space
between us, though I realize I no longer need it. I have grown to
trust Fane. Despite not having a great deal of time with him, he has
shown me through word and action that he cares. That he is genuine.
“Atticus was an evil man. The world is a better place without.”

“Perhaps so,
yet his death should not have come by my hand. Not when I enjoyed it
so.” My voice wavers and I bite down on my lip.

“He was your
first?”

I shake my head,
closing my eyes to the memory of my sister’s lifeless, accusing
eyes. “Vladimir set me upon my own sister right after I awoke
on our wedding night. She was my first.” My voice cracks and I
tighten my grip on my legs. “She trusted me to protect her and
I am the reason she died.”

“No,”
Fane says adamantly. He rises up and places his hands on the seat
beside me. “That was Vladimir’s doing.”

Warm tears curl
along my cheeks. “I bit her. That was my doing.”

Fane’s touch
atop my hand is hesitant, though he does not draw back when I stare
down at him, loathe to accept any form of comfort. “You have no
fault in what happened to your sister. You had just transitioned and
needed nourishment. It is a natural progression.”

“There
is
nothing
natural
about feeding on your sister,” I spit out and turn away from
him.

“No, of course
not.” His grip on my hand tightens as he frowns. “I
realize I am not relaying my sentiments correctly.”

I turn back to look
at him and am touched by the lines drawn across his brow. His head is
lowered, his posture slumped. I sigh and place my hand atop his. He
looks up, surprised by my touch. “I know you mean well.”

He smiles and nods
as he draws back his hand. He watches me for a moment, most likely
weighing my mental state. I dry the remainder of my tears and brush
back the fuzzy curls about my forehead. The near constant heat from
the fire is doing awful things to my thick hair.