Deadly Desires

Chapter 1

The present day.

The eve of New Moon.

I sit across Duke Langford in the centre of the proud-pillared drawing room, enormous in size and expansive in grandeur, illuminated by the wealth of light that the succession of cathedral-like windows usher in. Langford drapes himself over the sumptuous regal lounger whereas I sit rigid in a festooned armchair, a low-lying table lavished with platters of fruits and appetizers interspaced between us.

Handmaidens encircle the lounge. Afar, statuesque guards line the flanks, along with the pillars encrusted with brilliant morsels of white crystals that twinkle like stars amidst the flood of sunlight.

“I trust your travels to the Capital were pleasant.”

He nods absently and snaps his fingers; the sound summons one of the handmaidens who scurries to his side. Langford points to his half-empty chalice and she scampers over to the table, picking up his chalice of wine, then turning to offer it back to him with her face to the ground.

He takes it and dismisses her with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Gavaria is beautiful this time of season.” He draws a generous sip. “As yourself, princess. She is more glorious each time I behold her.”

Duke Langford. Another, entitled, wealthy noble. Another prospective suiter that father prostitutes before me in the hopes that I will forge an advantageous marriage alliance. For the good of the realm. The Duke is rather my senior, years beyond my age but a decent sight to view with enchanting green eyes. His face is grafted with a masculine rime of grey.

I smile tightly at the hollow compliment. “I heard your previous wife passed. You have my condolences.”

He frees a humoured breath from his nostrils. “She is not dead, oh, she lives—in shame. Our union was annulled when I learned she was defective.”

Confusion screws my face into a frown. “Defective?” I repeat harshly.

“Yes.” He sways the chalice casually, bringing it close to his lips. “She was barren. Worthless. What use is a woman if she cannot reproduce?”

Anger wells up in my chest. With practiced ease, I quell it with instilled decorum.

“You would find that there are many uses of a woman.” I lengthen my spine. “Tell me, why do you seek to wed me? More specifically, to become King consort of Gavaria?”

He sobers, lifting himself up into an upright position. “The realm already flourishes with bustling trade routes, a strong commercial health under the rule of your father. But why should the realm be good when it can be great? With my foreign trade agreements, we can become the most powerful kingdom history has ever known, greater even than the Empire.”

“A vision that can only be executed by my hand.” He stares back at me warily, flaring a brow. “My words will author the fate of this realm. Because I wield that power; a woman. That is one of my uses.”

His offense finally dawns on him, his eyes widening comically in realisation. “Your Grace, I —I,” he stutters, his one eye twitches. “Forgive me I did not intend it as a slight.”

I rise from the chair. The paradise-blue gown ripples with shades of the ocean, splashing to floor, the dress is sleeveless with a high-collar and a lace-up open back. I join my fingers together.

“However, you do make a fine point. You possess lucrative holdings.” I look the sky, the barrel ceiling of glistening glass panels. “Perhaps I shall repossess your lands, seize your cargo and take a percentage off your profits and give it to your former wife whom you have discarded.”

Fury flashes in his eyes but he says nothing. He cannot. He dares not.

My eyes scan him from the top to bottom gradually. “Did you ever stop to consider.” My eyes linger at his groin before continuing. “That the issue may be of what you…lack. A deficiency.”

His neck reddens, veins emerge, pulsing.

“Good day, Duke Langford.”

He stands grudgingly and bows to me. “Your Grace.” Words minced by indignation.

I smirk. Rotating, I make my way to the exit, walking down the immaculate glazed floor. Two of the handmaidens depart to pursue me as I spot Zenon standing at the immense venetian archway. His father is the Commander of the Crown Shield, an elite regiment of soldiers whose sole purpose is to safeguard my father. Zenon is the Commander’s son; the Vicrium, and his sole purpose is to protect me as the head of my security detail.

And my, how he is maddeningly handsome. His Viking-gold hair braided into a plait of a Gavarian warrior with a gritty full beard to match that perfectly frames his oaken jaw, an angular shape that tapers down to a sharp chin. He stands with his hands clasped behind him, armed in a sleeveless jerkin, leather moulding into his ironbound muscles. His bracers on his back keeps his sheathed long daggers, the pommels protrude from behind his shoulders.

I breeze through the archway and he sidles my flank, synchronising with my steps.

“I am astonished,” he says, his voice rumbles like bottled thunder. “You lasted longer with this one.”

I look back him. Those lambent, autumn-brown eyes that have watched over me for the most of my life. He and I share a knowing smile and I shake my head, turning my gaze to the gaping corridor decorated with human-size statues, some even larger, ignoring the hand-carved woodwork and graceful crown moulding. My gaze roams the gilded borders of the high-ceilinged castle. My home. The interior remodelled with baroque style and features of Romanesque fixtures like colonnades and terraces, the fifty-foot walls enamelled in gleaming stone minerals that bathes the expanse in warm light. The castle was also extended; an outer ring of defensive walls, surrounding the entire upper castle and separating the surrounding belt of the outer bailey.

New fortifications were carried out in straight lines, and towers is located in the corners. Among them is a four-sided north tower housing the gate passage, and the other on the eastern side, also four-sided, is facing the settlement. The upper castle was also reinforced with a semi-cylindrical cannon tower from the east side. A pentagonal bastion is also erected on the north side, bulging entirely in front of the perimeter of the outer defensive wall that is crowned with a breastwork of an embattlements.

Though the outdoors is my sanctuary, the gardens my safe haven. I have always held a fascination with the travertine cave beneath the castle. The underground tunnels. Father said it was only built in case of an emergency. A crises. If the castle was ever breached. It has stood for centuries and none has dared to try, and none ever will.

I sigh loudly.

Zenon looks at me askance. “And what was wrong with this one?”

I hold back a laugh. “Besides a deeply ingrained misogynistic attitude?”

“You cannot elude the inevitability of marriage.”

I release a sickened sound. “Must you echo my father’s sentiments? I know my duty, thank you, Crown Shield.”

“I am not Crown Shield yet.”

“As I am not queen yet.” I prance ahead and twirl in front of him. “Is it not funny, I wield power, yet I lack the true ability to wed for love. No, I must factor in strategic reasoning, economic benefits, the general welfare of my people. Then foster alliances that will defend her against…ambitious dominions.”

“And that is why you will make a fine queen,” he says to my back. “You will put your people first.”

I stop abruptly, Zenon halts in time and I swivel around, gazing up at him, a flaccid gap between us. He stares down at me sternly, a strong muscle pokes through his jaw, nearly piercing the skin.

“Yet I desire love, not manufactured out of a perceived political need,” I confess, and his gaze pours into mine. “Is it selfish of me to think of myself as well? To want something so simple though it can jeopardise everything if I were to fall for one unfit to rule at my side.”

His gaze locked on me like he’s memorising every nuance of my face. “Love is never simple,” he says with a moment of shocking tenderness. “Everything a ruler does must be for the good of their people, despite the cost to themselves.” He yields a step back, regarding me frosty formality. “Your Grace.”

Before I can think to say anything else, I hear shuffling sounds followed by the pitter patter of hasty feet. I swivel around to watch Jeffery, my father’s Page, walking briskly to me. My nerves rattle, I mute my qualms.

“Jeffery, what is it?”

With his face to the ground, he says, “The King requests an audience with you immediately, Your Grace.”

I move, Zenon instinctively follows.

“I beg of your pardon, Your Grace. But only you.”

I pause to spare him a look, a blend of remorse and fear. Zenon nods back at me encouragingly before I turn and continue to walk ahead on my own, with Jeffery purposefully walking two steps behind me along with my handmaidens in silent pursuit.

“Jeffery. Be honest with me. Do you know why he has summoned me? What was so urgent that it could not wait, since he still believes I was enjoying a luncheon with Duke Langford.”

I can sense Jeffery’s unease radiating off him in waves. Even if he does not know the granular details, he knows the context of whatever news that will befall me will me be met with my great displeasure.

“I would never pry on His Majesty.”

“Jeffery,” I say reproachfully.

He exhales defeatedly. “I may have overheard that another suiter was being prepared for you. A foreign royal. I do not know who or from where, but I do know that His Majesty has sent word to them, exchanging correspondences about their…advent here in Gavaria.”

“What?” My volume rises. “My father concocts possible terms of an alliance without my knowledge? With a foreigner.”

I knew it. I just knew this would bid my disdain.

I accelerate my pace. “He may be King, but I will not be bullied into a marriage or auctioned off like prized pony. He may reign today, but one I shall rule tomorrow.”

 Why can I not be a lone monarch with a stronghold of allies to ensure mutual security and prosperity. The reason eludes me as to why the destiny of kingdoms is decided in a shared bed.