being discovered in a bed that was not her own was humiliating, certainly being discovered in the bath would be worse.
She walked slowly across the room, moving to a large vanity and mirror mounted at the back wall. There were small bottles displayed on the clean marble surface. She wondered what a man did with so many bottles of lotions and scents. She reached out and took hold of one, unscrewing the lid and lifting it to her nose, sniffing cautiously. It was a cologne, smelling of sandalwood and other spices. She tried to remember if the man she had encountered earlier smelled of those things. She could not.
She set the bottle back down, picking up the next one. This one contained lotion, and it was a temptation too far for her. She tipped it cautiously, squirting a small amount onto her hands, before putting the bottle back in its place. She smoothed the thick cream over her hands, luxuriating in the feel. Her skin had grown rough from so many years of hard labor and living outdoors. A sign of strength, she often thought, and she had never regretted it. Still, it didn’t mean she couldn’t indulge in one small moment of softness.
“What are you doing?”
She turned sharply, backing herself up against the edge of the vanity, knocking several of the bottles over as she did. “I was bored,” she said, looking up to see the same man she had encountered earlier standing in the doorway glaring fiercely at her.
The impact of him was beyond that of a physical blow. She was accustomed to large men, men with a commanding presence that pushed you back, held you at a distance.
Some might call the people she had been raised with Gypsies, based on their simple, nomadic lifestyle, but they weren’t, not in blood heritage. They were part of a small, mostly destroyed minority group in Tirimia who still clung to the old ways. Not a warrior culture in the traditional sense, but fiercely protective of the camp and of anyone they felt to be under their care.
However, the gruff exterior of the men she had been raised around could not have been more different from the suave, confronting aura given off by this man. One would think that a man in a suit would not be half as intimidating as one in old jeans. This man should have appeared to be vastly more civilized, and yet it was that veneer of civility that she found frightening. Because she sensed so much beneath it. A hidden depth and strength, buried so deep she had no way of assessing it.
She didn’t like this at all. Didn’t like the fact that she was in the dark about so many things. At home, things had been so much simpler. She had been protected. She had been certain of her surroundings. The world had been small, containing the forest, her caravan, the cooking fires and people she had known for most of her life.
There were rules. And she had been certain in them.
Now she was here. In a strange land, confronted by a stranger.
A large, broad-chested stranger in a well-cut suit. With short black hair, a square jaw and strong, dark eyebrows. He was beautiful in the same way a predator was. Lethal, and difficult to look away from. She had never, in all her life, been held captive by a man in such a way. So far the men she encountered could easily be divided into two categories. Those she had grown up with and seen nearly every day of her life, and those she considered an enemy.
This man was neither, and that made him unique.
She might yet decide he was an enemy, but for now, she would hold off on that assessment. He might well be dangerous, but he could also very well be her only ally. She had realized two months ago, when she was kidnapped from the encampment, that she had only a spare few options. If she tried to escape her captors and go back to the clan, they would be punished. A poor repayment for shared food, clothing and shelter of the past fifteen years.
Escaping and staying in Petras was no more of a possibility.
She had no money, no form of identification. She didn’t know the layout of the city, or of the country beyond. She couldn’t drive, and she had no friends.
She would have to make one.
Zara eyed the man standing in the doorway of the bathroom. She wondered if she could make a friend of him. Well, not a friend. Not in the true sense.
But it would do no good to battle him all the way. She would need to be compliant, to a degree. To watch for the right moment to make her move. Whatever it might be.
“You were bored?” he asked, repeating her words back to her.
“Yes, I don’t know how long I’ve been in here, but it has been quite a while.”
“Perhaps we should start over,” he said. “I am Prince Andres. It appears we are to be married.”
Unease, followed by a rash of unexplainable heat coursed through her veins. “Is that so?”
His words confirmed her suspicions. That he was the owner of this room. That he was now the owner of her.
“I am informed.” He arched one dark eyebrow. “Perhaps you would like to continue this discussion in a more comfortable setting?”
She nodded slowly and began to walk toward him. Then her stomach growled, the sound echoing in the space. “I’m hungry,” she said. She realized then that she hadn’t eaten since very early this morning.
“Then I will arrange for you to be fed.”
It didn’t take long for Andres to procure the promised food. He had a tray of meats, cheeses, fruits and breads sent up to the bedroom, which was how Zara found herself sitting on the bed again, her legs covered with a blanket, eating the spread that had been placed before her.
She could feel his watchful gaze on her as she ate in near silence. He hadn’t interrupted her yet, but she could see that he wanted to. For the first time in a very long while she felt she might have the upper hand. A very slight upper hand, to be sure, but he seemed nearly as confused and put off by the entire situation as she was. Which was, in her estimation, why he was being so watchful. And why he was letting her eat undisturbed. He was circling her, as though she were a potentially dangerous creature and he was concerned about being bitten.
The thought sent a pleasurable rush of power through her, joining the sated sensation in the pit of her stomach brought about by the cheese. Her needs had always been simple. At least, they had become simple once she was sent to live with the nomads at just six years old. They had been simple by necessity. But lately, her needs had shrunk down even further. Warmth, food, shelter. If she had those things, she knew she could keep on going.
Good food and soft blankets were several notches more extravagant than she’d had in the past couple of months. And a bit of power? Very heady icing on top of this unexpected cake.
So she continued to eat in silence, sensing his growing impatience, allowing it to feed her small, mean satisfaction.
“How long has it been since you were fed?”
His question surprised her. “Since this morning.”
“You are too skinny,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. His words offended her, and she couldn’t quite figure out why. She had never given much thought to her appearance. The men who had taken her captive had assigned a woman to make her beautiful for presentation to the king, but Zara couldn’t say it had mattered much to her. They had put too much makeup on her, the gold around her eyes her own addition, a nod to the culture she had adopted as her own. Her beauty had never been a topic of discussion
