As the commander’s eyes quickly take you in, your heartbeat skips.
Damn.
And you wish his gaze wouldn’t affect you like this.
But the soft flicker of surprise in his eyes is reward enough for you, and you feel secretly giddy inside with euphoric delight. You clear your throat at the uncomfortable feeling and avert your eyes.
No doubt he’s just shocked you’re wearing it after you said you wouldn’t.
“Keep your eyes on her at all times,” he orders sharply. “Remember what I told you,” he directs them, his voice gruff and stern.
You roll your eyes at his back as he issues more orders.
“Yes, Commander,” they say in unison as he turns to you.
“Extend your hands,” he rasps softly. You obey, thrusting your hands to him. He re-shackles your wrists without contacting your skin with his, yet again. The long sleeves of your gown surely make it much easier today.
Now you wonder why he’s always been so cautious with this. Why even bother? And you try your hardest not to linger on a wild thought. It’s pushing its way with quiet determination to the surface as if weaving its way through the eye of a needle.
But as much as you resist it, you can feel the shimmery, gossamer thread of it piercing the forefront of your mind. And you suddenly wonder what his warm touch might feel like when he’s not trying to restrain you.
The unbidden thought makes your cheeks and neck flame. And your pulse races as you watch his long fingers gently secure the lock on your bonds.
You dare not look up at him, even when he’s finished with the lock.
He releases your hands. Immediately, you bury all those thoughts.
To take your mind off it, you focus on the iron shackles over the lovely green sleeves of your fine gown.
“These shackles do not go with a gown like this,” you say, feeling stubborn and suddenly irritated.
“They are for everyone’s safety,” he murmurs.
As he retreats out the door, you heave out a giant breath of relief, and your heartbeat steadies.
His guards follow behind, leading you to a large mess hall where other guardsmen are eating their breakfast.
The guards secure your chain to a long wooden table that seats at least eight. But you’re all by yourself now and the Commander is nowhere in sight.
And no utensils are on your table, you notice with great regret. Even a butter knife would do for a weapon.
“Excuse me, where are my utensils?” You ask one of the four guards standing by you.
“The Commander instructed us that you may not have utensils,” the young guardsman says.
You narrow your eyes. “Did he now?”
He nods and resumes his position.
You sigh at your misfortune but notice the giant breakfast feast before you.
You have never seen this much food in your entire life. Cheese, salted pork, eggs, hunks of still-warm, crusty bread, and fruit are making your mouth water.
You take a bite out of the warm piece of bread and moan with indecent pleasure. This must be more treachery by the Commander—that elvish devil, including the absence of utensils on the table.
He intends to fatten you up before your journey to Sherinde, no doubt.
You’ve got to stay ahead of this—at any cost.
As a prisoner of war, you’ll most likely be sold as a slave.
Or much worse.
A violent shudder rolls over you at the thought of being a concubine to some old and fat Sherinden nobleman.
You’ve heard the whispers of Sherinde and what awaits you there. You push that horrid thought away for now. You’ll deal with it later when that time comes.
The table is laden with delicious, hot food, but suddenly, you’ve lost your appetite and drop your unfinished bread on the plate. You glance at your lap and smooth out the soft folds of your delicate, flowy gown.
All you can do now is hope for a miracle you can somehow escape this place.
Suddenly, a dark shadow looms over you. You jerk your head up and stare into unfamiliar eyes. “You must be my new charge.”
Panic swirls through your entire body.
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