A First Lesson in Royal Temper Management

With a fluid grace, the man on the throne rose and glided toward the subordinate who had just spoken. He paused directly before the trembling soldier, and a wet, sickening crunch echoed in the cavernous room. The soldier collapsed, lifeless, before his body even hit the stone floor. A scream tore from my throat, a sound so raw and shrill I barely recognized it as my own.

The King’s gaze snapped to me. In a few purposeful strides, he was before me, yanking the gag from my mouth with a single, sharp tug. I was too stunned to make a sound, my body instinctively trying to recoil from his overwhelming and intimidating presence.

“What are you to Rochelle?” he snarled, his voice a low growl.

The name meant nothing at first, and I could only stare at him, my mind blank with confusion. Then, a spark of recognition—Rochelle was Natalia’s middle name. As the realization dawned, a cold hand closed around my throat, his fingers tightening just enough to send a fresh wave of terror through me. He's going to snap my neck! the thought shrieked in my head.

“Sh-she’s m-my best fr-friend,” I stammered, my voice barely a whisper. “We’ve b-been like s-sisters for... for almost s-seven years.”

Without warning, he seized the front of my shirt and hurled me across the chamber as if I weighed nothing at all. I cried out as my body slammed into the cold, unforgiving floor. “Your answer has saved your life,” the King declared, his tone dripping with a chilling sarcasm. “Markus, this girl is now your charge.”

A different man, Markus, approached and spoke to me in a low voice. “What is your name?”

“Morgan,” I mumbled, the name tasting foreign on my lips.

Markus gently untied my feet and helped me to stand. As he began to lead me from the throne room, I dared to look over my shoulder. My blood ran cold. The King was holding Natalia’s unconscious form in his arms. My shock and fear ignited into a fierce, protective rage. He had better not lay another hand on her.

Two Days Later - Natalia

I opened my eyes to a small, well-lit stone chamber. My body ached all over. In the center of the room stood a large canopy bed, and across from it, a single, high, narrow window. Three doors punctuated the walls. I slid slowly from the bed, testing my sore limbs, and made my way to the window. It was far too high to offer any hope of escape; jumping was out of the question.

I turned my attention to the nearest door and pulled it open, revealing a wardrobe filled with dozens of exquisite, ornate gowns in a Victorian style. Useless. I crossed the room and opened the second door. It led to an enormous bathroom, dominated by a sunken tub so large it resembled a small, private lake. After closing that door, I tried the last one. It was locked. What was I supposed to do now?

Oh, God. The realization hit me like a physical blow. The storm would be over by now. Everyone was supposed to arrive at the cottage today. They would pull up to find it empty. The initial confusion would curdle into concern, then full-blown panic. They'd be so worried about Morgan and me. There would be hysteria, frantic phone calls to our parents, the police would be brought in… our first trip to Cayuga together, completely and utterly wrecked.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands, my thoughts racing, when the sound of the locked door being unfastened made me jump. A man stepped inside. It was him. The man from the clearing, the man from the throne room that felt more like a fever dream than a memory. He was tall and broad-shouldered, an incredibly imposing figure with tan skin, dark curling hair, and those unsettling coal-black eyes.

“You’re awake,” he observed, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.

“Who are you?” I demanded, my own voice trembling slightly. “And where is Morgan?”

A sneer curled his lip, and in that instant, I knew I already hated him with every fiber of my being.

“I am the King of these lands,” he announced, his tone laced with arrogance. “And as for the girl… let’s just say nothing will happen to her, so long as you cooperate.” The sneer widened into a full smile. I narrowed my eyes. What was happening?

“Where am I?” I asked, my head spinning. “The last thing I remember is some kind of weird voodoo ritual.”

He crossed to the bed and sat beside me, his proximity making my skin crawl. He reached out to touch my hair. On pure instinct, I slapped his hand away. I didn't want some strange, delusional man who thought he was a king touching me. His face darkened, and something in his expression screamed that I had made a terrible mistake. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and gave it a vicious yank. Searing pain shot through my scalp, so intense I thought he was trying to tear it from my skull. When he finally let go, I saw several strands of my own hair tangled in his fingers. A brutal headache began to throb behind my eyes.

“You are in my kingdom,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “And that ritual was to bring you here.” I had a thousand more questions, but if he would do that just for batting his hand away, I didn't want to find out what he'd do if I truly angered him.

He rose from the bed and moved to the closet. A moment later, he emerged holding one of the elaborate Victorian gowns. “Get changed,” he commanded. If I were a cat, every hair on my body would be standing on end.

“No.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Get changed,” he repeated, his voice colder this time.

“No,” I said again, my defiance fueled by a potent mixture of rage and terror.

In a flash, his hand closed around my arm like a vise. He dragged me toward the window, unlatched it, and pushed it open. Then he seized both my wrists and dangled me out into the open air. A gust of wind whipped across my body, making me sway nauseatingly. The terrifying thought that he was simply going to drop me filled my mind.

“You will obey me,” I heard him say, his voice a distant rumble, but I couldn't tear my gaze from the ground so, so far below. I was impossibly high up! It had to be ten stories! Fear clawed at my throat, but a small, logical voice whispered, He needs you for something.

“I have no reason to obey someone like you,” I managed to stammer. His grip tightened, and I flinched, but a wave of relief washed over me as he pulled me back inside.

“You will obey me, or you will not leave this room,” he stated, a terrifying finality in his tone. As if I need your help, I thought fiercely. I’ll get out on my own. After what he had just done, I had no intention of going anywhere with him. Besides, I had a gut feeling that this man needed me for something significant, and he was not accustomed to being denied.

“Then I guess I’ll never leave with you,” I shot back.

His face became a mask of pure fury; he looked capable of murder. I furiously reasoned that he couldn’t possibly kill me, since killing is forbidden in America. He strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The sound made me cringe, but I rushed to the door, praying in his rage he had forgotten to lock it. He hadn't. A moment later, a sequence of sounds from the hallway made my blood freeze in my veins: the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor, followed by a wet, gurgling shriek and the sharp, slicing sound of a blade moving through the air.

Did he just… murder someone? The thought was insane. That person, whoever they were, couldn't have deserved that!

He killed them because of you, whispered the same small voice that had told me he needed me.