SAMANTHA
"Why should I be calm?" King Lionel asked. His voice was sharp. Impatient. His golden eyes bore into Darlington like drills. "Will you tell me what happened then?"
Darlington's hands were clasped behind his back. His face was calm. Too calm. Like he was discussing the weather instead of a violent brawl that had nearly destroyed the training room.
"We came to observe the practice of the slaves," Darlington said. His voice was measured. Careful. "It seemed one of them caught the interest of Jayce. Causing him to retaliate and cause harm to the rest of us. You know he can be very aggressive."
"HMMM.."
"We never even expected for there to be a brawl. But you know our brother. He must always find a way to fight. Everything to him is war. Even the food that he eats and the air that he breathes."
My heart skipped a beat.
I could not help but look at Darlington. My eyes darted to his face. He was not looking at me. His gaze was fixed on his father. Steady, unblinking, like he could pluck out the Alpha King's eyeballs if he could.
I quickly removed my gaze. I looked down at the floor. At the broken glass. At the scattered dildoes.
Darlington had removed me from the explanation.
Thank the goddess he did not mention my name.
Was he trying to shield me? The thought crossed my mind but I dismissed it immediately. In this harsh world, I was just a humble sex slave. A body to be used. A womb to bear children. I had no value beyond what I could produce.
Darlington, being a Lycan prince, had no reason to cover for me. No reason to protect me. No reason to care whether I lived or died.
And yet, he shifted the blame away from me to himself.
Wow.
I thanked the goddess silently. I would be spared from the princes' drama. For now.
But Darlington's explanation only made King Lionel more angry. His face darkened. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
"Who is the woman?!" he snapped. "Talk! Explain to me!"
The room went silent.
Leslie, who had been crouched on the floor near the wall, began to tremble. Her face was pale. Her lips were white. Her eyes were wide with terror.
"It was not me," she said. Her voice was shaking. Cracking. "I swear. It was not me. I promise..."
She tried to retreat. She tried to crawl backward, to hide in a corner, to disappear into the shadows. Her hands scraped against the stone floor.
Before she could escape, two guards seized her. Their hands locked around her arms. They dragged her across the room. Her feet kicked. Her body struggled. But it was useless.
They forced her to kneel before the king.
King Lionel looked down at her with an icy stare. His lip curled. His eyes narrowed.
"So," he said slowly, "it is you."
Leslie shook her head. Tears streamed down her face. Mascara ran in black rivers down her cheeks. Her whole body was shaking.
"No," she begged. "It was not me. I swear to the Goddess. I swear on my mother's grave. I swear on everything I have."
The king ignored her.
He passed a judgement on her. Although I disliked her, I had to admit that the judgement was too harsh.
"Since you are the one causing all this unrest," he said, "you will be punished."
"Please," Leslie begged. Blood left her face. She looked like a ghost, like a corpse. Like a woman who had already died and was just waiting for her body to realize it.
King Lionel's voice suddenly became very harsh. It cut through the room like a blade.
"Remove this woman from my pack!" he commanded. "No one should be allowed to accept her. No one should give her shelter. No one should give her food. She is nothing. Less than nothing. She is rogue."
The gravity of his words hit Leslie hard.
Her mouth fell open. Her eyes went blank and her hands dropped to her sides.
Did this mean Leslie would be a rogue? Would she be left to wander the forests alone? Would she be hunted? Starve? Freeze? Die in a ditch somewhere with no one to mourn her?
The force of this punishment was harsher than I expected.
Leslie's despair was obvious as she slumped to the floor. Her body folded in on itself. Her head bowed. Her shoulders shook. Hopelessness was written all over her face. Her lips moved but no sound came out. She looked like a woman who had lost everything in a single moment.
I watched her and I felt so bad. Damn.
This place was treacherous. A place where anybody could be cast away for any little thing in the twinkle of an eye. One moment you were a slave. The next moment you were nothing.
You could go from a timid slave to a rogue who would be forgotten and erased.
As I was thinking, Leslie shifted her eyes toward me.
There was so much anger in them. So much hatred. So much blame. Her eyes burned. Her lips curled. Her whole face twisted into something ugly. Something desperate.
My instincts shot into play. My body tensed. My muscles coiled. I knew what was coming before it happened. I could see it in the way her body gathered itself. In the way her hands pressed against the floor.
The next moment, Leslie scrambled toward Lionel.
She moved on her hands and knees like a wounded animal. Her fingers clawed at the stone. Her dress dragged behind her. She reached the king's feet and grabbed at the hem of his robe. Her knuckles were white.
"Your Highness," she said. Her voice was hoarse, desperate and cracked. "It was not me. I swear on the Goddess. I swear on the moon. I swear on everything holy."
Her finger moved in my direction and her eyes locked onto mine. There was no regret in them. No shame. Only fury.
"Samantha Samuels," she said, her voice rising, "is the one to blame."