She had heard the stories about the merciless King Tristan, a man of no feelings and no heart-even less toward women. But from that day on, ever since Lucy had released her volatile torrent of energy, sending him across the room, something had been different about him. He took a sudden interest in her company, starting to spend inordinate amounts of time in it. First, it struck Lucy-what could this cold, quaking king find pretty in her?
First, it was the little things: ordering the guards to have meals brought to her, not just the tasteless unappealing food prisoners normally received but real food. Even giving her some measure of freedom-letting her walk the halls of the palace with guards close at hand. His eyes were on her everywhere, always watching, always weighing.
Then, Tristan being around had just smothered Lucy. She'd turn a corner, and there he'd be, watching her, studying her. She would feel his eyes on her when she wasn't even looking. Early on, she tried just ignoring him, thinking with a little time away from her, his obsession would just burn out. But it never did. It just seemed to intensify.
Yet, the time spent around her had done nothing but raise his curiosity. Lucy was different, not like those women he had coerced or punished into compliance. There was something in regard to her which wasn't-something he understood, roused emotions in him he'd never felt in years-possibly never. He had never given a hoot for any woman more than for his selfish desires, but in the case of Lucy, things were different. Whether it was the feisty spirit, or whether she was so strong for one so little, or whether it was because she resisted him to the last ounce of strength in her body that did it wasn't so sure.
Days rubbed into days, and his obsession for her only spread. He was drawn by her and felt a desire to know her-all that made no meaning. She stirred in him the emotions which he had kept captive, buried so deep in him for so long; emotions he had never succumbed to, never fed nor allowed himself to avail of.
But no matter how much he was to disown it, he could never keep himself away from her.
One night, Tristan came to Lucy's room, his eyes afire with an intensity she had never seen. He leaned over her, silent and staring. The weight of his gaze was heavy on her skin, and she knew what he wanted. He always did, and tonight was no different. This time, though, there was an edge behind his eyes-a quaint vulnerability.
"I want you," he whispered low, commanding.
Lucy tensed up; her heart pounding against her chest. So long had she resisted him, hoping his interest would dissipate. Now, faced with such relentless desire, Lucy knew she had little choice. My mind racing to every avenue possible-perhaps if she gave in to him, maybe if she just allowed him to take what he wanted from her, he would finally leave her alone. Maybe then she could be free.
He could feel her fear, and to placate her-much of the coarseness was curbed: "I won't hurt you, I've never felt it like this, Lucy. You're different."
She swallowed hard as her brain battled in conflict between terror and release. Would he finally let her go if she relented? Was this an opportunity to run away?
Lucy nodded after some really painful moments of silence, her heart leadingening with foreboding. She had to play his game if she was ever to taste freedom. That night, she let him take what he wanted; maybe that was the key to her freedom.
But as the hours ticked by and morning finally came, Lucy realized her hopes were a little misguided. King Tristan didn't let her go. In fact, he did just the opposite: he locked her in his room in full knowledge that she would do her utmost to escape the very moment his back was turned.
Her head was threshing about in bed that morning, while inside her head a maelstrom of runaway plans whirled. In an instant, all those runaway plans went awry because across her head-high a sudden chill began to sweep. Somebody is watching me, she felt; somebody unseen was lurking in the shadows.
She sat higher in bed and peered around, but there was nothing to see. Her heart went against her chest, with her instincts yelling that something drastically was wrong. Then she heard it-a low, mean growl emanating from the corner of the room.
This time, however, turning toward the sound, her blood ran cold. A huge hulking wolf was standing hunched, a strange otherworldly glow emanating from his eyes. In an instant, he launched himself at her-barely able to move, frozen in place-and before the creature could reach her, her door burst open.
King Tristan burst in, his sword drawn. In one swift strong stroke, he slashed at the wolf, sending it slamming against the wall. Growling in pain, it turned quickly into human form, and Lucy gasped as her heart pounded in recognition of the figure that stood before them.
It was a woman-an older woman with silver hair, and eyes filled with sorrow.
"Mother?" King Tristan's voice cracked in incredulity.
Lucy's eyes widened in horror. His mother? But word was, King Tristan's mother was long dead.
"How?.?, Tristan stuttered his voice in shock and sorrow. "How are you still alive?"
His mother said nothing. Her eyes were cold and distant, but after one last look at her son, she shifted back to her wolf form and leaped out the window, into the night.
Tristan fell to one knee, white and gray as the door beside him. He had never considered but that his mother was long dead; and now, to see her thus alive, yet gone so far, it tore something in him.
She was frozen, eyes wide in wonder, before this mighty king, this man who took everything away from her, in heartbeats of pure shuddering. There came one odd moment, a strange sense of pity flared within her-so wrong, so unwelcome. She wants to hate him, despise him for all he has done, but seeing him like this-so full of vulnerability and broken-it's hard holding onto that anger.
She leaned forward despite better judgment, laying a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm so sorry," she breathed, her voice barely there, a brush of air.
He lifted his eyes to hers then, bright with hurt. "Don't," he whispered, voice trembling. "Don't pity me."
He sprang to his feet, his hand swiping across his face in the wake of the tears streaming down his cheeks. The flash of vulnerability crossing his eyes was pulled back, like the tide out to sea, leaving in its wake the cool, hard mask with which Lucy was growing all too familiar.
"You will be staying here," he said, voice growing more powerful with each word. "And don't even think about trying to escape."
Lucy's heart sank. She had come so close, and now her chance for freedom seemed to slip further away.
"Tomorrow, I have something to tell the court," he said in low and ominous tones. "And it involves you too."
She found herself thinking: what could he mean? What was he going to tell? And how was it to involve her?
Later that night, lying in bed, the words of the king echoed in her head, and a feel of foreboding stirred inside. Whatever was to come, she knew all would change.