Pleasure and Purpose Read online

  "Damn you to the Void!" he shouted into her face, spittle dotting her cheeks. Her arms were taut with muscle for all they were so slim, but he could wrap his fingers all the way around them, and he squeezed tighter. Tighter still when she made no reply. "Damn you to the Void, you stupid, ugly whore! How dare you?"

  The sickness rushed through him, setting him on fire, making him shake. He bared his teeth to make her flinch.

  She made no move to get away from him, not when he shook her again. Nor when he shouted, and nor when he snapped his teeth so close to the flesh of her throat he swore he could taste the flavor of her soap. She made him a dog with her gaze, and that was what he became. What he'd been.

  "You live in filth!" she shouted into his face, her voice dipping low when he let her go.

  "Everything you have of beauty has been broken or dirtied, and you live within the trash like an animal that knows no better, but you do know better, Alaric. You squeak about love but what I see here tells me you know nothing of it. You know only selfishness and spite. I know naught of the man you were, but of the one I see before I wish to know little more."

  He let her go. He stepped back. She looked him up and down and sneered.

  "No wonder she left you."

  The words shot him surely as an arrow and he went to his knees. His forehead found the floor. Alaric was aware of pain but it couldn't compare to the agony ripping through the rest of him.

  When he looked up, she was gone and he was unable to tell if an hour had passed, or a day. Sunlight shafted through the window and hit the same place on the rug it had always done, but that told him nothing. He cradled his head and his palm came away spotted with dried blood. The sickness had passed, at least for the moment, though pain deep within his muscles still locked them tight. His stomach clenched on emptiness. No wonder she left you.

  But she hadn't left him. If she'd left him, she would be gone. He would not have to see her, or listen to her laughter from across the room, or hear her name on someone else's lips. He wouldn't have to suffer knowing she'd sent him away.

  He got to his feet, every muscle screaming, but bit back the moan. His joints creaked as though age had settled onto him all at once instead over the passage of years. His stomach no longer leaped up to burn his throat, but the nausea had been little worse than this constant, nagging pain that flared into agony with every step. He went to the door to the hall but the knob wouldn't turn. Locked in? As though he were a common prisoner? Alaric kicked the door, heedless until the pain that ripped through him indicated that he wore no boots. He fell to the carpet and pounded it until his fists bruised, but that didn't open the lock.

  Nor did it bring back the Handmaiden.

  He curled into a ball on the floor for a long while, but then got to his feet. He looked around the room, and it tilted every which way as his head swam. He blinked away the red haze and drew in breath after breath until he no longer felt he might fall. Alaric paused when his bare foot crunched against the remains of a puzzle box of shaved and polished wood. Once the pieces had fit together so smoothly they appeared as one solid block, but at some time over the past few weeks he'd torn it apart and ruined the tiny, coiled springs inside that held it together. What had looked solid and unyielding had proven to be fragile and all too easy to destroy.

  He drew back his foot to kick it aside but stopped himself. Instead, he bent to lift the shattered frame with its dangling shreds of wood. He cradled it for a minute in his two palms. Larissa had given him the box. The center, seen only by someone clever enough to undo the puzzle, had held a miniature portrait of her. He looked for it now, knowing the sight of her face would hurt, but looking anyway. It wasn't there, but he didn't throw down the box. He took it to the woodbasket next to the fireplace. It would burn as well as any log.

  Alaric turned, his sore foot one more complaint to add to the list, and looked 'round his room. He'd never cared overmuch for the sorts of expensive furnishings Cillian craved. It had never mattered to him what hung on his walls or the name of the maker who built his chair. But it had mattered to his lady, who'd been the one to pick out almost every item in these rooms. It had given her pleasure to use both her coin and his for such a project, and Alaric had never minded, no matter the cost or how he might have to put himself into debt for it. She'd made these rooms more than a simple apartment in a king's castle. She'd made them a luxury.

  Broken now, a paradise no longer. Alaric toed aside a stack of papers he couldn't recall throwing to the floor. Beneath rested an inkpot, its contents spread across the carpet upon which he'd once made love to Larissa for an entire afternoon. He could still taste her, and his fingers came to his mouth unbidden at the memory.

  Alaric stood, eyes closed, in the center of the room as he fought for one breath. Then another. And the next, each as sharp and hot in his lungs as breathing fire. When he opened them, nothing had changed. No lady stood waiting, beckoning. No room full of sunshine and laughter, no table laid with food for them to share. She had sent him from her,

  the laughter that once had suffused him with joy turned horrible in its mocking. He looked around the room again and breathed deep but found no trace even of her perfume. The stink of spoiled food reached him, and the subtle odor of dirt. He'd have stunk of it himself, had that. . . woman . . . not cleaned him.

  Even now his cock twitched at the memory, and he cursed his body for a fool. A disloyal fool at that. She had a soft touch, yet there was no forgetting she could be harsh, too. He hadn't even asked her name.

  Had it mattered? He hadn't sent for her and didn't want her, no matter how his traitorous prick tried to prove otherwise. Now he reached past the drawstring of the trousers she'd forced upon him and pinched his inner thigh hard enough to bring tears to his eyes and a grunt from his lips. Then harder, fiercely enough to bruise.

  The desk had already been tidied. She must have done it. Dull anger knocked his innards as he moved toward it, intent on scattering the neat piles of papers she'd made, but his hand stayed at the last moment, and at the sight of the tray of bread and milk she'd told him about. His stomach rumbled and he put a hand on it. Stale bread and milk would have made him retch not so long before but now it looked as good to him as any meal he'd ever eaten.

  He fell to without manners, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He could eat only a little before his stomach protested and he stifled a belch. He paused, waiting to see if his makeshift supper would exit the way it had arrived, but nothing came up but a sour taste.

  He still wanted oblivion. His hands, in fact, shook with the wanting of it. In a few more hours the craving would be very bad, he thought. But not the worst he'd ever undergone. He might even be able to get through it, if he had to. If he wanted to. As Alaric looked around the room again, he thought of the Handmaiden's smooth touch and her cool gaze. She didn't know him at all, and never would, if he had his way. But he wouldn't give her the pleasure of being right about him.

  He was no beast, bound to live in squalor. His lady had not left him, and though she'd turned him away, it was not because of how he lived or dressed or kept his chambers. That Handmaiden was wrong. It was naught he'd done that had ruined his lady's favor . . . Alaric stopped, aware he'd been stooping to lift a pile of books to put them back in their places on the shelves.

  Back aching, he held on to the bookshelf with one slim volume in his hand. He stared at it for some long time before sliding it into place, aligned with the others. Then the next. He'd done nothing to make his lady abandon him. He had, in fact, done everything she wanted, no matter how she pushed. No matter what she asked. Any humiliation had been hers for the taking, any punishment she granted, he'd borne. She had a heavy hand and a sharp tongue, and her sadism was finely honed. She'd always known just where to prick him to force the blood, and which places to pinch to leave a bruise. And he'd given it all to her, whatever she'd asked.

  In the end, she'd laughed, her arm looped through another's. A man Alaric didn't even know, so