Private Tales Poisoned Words For the Heart

Imogen glanced down the table at Greydon, feigning a look of disgust as she returned her attention to Ilir. "Bastard indeed. He certainly has audacity." she commented, managing not to smirk.

She tilted her head as he leaned in, her lips curving around the rim of her glass before she took a slow, thoughtful sip. The wine wasn’t strong enough for this conversation, but she’d make do. She set the cup down gently, the crystal making the faintest click against the polished wood.

“Friendship is a sweet thing,” she said softly, turning her gaze toward him, just slightly, just enough to meet his eyes without offering the full breadth of her attention. “But not always a lasting one.”

Her voice was honeyed, pleasant, but it carried the edge of steel if one listened closely enough.

“Your sister and I share the common ground of being a woman of nobility in this city,” she continued, plucking an invisible thread from the tablecloth. “We were raised in a world that doesn’t reward softness. I admire her. Truly. She has teeth.” She smiled faintly, her voice dropping to something far silkier. “But so do I.”

She allowed the smile to widen, just a fraction, eyes dancing with something darker.

“If becoming Lady Malennis meant outmaneuvering your sister, I assure you I would lose no sleep over it. I imagine she wouldn’t either. We both know what game we’re playing. Besides, she is to become Lady Solherre, is she not?"

Her gaze flicked toward Eira at the far end of the table, and she lifted her cup slightly in a silent, wry toast.

Then she turned back to Ilir, her voice low and smooth as velvet. “I don’t do friendship the way little girls do, My Lord.. And I don’t need her approval. Only yours.”

She let that linger in the air between them before settling back in her seat, reaching again for her wine like nothing of note had just been said.

It was pleasure lacing his smile. Perhaps Imogen could be saying things to please him, but Ilir could hear the unwavering confidence in her words. She was becoming more woman before his eyes than viper, and it was an incredibly difficult feat for him to show his interest in someone.

Imogen was someone he needed to watch lest she turned her ire onto him.

"Perhaps I owe your brother an apology. I expected you to be just that, the little girls grown up to do as they say..." Ilir smirked. "But your honesty has been refreshing. Your mind is... a captivating thing to be let in on."

And he would keep speaking, if it had not been at a dinner party to celebrate the announcement of his betrothal to Imogen Celreos. Speeches were made, calling for his attention. Eira then stood, to speak on behalf of him. Her words were carefully chosen, but her charisma for crowds captivated the guests into believing her words. Eira herself garnered attention for the fine additions to her person. The ring on her finger gifted by the Lady Solherre, and the stone dangling from a golden chain around her neck, a sure Solherre heirloom Ilir heard was gifted by Leovold himself.

It irked him that despite taking away every thing Eira had worked for and strived to become, she still found stone to walk on and find shelter elsewhere.

Chalices were lifted to toast the newly betrothed, and Ilir nodded at them.

Before the first course was brought out, Ilir chanced a hand upon Imogen's knee. He turned to her, squeezing his hand. "I wonder, my lady, if you would like to play a game with me? Kill someone I name, and I will grant you a freedom in our marriage."

Imogen’s eyes remained fixed ahead, the edges of her smile ironed taut by sheer force of will. It was either that or let it twist into something far less polite, far more honest. She refrained from snorting only by biting down so hard on the inside of her cheek that she tasted blood. Of course that was what he expected. A little girl who did what she was told. Her molars ground together behind her tight smile.

Captivating, he said, all because she had a mind of her own. She’d laugh, if it weren’t so nauseating.

Instead, she let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Captivating?” she echoed, tone velvet-smooth but lined with blades. “Careful, Ilir… You’ve only just opened the lid on the box. You might find the rest of my mind far more difficult to put back where you found it.”

She turned her head just enough to meet his gaze, all icy elegance and subtle warning. You have no idea who I am. But she didn’t say it. Didn’t need to.

She didn’t wait for his reply, focusing instead on the rising speeches. They were filled with false warmth, shallow sentiments, all of it meant to smooth over a bloodless union sealed by cold ambition. But her brother, dear, foolish Ivan, spoke like he meant it. Spoke of her as though she were a treasure, a gem polished and ready to be displayed. Her best friend, his brave little sister, his pride, his joy.

She stared at him, her stomach churning.

You’re throwing me into a cage, Ivan. One with gold bars, perhaps, but a cage all the same.

She smiled, sipped, smiled again.

It wasn’t until Ilir’s hand settled on her knee that the smile finally cracked. Her spine straightened, an involuntary flicker of tension, and she dared a glance at him without turning her head.

She nearly choked at his proposal, wine catching in her throat. She covered it swiftly with her napkin, dabbing at the corner of her mouth, but the heat of a hundred unseen eyes prickled at her skin. The laugh she gave was soft yet mirthless.

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite…” Her gaze shifted, briefly, to Ivan. To the unspoken betrayal twisting like a knife between her ribs. He had told him, hadn't he? Of course he had. Her value wasn’t in her beauty alone, or even her name. It was in what she could do, what she had already done.

Her throat cleared. Her voice steadied.

“I think murder might sour the evening, no? Everyone here is either family or a friend of the family, who could you possibly w—”

She cut herself off and her eyes found Greydon. The smile faltered again, just briefly. Surely not.

Then, as though discussing the weather: “And what would that ‘freedom’ be, my Lord?”

His had flexed, running slightly higher on her thigh. The feel of the black dress was soft beneath his hand, but he soon transferred it to reach for his wine glass. It was red wine freshly poured, and he took it without thanks.

"Of course not, Imogen." He lightly chastised as the rim of the glass balanced at his lip. "The best moments are when they least expect it and without any other witnesses." Ilir drank heartily, clicking his fingers for the server to refill his glass. He looked to his wife to be, dark eyes staring into her greens.

He considered her a moment.

There would have been worse prospects to make the new Lady Malennis, but at least she was the prettiest. Ilir himself was part of handsome children, Sidonie and Eira looking near twins and he their close relative.

His eyes fell on her lips. Stayed there a moment.

"I suppose the freedom of taking lovers to your bed. Give me two heirs, and I will not care who you let into your bed." As long as his lordship was secure, then he did not truly care for having a wife. "But of course, my love. I am always open to hearing your suggestions."

Imogen felt the heat climb her neck in equal parts rage and revulsion as Ilir’s hand drifted higher along her thigh. Still she did not flinch. She would not. She’d sooner set fire to her own skin than give him that kind of satisfaction.

Let him touch her. Let him believe her frozen smile was anything but venom held behind her teeth. How fucking dare he?

The weight of his stare found her lips, and she wondered how quickly she could bite through her own to keep from snarling. She hated the way he said her name. Drawled it like he owned it already.

He was dangerous..But so was she.

When he finally lifted his hand to his glass, she exhaled slowly and without sound, a release of pressure no one would notice but her. Her eyes remained ahead, feigned interest in nothing in particular, until his words reached her.

The freedom to take lovers.

Her brow arched, slow and sharp, and a low breath of laughter curled from her lips. It was not sweet, nor was it kind.

"And here I thought you entered this bargain to secure yourself a loving, doting, and loyal wife, My Lord," she said, words light with mockery. She held her goblet aloft with a delicate flourish, allowing the cupbearer to refill it. A drop trembled on the rim. She let it fall onto her finger, then licked it clean with a casual grace.

She turned her head then, just enough to look at him fully. Her voice was softer now, yet far more cutting.

"You mistake me for a woman who needs permission." Her lips curled faintly, the wine making her tongue a little too loose. She wasn't his wife yet...

Her gaze drifted out over the hall as she leaned back, cradling her wine in slender fingers.

"And if I were to play along with your proposal…" Her eyes scanned the crowd. The laughter. The silk and finery. The unsuspecting smiles and the faces that wore ambition like perfume.

“…Who would you name?” she asked, sipping her wine, as though they were talking about the weather.

Ilir could care less if his freedom was lackluster to her. He didn't want to really care about anyone, truly, so that they wouldn't be used against him the way he used others against those he wanted to punish. He supposed Imogen would be fun, something to toy and tease, but he had to remember her skill set. It had been obvious she wanted to hide that, that she were surprised her brother inform Ilir such a thing.

But a name. A name he dared to not give breath to, but all the same it felt nice to lace it with hatred.

"Greydon Tomyris." He set down his glass, staring at the cousin that was speaking with Eira. He hated that he reminded him of another he wanted dead, of Cullen Morvane. At first, it had been fun to ruin his romantic happiness with his sister. It felt powerful to hold his crimes of fraternisation against him, to have that truth in his hand and ready to reveal should he wish to. It was easy that he was Marked, for no one questioned why he deserved to go out to the front.

Then his eyes fell on Eira. Eliminating her had been something he wanted to do for over a decade, but he could not deny there was some morsel of love held for his kin.

Marrying her to Leovold was just a ploy to get rid of her, and to drive the sword deeper into Cullen that his lover was to marry into the family that killed his own.

"He holds a claim to my title, even if he turned his back on bearing the name Malennis. There are some things a lord must do to ensure he is safe."

Imogen’s face did not move as Ilir spoke the name. But inside, the knot twisted cold and hard in her chest.

Greydon Tomyris.

She should have guessed. She had guessed, somewhere in the dark corners of her mind where she kept the worst thoughts quiet.

Her eyes slid to Greydon across the room, sitting beside Eira. Looking out for her, as he'd promised he would. Meanwhile her own brother had sold her into this shit show.

She sighed, soft and long. “Your request has been duly noted,” she murmured as she lifted her goblet again, drawing it to her lips. She drank deep, as though the wine might dull the discomfort snaking through her ribs.

Then, with studied ease, she turned to him, crossing one leg over the other, her voice light with feigned curiosity.

“Though, I must ask…” she tilted her head, lashes sweeping up lazily to meet his eyes. Her smile was delicate, almost amused, but her eyes remained glacial.

“If you hate him so much… why haven’t you done it yourself?” She lifted her glass in a faint toast, then let the words drip from her lips like poisoned honey.

“Or do you always hire a woman to do your dirty work for you?”

She held his gaze then, no flinch, no fear. Just curiosity, artfully sharpened into a challenge. She wanted him to remember who he’d chosen as his Lady. And she wanted to see how deeply he’d dig his own grave with her watching.

She forced herself not to roll her eyes, though it took effort. When his hand crept up her thigh, the steel in her spine locked into place. She kept her face smooth, but her skin crawled and her blood turned to ice. Touch me again when no one’s looking, and I’ll make sure you regret it.

“I never said I couldn’t do it,” she replied, quiet but barbed. What she didn’t add was that she just didn’t want to. Her brother would have no such qualms. If Ilir wanted Greydon dead, Ivan would see it done without blinking.

She kept her breathing even, refusing to flinch or give him the satisfaction of seeing discomfort. Still, the weight of her family’s reputation bore down on her, a chain around her throat. She thought of her father. Her mother. The people who would have ripped Ilir’s hand off for less. Ivan, of course, knew exactly how much she despised this, and he showed no such care.. It hurt.

Her eyes stung with tears before she could stop them. She looked past Ilir and found Greydon’s gaze locked on her. So, yes, he was watching. She let her stare linger just long enough for him to know she’d noticed before dropping it like a blade.

“No,” she lied, if only to irritate him. “It seems he’s not interested in what you’re saying. Likely assumes you’re whispering sweet nothings. Promises of love and affection…” she said with a faint curl of her lips..

The courses came in procession - five plates of delicate artistry she didn’t bother to touch. She drank instead, wine filling the silence she kept wrapped tight around herself. Laughter and conversation flitted across the table like birds, but she sat in the eye of her own storm, unmoved. She wasn’t even married to this man yet, and already she could feel the cage snapping shut. Alone, despite so many around her..

When the call came for more wine and dancing, she rose smoothly, the excuse barely more than a murmur. Her heels struck the floor in measured rhythm as she headed for the nearest door. Only once did her balance falter, and even then, she caught herself. She would not stumble, not here, not in front of them, and certainly not for him.

Her thoughts spun in too many directions at once, unsteady from the wine. She barely registered the faces she passed as she moved toward the nearest escape - the side door leading to the kitchens. The closest door. The only door that mattered.

A hand caught her arm and she jolted, a gasp breaking free before she could stop it. She tried to wrench herself back, panic flaring at the thought of Ivan or Ilir catching her mid-flight. Her heel snagged on her black skirts and she stumbled, forced to clutch at the nearest anchor.

Greydon fucking Tomyris.

Her eyes widened, then narrowed, her expression flickering between shock and confusion. She had watched him leave with Eira minutes earlier, and a sharp relief had come with it, because his absence meant she would not be forced to strike him down for Ilir’s amusement on this cursed, celebratory night.

“Gregory Tamson..” she muttered, righting herself with a clumsy grace, her mask of composure sliding back into place as if nothing had cracked beneath it. “I am fine. Always fine.” Her tone clipped, even if her pulse betrayed her.

She cast a quick glance over her shoulder to where Ilir still sat with Ivan, heads bent close, mercifully blind to this interruption. Imogen clutched Greydon’s arm and drew him the few necessary steps into the kitchens before a wandering eye could notice.

“Out,” she snapped, and the handful of startled staff obeyed, scattering with lowered heads.

When they were alone, she turned on him, restless, her pacing carrying her across the stone floor. Her fingers pressed into her temples, uncaring of the flour gathering at the hem of her skirts. “I thought you were gone. You should not be here." she huffed.. "Have you not riled him enough already?” Her words left her in a rush, brittle with exhaustion and too much wine.