The Eunuch's Heir Read Free Page A

it, she said—anyone but he himself. The pounding in his head cried for violence, destruction, and Wolfram tried to force it down. She didn’t know what the problem was; no point venting his fury at her. He flung himself from the bed, shoving his fingers through his hair, then sharply pulling back his hand. He laughed, a dry little cackle. “Of course,” he said, “I should have known better than to lie to you.” He pushed past her to the table where he’d heaped his clothes.
    Above the table, a small mirror flashed. In the dim light, he stared at his own face, at the blond hair tumbling over his shoulder. His hands clenched the edge of the wood, slivers piercing his uncallused fingers.
    Slowly, she came up beside him, her pale face joining his in the polished silver. “You didn’t know,” she whispered.
    “How could I not know my own hair was bleached?” he snapped at her. “I’m not stupid.” He grabbed a handful of cloth from the table, shook it until it was revealed as his woolen tunic, and yanked it over his head. “What do you take me for?”
    “Nothing, my lord,” she protested, pulling a little back from him.
    Jerking on his hose, he flicked a quick glance up at her. The fine cloth tore beneath his hurried fingers. Her arms pulled tighter over her breasts, her thighs pressed together, her head lowered so that she watched him from behind a curtain of that false red hair. She trembled, ever so slightly.
    When he had met her, in the depths of a disreputable tavern, he had seen first her beauty, and only then the marks upon her from another man’s hands. From that first night, she had been his alone, he had kept her, paid rent upon thishovel she lived in, bought her the pretty things she admired. Since that first night, months ago, there had been no marks upon her—yet now, she trembled at the sight of him.
    Wolfram let out a pent-up breath between his clenched teeth. “I won’t hit you.”
    Defiance and disbelief glittered in her eyes. “You never have, my lord,” she replied coolly, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. “But there’s always a first time.”
    With shaking hands, he gathered his belt and slapped it around his narrow waist. Straightening, he caught the flash of his hair again in the mirror and growled at his own reflection.
    “Perhaps it’s the soap,” she said lightly, standing still through some force of will he had not seen in her before.
    He eyed her in the mirror. She didn’t know who he was; he had been at pains to keep it from her—if he never came back, she wouldn’t know how to find him. It didn’t matter whom she told about her young lover with the bleached-blond hair. Already, he missed the comfort of her arms. He shoved his foot into a boot.
    “You aren’t coming back, are you?” she asked. “You’re leaving me because of this?”
    Wolfram shrugged stiffly, pulling on the other boot, and turning to face her.
    “What are you afraid of, my lord?”
    “I’m not afraid! It’s just the soap, remember? Just a little paler than it should be, that’s all.”
    “I’ll bet your mother has a locket,” she said quietly, her arms still rigid, gooseflesh beginning to creep along her naked skin.
    He glowered. “She may have a dozen, who cares?”
    “A locket with your baby hair in it. Many women save the first cutting.”
    “Do you have any lockets?” he inquired, brushing past her toward the door.
    “My lord,” she called. “Don’t leave without a kiss!”
    Wolfram spun on his heel, grasping her face in both hands, and pulling her lips to his. The kiss left her trembling in the doorway as he stormed out into the dark and narrow street.
    All the way home, Wolfram turned it over in his head, slapping the treacherous hair out of his face. It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter at all, and yet the darkness he carried with him spoke in whispers of dread. His mother would have a locket—she must. What if it were blond? What if the feel of his hair was