The Pale Waters (#1 Reclaimed Souls) (3 page)

I’m delirious.

Trapped, and willfully so, it would seem. I
can easily run in the opposite direction—to the door behind me on
the far side of the room, or even the door that Cat disappeared
into—but I won’t. Can’t. He doesn’t trust me, and he shouldn’t. But
I didn’t expect this turn of events. I didn’t expect to feel this
way so quickly, which is stupid since I’ve been in love with this
prince for ages. But doubts creep in. There is a war going on
inside me. Bickering. Plotting. Fighting. Surrendering.

The fire roars behind him, the flames flare
and lick around his dark figure. I should be scared—and maybe I
am—but knowing that he’s touching me, staring at me, is enough to
make everything inside of me quake.

I wonder if he feels me shivering beneath
his fingertips. Surely the entire building can feel it. Left in
this spot with his hands on me, I have no doubt that
I
could
create another crack in the floor.

Then his hands move over to my neck in a
hypnotically slow manner; fingertips travel further up, and he
sinks his fingers into my hair. Threading, kneading. And I melt as
his head comes in lower, his lips nearly touch my ear. If he kisses
me, I’m lost.

Not true… I was lost the moment I walked
into this room.

Roland tilts my head.

Then he ruins the moment.

His fingers grab my hair, holding me
hostage, and he says in a low tone directly into my ear, “I am not
a fool, Rahda. I know why you’re here, and I know who sent you. Did
you think you were unique? Special? We’ll dance a little—I’ll
pretend that you don’t have a hidden agenda—and then I’ll send you
away empty-handed, and I can positively tell you that I won’t care
about whatever fate awaits you. I
said
take off your
clothes.” He hisses the last part.

His words shock me to the core. He knows!
This changes everything. I’m not prepared for this. None of it. But
I have no choice. If I have to remove my clothes to convince him
I’m not who he already knows I am, then I better hurry.

His hands are no longer on me. Whether he
pushed me back or I stepped back on my own, I’ll never know, but it
is all me as my fingers fumble with the toggle clasps at my chest,
and the metallic, wool blend fabriskin cascades down my milky white
breasts, taut rosy nipples, flat stomach, over wide hips, and
gathers around my feet in a shimmery pool of softness. Lifting an
eyebrow at his shadow, I step out of the fabric and stand proudly.
I am mostly shadows, too, or so I hope, but surely the firelight
casts my silhouette in a more favorable manner.

Nothing but heat stands between his eyes and
my naked,
unmarked
skin. His stance changes, and I wonder if
he means to retreat to his chair and inspect me as one might
appraise a priceless specimen. Instead, he moves around me as
silently as an assassin. Inspecting the curvy applicant in front of
him. Unless feminine curves were a legitimate weapon to Roland
Rexus, he won’t find whatever he thought he would on me.
They
never do.

As his shadow returns to my front—I haven’t
moved one inch during his assessment—he bends down, low, near my
feet. His hands gather the fabric and, as he slowly rises, I take
in his thick, dark, wavy hair and a non-scarred forehead. The
fabriskin robe moves up with him.

He pauses at my sex, his face inches away,
and a small groan escapes my lips. I’m not sure, but I think I hear
Roland growl a low grunt. I can feel his breathing on me. It takes
my entire willpower not to step into him, to let my delicate smooth
skin make contact with his lips, and let whatever happens happen.
But I maintain my statue-like stance and his pause isn’t as long as
I would have liked it to have been, and he gently secures the
fabriskin robe up my body, allowing my arms inside, and fastens it
low between my breasts. His fingers linger.

I wouldn’t mind a splash of cold water right
about now. I wouldn’t mind inspecting him in the same manner,
either.

Roland steps away from me, clears his
throat, and then retreats into his chair. He doesn’t seem as
confident. His movements are unsteady as he brings the wine glass
to his lips. I wonder if he imagines that I am that wine, ingesting
me, tasting me.

I swallow hard and stand there. Trying to
look calm, but I’m anything but.

“It seems I am mistaken, Rahda,” he says
from his corner. “Cat is on the other side of the door and will
show you to your room. Goodnight,” he says in a quiet, dismissive
tone.

What I want to say in a challenging manner
is,
No, you are not mistaken
, but instead I say, “Goodnight,
Roland.” I turn and leave his mysterious, alluring figure in the
dark room behind me. Somehow, I know that he won’t stop me, and I’m
both relieved and disappointed.

SIX

IN ONE SENSE, I FEEL A small victory. I
challenged the equilibrium of my new boss, but it wasn’t completely
one-sided. I must admit that I barely made it out of there with my
wits about me. If he only knew. If he only knew how close I was to
crumbing in his hands. How close I was to
throwing
myself at
him, mission be damned.

I close the door and find his chief of staff
waiting against the opposite wall. I expect her to ask a million
questions—outright and veiled—but instead, she congratulates me,
leads me down yet another long yellow hallway, through a lush
tropical atrium filled with brick pathways amongst dazzling
flowers, tall canopy leaves, exotic trees that house tiny white
monkeys, and a small purified and drinkable waterfall, all of which
sit beneath a thick clear glass in the ceiling that would either
display a gray day or a dark, moon-filled night. The entire
structure takes my breath away.

Tonight, the stormy sky above cast eerie
shadows as I follow Cat into the center of the tropical
gardens.

“The Gardens are open to the public during
the day, so avoid it if you can, but it is the quickest route to
your suites from the executive floor,” she tells me.

“Can I come here at night?”

She pauses for a brief second. “Yes, of
course, but you might have company.” The way she answers me tells
me she isn’t open to further questioning about that. I assume she
means Roland. But I don’t feel confident in that assessment.

I decide to take a closer look at Cat
Evinas, Roland’s chief of staff and my current guide through the
staggeringly huge Palace Skyscraper. Cat also wears a metallic
fabriskin robe, but the material is blueish-black, silkier,
sheerer, and encrusted with black jade stones at the hem. My own
wardrobe is downright pitiful in comparison.

Cat stops at a low-lighted lamp.

Beneath her robe, something glitters: a thin
silver dagger sits in a sheath attached by a silky braided rope
around her slim hips. She wears nothing else beneath the robe and,
where not tattooed, her hairless skin is a soft, peachy color. Long
fingers point at items as she describes something—which, at the
moment, is a pink-tipped horned toad once thought to be
extinct.

“Roland loves saving animals,” Cat declares
with warmth in her voice and for the first time, I wonder if she is
more than his chief of staff. She is exotic, different, lovely.
Feline-like. When she looks at me, it feels like she’s looking
right through me, like I’m transparent. Perhaps Cat is someone he
saved. I don’t want to be jealous, but I am.

“What exactly does a chief of staff do?”

“Whatever Roland needs. I take care of the
employees, the Palace, and him.”

I’m definitely jealous.

We reach the end of The Gardens, and Cat
types a sequence of numbers into a pad butted up against a corner
wall, and a hidden door hisses open.

Immediately, the air feels different. Less
heavy. “We pump extra oxygen into The Gardens,” she explains once
the door behind us seals itself shut. I hear something and I look
around Cat to see what it is. Down another long hallway, a set of
small, rotating elevators hum a welcoming tune. We walk to it. The
lifts appear to be on a loop; one set takes you to the floors below
while the other to the floors above. I try to recall how many
floors the palace claims. Twelve? Twenty? From the ground view up,
the top of the Palace Skyscraper reaches the clouds that cover the
city.

Cat steps into one of the lifts as I stare
at her rising form.

“The Palace appears to be rather advanced,”
I say as I enter the next lift, making it swing slightly. It didn’t
stop as I had expected, and Cat had to explain to me that since it
moves so slow, it’s more efficient to step into one instead of
stopping it, stepping in, and starting it up again. All I can think
about is that it doesn’t seem worth it just to save a couple of
seconds.

“Just wait until you see the northwest wing.
Timing is everything,” Cat says, smoothly stepping off the lift two
floors up. “So far, no accidents.”

I stumble from the elevator, step on my
fabriskin robe, and tear it up to my hip. Not even the hum of the
lifts masks the awful sound as the metal fabric springs apart, and
the tiny black slivers splatter everywhere. Luckily, Cat catches me
before I completely fall to the floor, but my bag slides off my
left arm, into the empty space between the floor and the lift, and
crashes several floors below.

“My bag!”

Cat shushes me, straightens me out, and taps
a few buttons onto a slim communicator tablet.

“No need to worry, Rahda. I’ll have a bot
bring everything up to your room.” She sees the concern on my face
and she turns her tablet and shows me a real-time layout of the
floor plan several levels below us. A small blinking dot moves
about swiftly, apparently picking up my purse and whatever ejected
from it. “See. All taken care of. The bot will be in your room
before us. Now,” she clicks her tongue at me, “your robe isn’t
serviceable.”

I realize that the front flap of my
fabriskin robe is open from the waist down, exposing me completely
to Cat. She doesn’t seem the least bit fazed. Cat grabs a loose
corner and quickly fixes it to a higher point on my robe, using
some sort of quick drying adhesive, creating a lop-sided hem.

“It will have to work until we reach your
suites,” she says smartly, winking. “Very nice figure, by the way.
Almost there.” She leads me down a thin corridor lined with tall
windows and turns left once the walls are a warmer mahogany wood
color, the floor thickly carpeted, and the lights low. The area is
less industrial and more residential.

Decorative sconces, mirrors, and hallway
dressers line both sides of the welcoming passageway. I can just
barely make out my shadowy reflection, catching glimpses of my
disheveled hair. I just now remember that Roland kept my scarf.

I notice the two-foot service robot beside a
door, presumably my room. It is holding my purse up high on a metal
arm-rod, eagerly waiting for me to take it. I feel around the bag’s
outside to ensure my tablet is inside. It is.

“Thank you,” I tell it just as it scurries
away, its little wheels working hard against the carpet.

I look up at the door. On a gold placard, in
large letters, the words
Research Assistant Seven
are etched
in. It looks brand new.

“What happened to the other six?” I ask,
meaning the other six research assistants before me.

Cat hesitates, but then says, “They did not
work out as anticipated. But,” she says and smiles brightly, “you
are here now and you’ll have a busy day tomorrow. You’ll find a
booklet of instructions in your room. Good night.”

I reach out to stop her. Her robe is so
smooth and beautiful, I dare not touch it. “I seem to have a
wardrobe issue,” I say, my face burning red. I can’t wear a torn
fabriskin robe tomorrow, not when I have to worry about everything
else I have to do.

“Did I not tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Your closet inside is stocked with several
dozen outfits. Feel free to wear whichever you like.” Her
communicator tablet beeps, and she looks at it immediately. “Roland
needs me. Good night, Rahda, and welcome
home
.” And before I
realize she’s gone, Cat’s long legs carry her in the same direction
the bot disappeared to.

I stay in the passageway, listening,
waiting, wondering if anyone else is around. After memorizing the
floor, I finally go inside my suite, but not before noticing a
shadow move near one of the mirrors further down the hall.

Roland.

I don’t know how I know, but I do. I don’t
stay to find out why. I close the door and lock it.

SEVEN

MY SUITE TAKES MY BREATH AWAY. It is more
than a suite, it’s a series of apartments, complete with a
furnished living room, dining room, and a plush bedroom that
connects to a glass bathroom. There’s even a small balcony that
overlooks the interior courtyard below.

Such opulence contrasts with the dreary,
humble—even shabby—environments outside the Palace walls. Something
like anger burns through me.
Don’t let these rich appointments
and furnishings blind you, Rahda.

But before I can find the wardrobe Cat spoke
about and clean up, the aroma of a hot meal comes from the dining
room. When was the last time I ate a sumptuous meal? I cannot name
the dishes, so I won’t even attempt to, but I eat a little bit of
everything
.

I don’t worry about the dishes after I
notice a small porthole in the corner of the dining room. I’m
looking at it as, with a little jolt, a tiny robot with telescopic
arms and a shiny tray appears at the opening. It goes about its
bustling business without acknowledging me.

Leaving the dining room, I disrobe, shower,
and let the last twelve years wash away. The training. The
hardship. The fighting. The lies.

I have no desire to conjure up the memories
that brought me to this point, but at least, for the moment, I’ll
let the lukewarm water, which is mostly a trickle, and the scented
soap flow over and around me. I can’t remember the last time I felt
this clean or smelled this good.