In months past she’d tried everything from pleading with the old man who was on constant guard to attempting to physically yank the chains that bound her from the wall. Her jailer was deaf to her pleas, and she didn’t even make the mortar rattle with her physical attempts.She was doomed. Doomed to wait here in the dank cellar of her home until Prince Ciro returned to make her his bride. Doomed to helplessness. Doomed to rely on people who despised her for food, water, implements for the occasional attempt at bathing.Rayne hadn’t even known her father’s odd guest was a prince until after his departure. The servant whom Ciro had left in charge of her care referred to him as “prince” often, and when Rayne had challenged the ridiculous notion, it had been explained that Ciro was indeed the only son of the Emperor Arik and next in line for the throne. The man in question did not fulfill any of Rayne’s notions of what a prince should be. From a distance, he had the outward appearance of a finely bred prince, she supposed, but his eyes were alternately dead or heart-stoppingly wicked, and his actions were not at all what she considered to be majestic.Sitting on her cot, as she had all morning, Rayne stole a glance at the guard who kept constant watch over her.
