Dead Suitors Tell No Tales

3: The Butcher and the Butterfly

Amara's corset was on fire.

Figuratively, of course.

Her back itched like crazy as she felt the coarse material dig into her healing skin. The multiple scratches and bruises she had suffered were enough to make for more sleepless nights, and her body was still sore from being shoved around like a rag doll from one of her toy chests when she was little.

Though her rib was healed, she couldn't say the same for the rest of her abdomen, and she wished she had noticed her jar of healing balm was practically empty before today, of all days. Curse her carelessness!

She fidgeted impatiently, waiting for her father to arrive. He was always late these days. He was the king, she reasoned, so she guessed he was allowed to be late. It was rather rude, of him, though, to summon her to his study when he wasn't even there himself. She huffed. Hurry up.

As if on cue, the heavy oak doors of the office swung open, and the formidable figure of her father stepped in, his footsteps loud and harsh against the soft wooden panels of the floor. Amara immediately straightened as his eyes fell upon her, dropping her gaze to her pale green gown. She didn't want to talk to him. She also didn't want him to see her painfully obvious black eye.

"Daughter," he greeted her gruffly. He moved to sit behind the giant desk in front of her, the chair legs scraping noisily against the wood as he sat down. She swallowed nervously as she dared to lift her eyes to his large frame.

King Alistair II was a massive figure of a man. He was incredibly tall, standing at a height of six-foot-six, and carried himself with the utmost confidence. He was always impeccably dressed and his face bore no strain of his fifty-five years of age. His dark stare bored into her as she nervously sat, still as a statue.

Nothing good ever came out of a meeting with her father. This she knew by experience.

"Father."

Amara wished her voice hadn't come out so shaky. She had to be on her best behavior, and stand her ground, or else whatever matter her father wanted to talk about would fall apart and her father would, once again, have the upper hand.

"Amara, there's something I wish to discuss with you," he began. "Something that has long been overdue."

She nodded slowly.

"I've put it off for three years now, but the thing is, I can't allow it to be put off any longer. You understand that, as a king, I have certain duties that must come first for the country, correct?"

Amara stiffened, nodding again. It wasn't the first time he had said this, nor would it be the last, she was sure. He had never done anything for the sake of being a father. He was a king at heart, and a king he would remain. She didn't need to be reminded.

"Very well," Alistair said, and folded his large hands on the table, leaning towards her. She forced herself to meet his gaze, narrowing her own eyes as she met his. She mentally prepared herself for the disaster he was about to tell her.

But she didn't expect his next few words to be as earth-shattering as they were.

"You're to be wed by the end of the year."

She paused, uncertain she had heard him correctly.

"Excuse me?" she asked, her voice seeming hollow and hesitant.

"You're getting married, Amara," her father said impatiently, waving a hand as if the news wasn't that big of a deal. "No arguments. I've already sent out the letters."

"What letters?"

"The letters to the participants, of course." He gave her a shrewd look. "Did no one tell you?"