Cold Hands, Warm Heart

ONE

"Evening, miss," the maid curtsied, passing me in the hall.

"Ezri, I've told you not to call me that," I said. "We were practically raised together."

"Of course, miss."

"Ezri."

"I will call you by your first name when we are true equals—not servant and mistress."

I rolled my eyes as we continued walking—she has a flair for the dramatics. No matter how many times I ask, she won't drop the formalities. We've seen each other naked, and she still won't call me by my first name. She's so proper, and I hate it.

I reached my mother's room. I softly pushed open the door. "Hello, mea flosculus," she rasped, sitting up. "I've just sent Ezri for some bread."

"How are you feeling?" I asked, taking her hands into mine.

"My illness has not changed from your visit this morning, mea flosculus."

"Why have you sent Ezri for food?" My mood darkened. "Has father forgotten to bring you a meal again?"

Her lack of response was the answer to my question.

Fury blazed through my veins. "I'm going to kill him," I growled, rising from my chair. "I shouldn't have left to tend to my garden."

My mother's hands stopped me. "Sit down, mea flosculus. I am fine. I had Ezri here with me to keep me company and keep me fed."

"Well, then I will go have a civilized conversation with my father, reminding him of some essential things regarding you."

"Be kind, mea flosculus. Don't be too harsh on your father."

"Harsh? He didn't feed you!"

"He is stressed. He might take it out on you."

"And I am all right with that. I love you, mother. I will return soon." I leaned forward, kissing her frail hands.

"Khorshid—"

I clicked the door shut behind me, a little remorseful at ignoring my mother. Ezri appeared, walking around the corner. She had something wrapped in a handkerchief—bread.

"Thank you," I said.

She reached out and traced my cheek. "It is always my pleasure, miss."

"Meet me in my private parlor in an hour."

A smile spread across her lips, and an emotion flashed in her eyes. "I'll be there."

I started for my father's study, the fire of my anger making my steps faster and faster. I burst through the door, not caring if he had company. To my detestation, I got my looks from my father: my tan skin, my emerald eyes, and the features of my face. Both of my parents have dark hair, but I like to believe my mother gave me her straight, ebony hair.

"What the hell, Khorshid?" my father barked, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. "It's rather unladylike to storm into a room like that."

I narrowed my eyes and approached him. "Well, forgetting to feed your bedridden wife is ungentlemanlike."

Anger burned in his eyes, the scar over his eye seeming more lethal than ever. He slammed his bourbon down on his desk and stood. I knew his next move and didn't block it as he slapped me across the face. In return, I snatched his drink, downed it in one gulp, and flung it at the wall.

I love the blazing trail of bourbon in your throat. It's rather soothing.

"You bastard!" I screamed as the glass shattered into a thousand pieces. "She is your wife, and you treat her like a lowly dog!"