Fated Eclipse: The Illegitimate Princess And Her Alpha Suitors

Chapter 89: The Cost of Speaking

Lyria’s POV

”Kyia,” Jacinta said lightly, her voice carrying a dangerous amusement, ”did you hear what she just said?”

”I did, Your Highness.”

Kyia’s voice came at once—smooth, eager, and far too pleased for my liking.

I did not need to look at her to know the expression she wore. I had seen it too many times before—that thinly veiled satisfaction, the quiet delight she took in moments such as this.

”It would appear,” Kyia continued, her tone sweetened with false concern, ”that the demon must learn her position once more.”

Demon.

My fingers curled tightly into my palms, but I said nothing.

Jacinta’s lips curved.

”Yes,” she said softly, her gaze on me. ”It would seem so.”

I hated this.

I hated standing here and saying nothing while Kyia called me a demon and Jacinta smiled in delight.

I hated Jacinta.

I had not always let myself think it that plainly. There had always been a part of me that kept the hatred at a careful distance, that managed it the way I managed everything.

But standing here, with the taste of blood still faint in my mouth, I let myself think it plainly.

I hated her.

”Lyria,” she went on, ”it appears you have forgotten yourself.”

”I beg your pardon, Your Highness,” I said, as was customary for me to say.

”Oh, I think you shall beg far more than that,” she replied.

There was a pause. A measured one.

Then she turned to Kyia.

”Inform the guards,” she said lightly, as though she were discussing the arrangement of flowers, ”that Lyria is to be flogged. For disobedience.”

I had expected this after all. It wasn’t surprising.

”And ensure,” Jacinta added, her gaze sharpening, ”that it is made clear the punishment is for disobedience.”

”Of course, Your Highness.”

She leaned in slightly, her voice lowering—just enough that it was meant for me alone.

”And just so you know, this is just a light punishment,” she continued, ”I shall ensure that your mother does not receive treatment today.”

My hands tightened around my dress. She knew that was my weak point. I had to admit, she was learning quite well from her mother.

---

The guards bound my hands—one on either side, tied with indifference. The room was one I had been in before. Many times.

Jacinta was present.

The Queen was present.

I kept my eyes forward and my breathing even.

The first stroke landed.

I had learned, long ago, that making sound did not help. It did not end things faster. It did not produce sympathy from people who did not have any to give. It produced the opposite—a kind of satisfaction in the people delivering the punishment, a sense that it was working, an incentive to continue.

So I had learned not to make sound.

The second stroke landed.

My back registered it—the pain was immediate and sharp, and then it spread—but I did not make a sound.

The third.

The fourth.

I breathed. Slowly and steadily through my nose. I fixed my gaze on a point on the wall directly in front of me, and I kept it there, and I breathed.

The Queen was watching me with a frown.

I noticed it in my peripheral vision without looking directly at her.

”Harder,” Jacinta said in anger. ”Make her scream.”

I almost laughed at that, but I didn’t. That would just make her more paranoid.

The guard complied with her request, though.

My back ached with the particular deep ache of accumulated strikes rather than individual ones. Each new stroke landed on skin that was already protesting, and the pain built in layers—one on top of the other, pressing against the injuries already there from previous days.

I did not make a sound.

Not one.

Not a single tear came down my face.

I had spent too many years learning this particular skill to lose it now.

Jacinta’s voice came again, sharp with frustration.

”They are not striking hard enough,” she said, turning to her mother.

The Queen looked at her.

Then she looked at me.

She studied me for a moment, perhaps trying to see exactly what was beneath my skin.

”Jacinta,” she said calmly.

”Mother,” Jacinta replied.

”She will not make a sound,” the Queen said, in a matter-of-fact tone. ”She never does.”

Jacinta’s jaw tightened.

”Then they should—”

”If they continue at this rate,” the Queen said, her voice even, ”there is a possibility the spawn will not survive it.”

She paused before she spoke again.

”And we cannot have that... yet,” she said.

My ears took note of the words. So she couldn’t kill me yet, but it was going to happen? Was that what she meant?

The Queen turned to the guards.

”That is enough,” she said. ”Take her away. Get her out of my sight.”

The guards stopped immediately. They moved to either side of me, released my hands from where they were bound, and took hold of my arms instead, holding me upright.

It was obvious they were not thinking about the fact that I was their kind. They did not care—they were just doing their jobs.

The Queen’s gaze found mine as they turned me toward the door.

”I am aware,” she said, with the ease of someone making an observation about the weather, ”that striking you causes you no particular distress.”

She let that sit for a moment.

”You have made that rather clear over the years,” she said as she tilted her head slightly. ”So I will do something that does.”

I knew what she was going to say. I knew what was coming already.

”Your mother,” the Queen said, ”will receive no treatment for two full days.”

Two days... it had moved from one to two days, all because I was attacked by bees. A trap that had been set for me by the same princess who was looking at me with a satisfied look on her face.

”That is enough punishment for doing what you fail to do... don’t you think?” she asked me with a smile.