This was almost worse than being a slave of the castle.

The days passed by quickly. Unlike the long hours of scrubbing, sweeping, and washing, I was spending much time in absolute solitude, almost wishing for something to clean.

Being Luke’s personal slave was not difficult. I had to collect his breakfast when he wanted it in his room, compelled to clean his clothes, and was always sent on various escapades to get something he needed. It was almost effortless, really.

It was the boredom that killed me. Luke was always in the meeting room negotiating peace with his father and King John, and I soon, in the long hours between his appearances in his room, yearned for a glimpse of his beautiful face, his heart-breaking smile that always managed to make me break into a sweat.

When he finally returned to his room, I would angrily leave it, satisfied after seeing his face, yet angry because he was not showing me any attention. I had grown selfish, false hopes growing after that very first night, wanting something more than I already had. He would usually let me leave, exhausted by the endless verbal sparring between him, his father, and the king of England.

But one night, yesterday, in fact, he did not. “Evangeline,” he said, rather abruptly, just as I was about to leave the room. I paused, small tremors of excitement coursing through my veins.

“Yes?” I replied, concealing well the anxiety that seared within me. He was sitting, cross legged, on the floor, looking at letters splayed out in front of him. They were probably letters from home, his beautiful France that he liked to talk so much about, where they treated servants well. I felt a pain stab my chest when I thought about France. In a couple of weeks, he would be returning to his homeland.

With… or without me.

“You are angry with me,” It was not a question.

I kept silent, picking up his boot and placing it in his chest of drawers. His room was always spotlessly clean, thanks to my boredom. He watched me as I idly wandered around the bed, picking up trash and small scraps of paper and placing it in my pocket to put in the furnace.

“Why?” he finally asked, his eyes trailing over my body as I turned towards him. My eyes devoid of emotion, I made sure my body language expressed pure boredom.

“Luke,” my tongue twisted still as I spoke his name. That was all I could say. Oh, how I ached to say the words biting at my tongue, the mean accusations that I knew he didn’t deserve.

Luke smiled at me slowly, realization entering his features. “You’re jealous,” he said softly, teasingly. I, alarmed, shook my head quickly. He, however, just laughed. “You want my attention,” he observed. He rose from his position and started walking towards me, purpose in his step.

“I just want to do something!” I quickly squealed in defense, backing away from his quickly arriving form. He laughed again, backing me into a corner, my hair messy from my movement.

He put his hands on either side of me, leaving me no place to go, no place to hide. “A slave actually wants to work MORE?! I thought I’d never see the day.”

I flinched when he said the word slave. He didn’t make it sound degrading, yet the word still hung between us, biting me to the bone.

“I promise I’ll spend more time with you when all this is over,” he said apologetically, “The long periods of time in the meeting room has been wearing me out these last couple of days.”

I looked away, closing my eyes as he leaned in, brushing his lips against my ear, my cheek, my forehead. This was the first time he had touched me since that first night, but I knew now his kisses meant nothing.

“Please,” I choked, nearly suffocated by his allure, his irresistible pull that I couldn’t walk away from. His touch was so sweet, so full of softness and caring, an edge of desire thrown into the mix. He probably kissed Princess Marilyn too, bringing his beautiful, plump lips to hers, grabbing her waist and holding her tight. I tensed at that thought, sadness filling me, overwhelming me.

“What?” he asked suddenly, stopping the touches that made my heart tingle. He peered at me, concerned, waiting for words to come out of my mouth.

And come they did, but not the ones I really wanted to say. “Have you… touched Princess Marilyn? K-k-kissed her?” I stuttered.

Luke grinned, “Why would you ask something like that? That sort of stuff is private.”

My face grew chalk white, my worst fears confirmed. He did touch her. Kissed her. Treated her like a precious jewel, admiring her perfect features.

He laughed melodiously. “No. I didn’t,” he answered me, taking a piece of my hair, stringing it along his fingers. Then, he looked at me, his hazel eyes staring right into mine, “Didn’t I tell you not to be jealous of Marilyn?”

Yes, he did. I just didn’t obey him like a good little slave girl would’ve. Luke did that to me from the very beginning. He made me think, and act, for myself.

“Am I just a plaything to you?” I asked quickly, my words in a rush. I had to know. It was now or never. Anxiety pounded through my chest as he drew back, startled.

“Did you really think that?” he asked, anger laced in his words. I kept silent, stunned myself by his outburst. His eyes were narrowed, fury in his expression, his body language. “Did you really think that I was just having a little fun with you?”

I nodded slowly, shamefully.

“Do you think I would do this,” he rushed forward and grabbed me, his lips rushing to meet mine, want flooding between us both, “if I thought you were a plaything?”

This kiss was different than before. Filled with urgency, his lips forcefully met with mine, eager to make his point. It still was sugary sweet, but filled with determination, and a whole ton of fury. I had never seen him this angry before.

“Did you think that because you are a slave?” he asked bitterly, ceasing the kiss, leaving me breathless.

“I guess…” I whispered, “so.”

He looked away, and when he soon met my gaze again, his face was more calm, more composed.

“Believe me, my little slave girl,” he said sharply, “Just because you are a slave doesn’t mean you can’t be loved.”

Then, he turned away, walking back to his letters, keeping his gaze away from mine. He sat himself on the luxurious carpet, focusing his attention on the letters. Anger still flooded his beautiful features, but it was controlled. More peaceful.

“Please go to your room,” he crisply ordered, “so I can think.”

I rushed away from him, opening his beautiful door, my head hurting with information I could barely process at once. He said he loved me. He loved me.

That can’t possibly be true.

♪ Waltz ♪

The next day, I woke up to the sound of music… absolutely beautiful music that made the birds sing and the heart dance. It was rather early, about five thirty, and although my body screamed with fatigue, I quelled its qualms and got up to get my master, Prince Lucas some breakfast.