“Breathe out,” says the healer.

I follow his instructions, and I send my mind far, far away.

Frigid.

The healer’s diagnosis is echoing around and around my mind. I’m staring blankly out of the car window. Frigid. Every vessel’s worst nightmare.

That moment of hope, when the healer’s massage of my prostate had made me spill, had been so false and so cruel. The healer said that merely proved that it is not a physical problem. The ailment is all in my mind. Part of me does not wish to serve my husband.

This prescription of various teas he wrote for me might help a little, but truly the fault is mine. I need to adjust my attitude.

I’m letting everyone down. My parents. My trainer. My husband.

I have to do better. Be better. But I don’t even know where to start. My eyes water and I blink away my tears furiously. I will not cry. Definitely not in the car. Maybe once I’m back at the house and have safely navigated my way back to my rooms. But not now. The staff cannot see me crying.

A shiver wracks my body and I wrap my arms around myself. Gods, I can be such a baby. I went to the healer’s and was examined. I was not violated. There is absolutely no need for me to feel traumatized. It is no worse than going to the dentist.

The implications of my diagnosis are far worse than any unpleasant exam. I’m frigid, and that’s a terrible thing for a vessel to be. If the teas don’t work, the healer is going to have to commence regular house calls, as frequent prostate massages should help. They will remind my body of what it is supposed to do. Hopefully, in a strong enough manner that it overrules my stubborn and spiteful mind.

But I don’t want that. I really don’t want that. And doesn’t that just prove how frigid I am? A healer is willing to help me, and all I can do is recoil in disgust. As if I think I’m too good for that. Too good to submit to my husband.

Why am I like this? What is wrong with me? It took me far too long to learn how to spill when my trainer was using a phallus on me. I thought I had overcome that hurdle. Clearly not.

How on earth am I going to keep all of this from Felford? He already resents and despises me. He cannot discover that I am defective. Though, he has to at least suspect. Our physical relations have not been…easy.

The car stops and I startle in surprise. I’m here. Back at the house. That was mercifully quick.

The driver opens my door and I scurry out. I need to get to my rooms as soon as possible. My feet hurry through the main door and along the hallway. A pair of neatly polished shoes appear in front of me and I skid to a stop just before I run into Felford. Can this day get any worse?

I look up into his dark eyes. He does do the tall, dark and handsome thing exceedingly well.

He frowns down at me. “Where have you been?”

Guilt flows through me. It’s a reasonable question. I should have told him that I had booked an appointment. Traditionally, neither of us are supposed to leave the house during our honeymoon because I could become ripe at any time. But visits to healers are allowed, and I was only a couple of miles away.

I need to tell him as much of the truth as I dare. My husband knowing about a medical visit, will not lead to him knowing about anything else. I hope. I open my mouth to speak, but his eyes widen in horror.

“Your magic!” he exclaims.

Oh gods. My cheeks feel as if they are burning. The healer is a fairly strong magic wielder. Some tendrils of my magic escaped and seeped into him during my exam. I’m not as full of magic as I was this morning. I was so distraught about my diagnosis that I barely paid it any heed at all. And it is subtle enough that it did not occur to me that my husband would notice.

Outrage flows across Felford’s strikingly handsome face.

“We’ve not even been married a week and you are having an affair?”

My lungs seize up completely. My heart thrashes against my ribcage. I stare up at him dumbly. How can he think that of me? I have always behaved impeccably. I’m from a good, upstanding family.

“You don’t even have the decency to be discreet about it?” he scowls.

My mouth is open, but no words are coming out. My mind is blank. There is nothing but horror and darkness swirling around me. If this is what he truly believes, my punishment is going to be severe. If he has made his mind up, he will not listen to anything I have to say. Explanations about healers are going to fall on deaf ears. And if they do not, I’m going to have to confess to being frigid.

Which is worse for a vessel to be? Slutty or frigid? I truly have no idea.

“Go to your rooms before any of the staff notice the state you are in!” snarls Felford.

My feet move and I flee. I’m sure Felford bellowing in the hallway is far more noticeable than any staff with magic noticing my very slight depletion. But I’m glad to be sent to my room like a naughty child.

There is a measure of privacy in my rooms. An illusion of safety.

In my rooms I can cry.

And brace myself for whatever punishment my husband is going to mete out.

Chapter eight

Drew

The gardens in winter are not a particularly mesmerizing view, but I cannot seem to muster the wherewithal to do anything else but stand here staring out of the window at them. While the same thoughts whirl around and around my mind. The same thoughts that have been haunting me for two whole days.

My vessel is having an affair.

I don’t know why I am so shocked. Lucien is a gorgeous young man. Who I’ve always assumed was gay. Of course he is going to have a boyfriend. Someone he has probably been madly in love with for years, but could never be in his arms, because he is a vessel and has had to remain a virgin. Technically a virgin, at least. I’m sure he has been up to all sorts with his lover. Gods know penetration is not the only way to have sex.

My jaw aches. I’m grinding my teeth again. Why am I jealous? That makes no sense at all. I should be outraged. Embarrassed. Shamed.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. No, I shouldn’t. Those are the reactions of a pompous old-fashioned fool. I, on the other hand, know it is the twenty-first century. I also know that Lucien is twenty-one years old. I know it is completely understandable that he ran to the arms of his lover as soon as he could. I also understand that because he is gay, and apparently prefers to receive, it is going to drain his magic.

If I was truly a modern, reasonable person, I would have no problem with any of this. Our marriage was arranged. A formality. I don’t give a shit about the loss of magic. As long as he doesn’t go shouting to all of society about his love life, it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t affect me one bit.

Lucien’s magic is heady and intoxicating. I adore the way it thrums through my veins and lights up my world and makes me feel invincible. But his affair doesn’t change that. Lucien is still my vessel and my consort. He will still submit to me and surrender his magic. There just might be slightly less of it. So there is no logical, justifiable reason why I should care about his infidelity.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. The promise of a distraction, however brief, is deeply alluring. I answer without looking at the screen.

“So, how’s married life?” booms Gregory’s voice into my ear.

I wince. “Terrible.”

“What? Tell me everything!”

“He is having an affair,” I blurt. Apparently, I’m desperate to get all of my woes off my chest.

Gregory’s sharp intake of breath makes me flinch.

“The little slut!” he bellows.

I move the phone away from my ear. Talking to Gregory is always an experience.