Chapter 5

Clara

I have seen fist fights before. Drunken brawls and ill-thrown punches.

But this is not a fist fight. This is a dance.

Measured. Passionate. Sensual and intense.

But brutal men do not dance with each other the way that men and women do.

When a man dances with a woman, he holds her in his arms as though she is the most precious thing in his world. His hands claim her waist, capturing the delicate curves in his palms for a twirl or a lift.

He draws her to him. Slowly, as though to touch her might lead to sin, or hard and fast, as though the sin itself is a certainty and he has no choice but to give himself over to it.

She sighs, high and sweet, and they waltz. Two bodies moving in celestial harmony beneath gilded ceilings through the night.

When Fritz’s fist slams into the Prince’s jaw, they move in the same way. But the sigh comes out as a grunt, low and raw. When they capture each other’s bodies in a grapple, the lift becomes a fall.

When a man dances with a woman, they spin with the heavy swish of her skirts and a ripple of cold silk.

When Fritz and the Prince spin together, twisting and writhing as their bodies crash to the floor, they do it with the sickening crack of snapped cartilage and an arc of hot blood.

“Please! No!” I cry out, diving towards them across the floor.

But my knees have gone weak. My legs refuse to hold my meager weight. These two men who love me, each of them in their own way, have chosen to fight. I freeze as I watch them hit the ground. I cannot even flee to save myself the pain of seeing them trade blows and beat each other senseless.

Instead, I can only look on in horror at the things they will do to each other so that in the end, one might emerge victorious and claim me as his prize.

The Prince lands with Fritz’s body beneath his. Blood from the Prince’s shattered nose drips down onto Fritz’s face as the former shoves it against the floorboards.

“Is this what you wanted, boy?” the Prince sneers.

His shirt hangs loosely around his broad shoulders, only half-buttoned. It’s a memory of the way it was on that same floor only a few moments ago, lying forgotten where Fritz’s struggling form is now.

“What I want is Clara,” Fritz snarls. “Clara returned to me and your body in the fucking ground.”

The Prince’s fist slams against the side of Fritz’s face. It’s a dull, sickening sound. The mark his fist leaves on on my step-brother’s cheekbone is bright pink, but I know, with time, it will blossom and swell into a purple-green bruise.

“A counter offer, if you will.” The Prince spits down onto Fritz’s face. “What I will give you is pain. Have you had your fill?” His lips curl with dark satisfaction as he looks across the room to me. Our eyes meet and the grin only grows. “Clara certainly has.”

A shiver runs down my spine, even as something deep in my belly glows with warmth.

The taste of the Prince is still on my lips. His scent is still in my lungs. His breath still lingers on my skin.

I can recall his every touch with perfect clarity. I can replay every tender moment, which ended only a few moments ago, over and over again in my mind like an old film looped to repeat.

“She’ll never belong to you.” Fritz’s body thrashes beneath the Prince’s weight once more. And once more he fails to escape.

“Silly boy,” the Prince says with a laugh. “She already does.”

Fritz looks to me, and I can see the pain in his eyes. When he kicked through the door only moments ago, he saw himself as my savior. Now, I fear that dream has died.

How long was he listening behind that door before he shattered it? How much did he hear? What does he think of me now?

“Clara.” Fritz’s chest heaves up and down with exhausted fury as he looks at me. “Say something. Tell him.”

“Yes, Clara. Tell him.” The Prince grabs a handful of Fritz’s hair and slams his head into the ground once more. “But tell him what?”

“She doesn’t love you,” Fritz says, with more belief in me than I have in myself.

“Doesn’t she?” The Prince clicks his tongue, tut-tutting like a mother admonishing a child. “Love is a fickle thing, boy. As easily as it is kind…Perhaps, sometimes, we prefer it to be cruel.”

The Prince’s dark eyes glimmer as they meet my gaze again. It’s his love that’s the cruel kind. Of that, I am now certain. But the things it stirs inside me are feelings that I cannot deny.

“Clara loves me,” Fritz insists. “Only me.”

“Fritz…” I say, but my throat is dry. It comes out strangled, hissing like vented steam.

Fritz’s love is not cruel. It’s pure, forbidden as it is. As pure as the first snowfall freshly blanketing the ground in an endless quilt of white.

“If you are so certain,” the Prince says with his awful, dastardly smile. “Then why don’t we let Clara decide?”

The Prince twists Fritz’s arm violently and Fritz cries out in pain. He leaves Fritz’s body there on the floor and comes to me instead, the dance finally done.

Somehow, as though captured in a dark, magical trance, my hand finds his. He lifts me to my feet, his arms curling about me with charmed possession.

I feel for a moment as though I might faint, but my legs are strong now, and they agree to hold my weight.

“What will it be, Clara?” The Prince asks, stroking my waist.

Fritz looks up at me with bravery, his eyes set with certainty. His gaze does not plead. He looks as though he knows what my answer must be, even if I don’t yet know it myself.

And behind me, the Prince smiles down, his gaze piercing through my chest like the sharpest of daggers. One so deliciously sharp that it doesn’t even hurt as it slides right through.

“Him or me. Decide,” the Prince commands.

What am I to do?