Only the Worthy by Morgan Rice Page A

really listened to
her.
    “They marry not
for love, these people, but for power. They marry to survive. It is all part of
a game for them.”
    Genevieve
frowned.
    “I do not wish
to understand them,” she replied. “I do not care for any of their games. I wish
only for the man I love to be returned to me.”
    Moira shot her a
look of disapproval.
    “But you must understand them,” she countered. “That is your only chance to survive. You must
enter their sick, twisted minds, and discover what it is that drives them.”
    She sighed,
tightening her hair.
    “I like you,”
she continued. “I’d like to see you survive. So let me give you one word of
advice: do not let anyone else hear you profess your love for another. These
men, if they hear you, may very well cut out your tongue as soon as marry you.”
    Genevieve felt
her chest tighten, sensing Moira spoke the truth. This place was even more
brutal than she had imagined, and her sense of dread increased.
    Moira stepped
closer, glanced around, and lowered her voice as if to make sure no one was
listening.
    “ No one within these walls can be trusted,” she continued. “Accept your lot. The best
way to defeat them is to embrace them. Embrace your new title, your new power.
Become the worm from within. Give them time. Allow them to think you love them.
Allow their guard to lower. And then, when they are comfortable, strike.”
    Genevieve stared
back, shocked she would be so frank. She wondered what Moira had suffered to
feel the way she had.
    “Remember,”
Moira said, “there are many ways to achieve an objective.”
    The door
suddenly opened, and several more attendants appeared. They stood at attention,
clearly awaiting Genevieve’s departure.
    “The wedding
party awaits,” one announced, grim-faced.
    Knowing the time
had come, Genevieve looked at Moira, who nodded back knowingly. Together, they
walked slowly from the room, Moira holding her train.
    Fresh tears came
with each step Genevieve took. This was not the way she had ever imagined
walking down the aisle.
    Genevieve walked
the gloomy stone corridors, lit by torches, winding her way, and as she went
she looked for open-aired windows, for a way to jump—but she found none.
Feeling as if she were marching to her death, she wondered where Royce was at
this moment. She wondered if he was dreaming of her, too. She wondered if she
would ever lay eyes upon him again.
    She found herself
led through a vaulted opening and into a huge, vaulted chamber. She was
surprised to see hundreds of nobles in attendance, seated in pews. At the end
of the aisle awaited an altar, framed by stained glass. Beside it stood a
priest.
    And there,
waiting Altfor. Her groom-to-be.
    Genevieve took a
deep breath and resolved not to go. She would strangle him before she agreed to
marry.
    Yet right before
she crossed the threshold of the door, she felt a strong grip on her arm. She
turned and looked over to see Moira shaking her head, as if reading her mind.
    “Wed him,” she
whispered. “Love him. Or allow him to think that you do. And then when the time
is right, we can kill them. We can kill them all.”
    Genevieve stood
there, trembling, struggling with what to do. This was her last chance to turn
and run, to let them imprison or kill her.
    “If you love
Royce,” Moira added, “climb the path of power. That is the only way to freedom
for you both.”
    Moira gestured
for Genevieve to walk into the room.
    Genevieve stood
there, her mind reeling, and she sensed Moira was right. She had no other way
to help Royce. And for Royce, she would do anything.
    Slowly, one step
at a time, a pit in her stomach, Genevieve began to walk. She walked down the
aisle, the room thick with incense and filtered sunlight, and she looked up at
her waiting groom, at her waiting life. And she died inside.
    Yet she forced
herself to take one step after the next. And as she did, she thought to
herself:
    Royce. This is
for you.
     

CHAPTER