To Bleed a Crystal Bloom

by Sarah A. Parker

  “That’s ... a fantastic apology.”

  I toss the apple, and he’s so swift to whip it from the air that all I see is a blur of motion.

  “Be right back,” he spouts before diving in a churn of steely scales and long, rippling frills. He returns a minute later, empty-handed, apple stashed somewhere beneath the glossy ocean surface.

  Head cocking to the side, he drifts closer, fixated on my now cupped hands as if he can sense the treasure tucked within. “What do you have there?” His beat taps against my fingers—a gentle, inquisitive nudge for me to unfurl them.

  Chewing my bottom lip, cheeks blazing, I open my hands and push the object toward him.

  His eyes widen—whirlpools caught in a globe. “Is this—”

  “The rock you gave me last week? Yeah,” I murmur, sitting. “I, ahh ... I painted it for you.”

  His beat stops, as if it just choked on a breath.

  He stares at me for long enough that I start to sweat, so I grab his hand and stuff the rock into his palm, then watch my own hands mash together. “To get the right tone of red, I had to use a little blood. A bit archaic, I hope you don’t mind. And the paint is actually waterproof. You know that tree milk I told you about? The stuff that leaks off the wood when I peel the bark off a rubber tree? I mixed some of that with my regular blend. So yeah, the paint repels wa—”

  He clears his throat and I glance up, getting caught in the glaze of his eyes.

  My rambling thoughts stutter to a stop.

  He’s never looked at me with such reverence before ...

  “Kai?”

  “It’s ... the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” he whispers, turning his attention to the rock.

  He once spoke of an island he holds close to his heart—said it’s made up of big, iridescent rocks with millions of smaller ones crumbled around the shore. That a geyser leaks a ribbon of blood-red liquid into the mirror of water surrounding the place.

  “I hope I got it right.”

  “It’s perfect.” He traces the glittery shore with the tip of his finger. “Thank you, Orlaith. Truly. It would have taken days to paint such a treasure ...”

  I roll the hem of my pants and swing my legs into the chilly sea, tilting my face to the sun, eyes closed. “You’re my best friend.” My nonchalant tone masks the fact that I’m speaking around a lump in my throat the size of an acorn. “I’d do anything for you.”

  “Be right back,” he calls, and I open my eyes to see him disappear with a splash, leaving me alone with the warm, sleepy day that’s reflecting off the ocean in fractals.

  I smile, remembering the many times I’ve heard those three words before Kai’s darted below the surface to stash something away. Being an Ocean Drake, he can’t fight the urge to bank his treasures at his earliest convenience, even if it means momentarily breaking away from such riveting company.

  He’s like an ocean broom—the ultimate collector of things that’ll probably never see the light of day again. I picture a large, underwater cavern brimming with a king’s bounty, and the mental image of him dusting all those trinkets clean with his long, billowy tail has my grin widening.

  Kai’s head breaks the surface, and he lifts a hand, smiling. “I have something for you, also.”

  My brows knit.

  Pinched between his thumb and forefinger is a dainty shell that twists around itself in a delicate swirl of pink and opaline. It has a silver ring pierced through its lip, and attached to that is a latch no bigger than my pinkie nail.

  “It’s beautiful,” I whisper. “What sort of shell is it?”

  The only ones that wash up here are gray, rugged cups the size of my hand, their inside scoop a dazzling mix of purples, blues, and pinks. Ground down, I use them to make a metallic paint that glimmers like a haunted rainbow.

  “A baby conch,” he answers with glee, washing me in his rich, briny scent as he glides forward. Clipping the charm to the silver chain around my neck, he settles it next to the big, black stone I’ve always worn. “The small ones usually get broken against the rocks, so this was a rare find, Orlaith. Very rare.”

  I look down, toying with it, loving the way it tinkles against my gem; two treasures, opposite yet so perfect together.

  “They’re sea whisperers. If you speak into the hollow, the ocean will carry the message. So if you ever need me ...”

  “I love it,” I blurt, catching his stare. A smile splits his face like the crest of a glistening wave curling toward the sun—there one minute ... gone the next.

  His nostrils flare, gaze dropping to my right leg. “You’re bleeding,” he murmurs. “What have you gone and done this time?”

  Why all the men in my life seem so caught up on my lacerated skin, I’ll never know.

  “Cut myself during training.” I shrug, still toying with my shell. “It’s not major. I was supposed to get it looked at, but I got busy with other things.”

  His smile is all teeth—sharp canines exposed in their full, feral glory. “Lucky for you,” he purrs with a mischievous lilt to his words, “I’m somewhat gifted at healing wounds.”

  I lift a brow.

  He rolls my hem further, revealing the messy slice across my thigh, only barely missing my heart-shaped birthmark.

  Well.

  “Admittedly, that’s worse than I thought it wa—” Kai tips forward and sweeps his tongue down my raw wound in a warm, wet caress. “What are you doing?”

  All the blood in my body seems to rush to my cheeks.

  “You’re licking me. You’re licking my cut.”

  He makes this amused, muffled sound, continuing to paint my hurt with long, precise swipes. By the time he pulls back, my cheeks are aflame, though all that heat swiftly drains away as both sides of the laceration knit together, leaving a pale pink line.

  I stare at it, mouth full of words and no breath to speak them.

  My surprise ebbs when I glance up and see the way he’s looking at me—brow creased while he smacks his tongue against the top of his mouth.

  “What?”

  He shakes his head, swallowing. “You taste weird.”

  “That’s not a very nice thing to say! I bet you don’t taste great either,” I chastise, tossing a scoop of water at him. “And by the way, now that I know you can lick my wounds away, I’ll be down here every time I get a paper cut, stuffing my finger in your mouth.”

  I can’t believe he didn’t tell me this sooner.

  A smirk softens the sharpness of his bladed cheekbones. “Stuff your finger in my mouth whenever you like, but starting a water fight with me? Orlaith, that was terribly unwise.”

  He rises out of the ocean one foreboding inch at a time, revealing the long, powerful slant of his sun-kissed muscles. My mouth pops open, head tipping back, eyes widening as toffee skin gives way to the round, steely scales of his mighty tail.

  Shit.

  I scuttle back like a crab seeking shelter. “No, Kai ... no. No! Don’t you dare, you big, slippery hellion—”

  His arm sweeps out, and he whips me against his cold, wet chest, then dunks us both into the brisk sea.

  The bastard.

  I purposely drum my footfalls down the hallway while wringing out my hair, mulling over all the creative ways I can spike an apple with enough senna to leave a fourteen-foot Ocean Drake shitting undigested seaweed for a week.

  Rounding a corner, I almost charge into Rhordyn planted like a boulder in my path, and I squeal, stumbling back.

  His swift hand weaves around me before I lose my footing, and I peep up through the wet mess of my unbridled hair, instantly flayed by argent eyes.

  My thoughts turn to smoke.

  And just when I thought this day couldn’t kick my ass anymore.

  I pull a breath, almost choking on air heavy with the smell of leather and a frosty morning. It sifts through my lungs and infuses my bloodstream, kicking my pulse into a churning rhythm that can’t be healthy.

  He’s chillingly beautiful, o
therworldly in stature. Just the sight of him has a crippling effect on my ability to function properly, and I hate it.

  I hate it so damn much.

  Rhordyn’s head cants to the side, and a midnight brow lifts, but his hand stays firmly locked between my shoulder blades while he punishes me with his silence.

  Something deep inside screams for me to run.

  Not that I ever listen.

  A breath puffs out of me, and his chest inflates as I glide back a step—that hand falling away and leaving a chilled stamp of skin in its place.

  Despite the height he lords over me, I hold his austere gaze, refusing to drop my chin or show even the slightest hint of submission. He may be well over six feet of sculpted, virile poise, but my rioting nerves can go to hell.

  “Orlaith.” His voice is a velvet purr that blows up my heart rate.

  I dip into a slight curtsy and slide to the side, intent on shifting around him like water averting a river rock, but he moves with me.

  My eyes narrow.

  The entry to Stony Stem is just behind him, and I’m dripping the ocean all over the floor.

  “Excuse me,” I mutter, taking another sideways step. Again, he mimics the movement, causing me to shoulder the stone door that’s always locked—the one Rhordyn uses some nights before he leaves the castle grounds.

  Next to The Keep and The Den, this door annoys me the most.

  Intrigues me the most.

  I’ve twisted many hairpins trying to break into the damn thing. It’s probably a glorified broom closet, but not knowing ... it’s a certain sort of torture I don’t particularly enjoy.

  I sigh, leaning against it, arching a brow and pointing my thumb at its stony face. “Are you finally taking me on a tour?”

  Hands sliding deep into his pockets, he fixes me with an icy stare. “Your cut.”

  “What about it?”

  There’s the seed of challenge in his eyes. “It’s been healed.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face.

  Can he ... can he smell that? Was he watching?

  Hell ...

  “Kai’s tongue is multi-talented,” I blurt, suffering a sudden wave of verbal diarrhea that’s sure to earn me a prompt eviction.

  “Is that so?” He steps forward, voice drilling beneath my skin and gripping hold of my heart.

  Squeezing it.

  I retreat a larger step, struggling to find even an ounce of air to nourish my suffocating lungs. “Don’t you, ahh ... have to visit one of the local villages this afternoon?” I ask, my voice somewhat raspier than usual.

  Both brows lift this time. “Barth. Yes. Why? Do you want to come?”

  I blink at him.

  Hasn’t he pecked at me enough for one day? I’ve already agreed to attend his ball.

  “No, thank you.”

  I swear I hear the words thump on the ground between us.

  There’s the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth, something that almost softens one of his many hard edges.

  Almost.

  “You know,” he starts, rolling his sleeves, exposing powerful forearms and a wealth of tawny skin branded with a tease of silver scripture I wish I could see more of. “There is a bakery there that supplies the best honey buns in all the territories.”

  I frown.

  “Can’t you just bring some back for me?” I almost suggest he stash them in The Safe in exchange for my offering, but we don’t talk about that.

  Ever.

  He shrugs, the smooth movement somehow lethal enough to crush a man’s spirit.

  Crush my spirit, if used in the correct setting.

  “Their ... rules don’t allow for the exportation of honey buns.”

  I’m no expert on things that reside outside the castle grounds, but I’m sure that’s a crock of shit.

  “So?” he pushes, pinning me with his full, undivided attention, making me feel like I’m standing trial, awaiting punishment for something horrific.

  I thieve another backward step and find a small amount of air to soothe my staggered breathing into something more rhythmic, yet he continues to ruin me with cunning eyes that make my skin feel translucent. Like he’s seeing straight through me, watching my cogs whirl.

  Does he see how they rely on the circles they spin? How one delicate shift could break me apart and scatter my bits all over the floor?

  “I’ll stay here,” I whisper, and a shadow shutters his eyes, the muscle along his jaw feathering.

  “Live, Orlaith. All I’m asking is that you live.”

  “I am living,” is my lackluster answer, one that’s met with a sigh that pushes out of him as if it’s been bottled up for a while.

  Perhaps he’s growing tired of this game. Well, that makes two of us.

  He jerks his chin at me. “Aren’t you supposed to be wrapped in measuring tape right now?”

  Fuck.

  Dropping my stare to his chin dimple, I go back to wringing out my hair like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “Oh, damn. Must have slipped my mind.”

  He does that beckoning gesture with his finger again—making it bounce like a lure.

  Just like a stupid fish, I snatch the bait, only to see that he’s still looking at me like my skin’s transparent.

  I return the favor, though Rhordyn’s waters are so muddy I doubt their sediment will ever settle enough for me to truly garner his depth.

  “Slipped your mind, Orlaith? I didn’t realize it was slippery.”

  I shrug and make a small grunting sound, staring forlornly at the entrance of Stony Stem ...

  “Lucky for you,” he rumbles, gesturing in the opposite direction of my refuge, “I’m heading there now. I can escort you.”

  Of course he can.

  For a fleeting moment, I consider making a dash for my tower. He never goes up there unless I’m behind the door that separates us and a droplet of my blood is flushing the water in my crystal goblet.

  I think better of it when his head tilts to the side, as if he knows.

  A shudder rakes through me at the predatory gesture—one I try to hide by lifting my chin, tossing sodden hair over my shoulder, and stalking off in the direction he’s motioning.

  I know when to pick my battles, and this one ...

  It already has me beat.

  I hate this place with its rolls of fabric stuffed into corners and mannequins crowded around in various stages of undress. I have no appreciation for fine things and exotic fabrics—no interest in parading around with my feathers fluffed like some of the men and women who attend the monthly Tribunal.

  I behold my daily attire pegged on a wire strung between two walls, dripping water all over the ground.

  That’s all I need. Movability without the frills. Clothing that helps me blend in.

  I sigh, towel-drying my hair, ass perched on a seat and jammed in the corner of the room like some inanimate object. Beside me stands a mannequin with similar features to a doll I used to have ... before I tossed it over my balustrade because its wide-open eyes kept staring.

  Unseeing.

  There was something satisfying about watching it shatter on the stone at the base of my tower.

  The robe I’m swimming in slips off my bare shoulder, and I pull it back up, attention diving between the three-inch gap in the doorway again.

  Rhordyn is in the next room, standing on the stage while Hovard’s pretty assistant flutters around him in a swish of silky, black material, stretching the measuring tape along his arms, across his chest, down the inside of his leg ...

  I glimpse those silvery tattoos that wind around his side—a fine scripture sketched across his skin, tapered around muscles like the shading on a painting. Words I don’t recognize, understand, or even know how to pronounce.

  I arch my neck, seeking a clearer view, cheeks heating. My gaze drifts up, only to catch on one quicksilver eye pinned to me through the gap like a perfectly shot arrow.

  Sucking a sharp breath, I look away.


  “Are we done here?” Rhordyn asks, tone so hard I flinch.

  “Yes, Master,” Dolcie blurts, her voice gentle as a summer breeze.

  I envy her that.

  “And you’re after the black cashmere imported from the alps?”

  “Yes,” Rhordyn answers. “But it’s a neutral ball, so Orlaith isn’t bound to Ocruth colors. She’s welcome to pick something different.”

  Frowning, I glance up as the door creaks open.

  Dolcie’s oval face pushes through, blue eyes stark against her frothy curls the color of soil. “Your turn,” she says with a sweet smile that looks forced.

  “Lovely.”

  I follow her through to the other room that’s steeped in sunshine spilling through large, square windows, instantly struck by the robust, earthen scent of him.

  It’s a tight-lipped battle to maintain my composure.

  Fiddling with the robe belt knotted around my waist, I step onto the fitting platform, trying to ignore Rhordyn weaving buttons through their holes, chin pressed against his chest.

  Hovard sweeps in like a blow of autumn leaves, his fiery hair standing up in all directions. He has the creamy complexion of someone from the East, though he boasts the black garb of a Western resident, plus a few add-ons like frills around his sleeves and the swarthy lace appliquéd over his waistcoat. Small spectacles sit halfway down his nose, their shape matching his beady eyes that flick over my form.

  He flaps a hand in my direction, attention turning to the rolls of fabric stacked in the corner. “Robe. Off.”

  Rhordyn clears his throat and turns, staring out the window while finishing with his buttons, but making no move to leave the room.

  Right.

  I draw a shaky breath and loosen the bow around my middle, chewing my bottom lip. Silky fabric slithers down my shoulders, exposing the corset that’s barely containing me.

  I have no idea how I’m supposed to move in this thing—or breathe properly—but this ... torturous article of clothing that shows far too much of my too-tight skin is apparently fashionable.

  Dolcie scowled the entire time she was stuffing me into the awful contraption, likely because it wasted half an hour of both our lives. And now here I am, standing on a platform, feeling like a tree without leaves to smudge its shape.