To Bleed a Crystal Bloom

by Sarah A. Parker

  “Dinner tonight, Orlaith. All four of us,” he bellows over his shoulder. “Bring your appetite and don’t be late.”

  His words fan my grief into red-hot flames of fury.

  He’s telling me to be punctual when I’ve stared at his empty place setting three times a day for the past nineteen years?

  My lips peel back, and I stalk in the direction of the stables, deciding Baze can spend the morning icing his kneecap rather than training me. I’m going to go shovel some horse shit, seeing as that seems to be the winning theme for the day.

  I saunter into the dining hall, littering the floor with muddy footprints, hips flicking with each swaying step.

  The servants, backed against the walls like potted plants, somehow maintain their straight-spine posture. None of them even glance at me, though I do notice a few begin to breathe through their mouths.

  The room is empty of furniture other than the long dining table, its left end boasting a hearty spread. But it’s hard to fully appreciate the smell of roasted game and herb-encrusted root vegetables with this pungent, sour-smelling waft clinging to me like a cloak.

  Most of the chairs have been removed from the room, leaving four packed at the end like this is some sort of intimate gathering ...

  A decision Rhordyn will no doubt live to regret once I take my seat.

  I focus on the empty chair on the far side, avoiding eye contact with the man sitting at an ornate place setting he’s never bothered to eat at.

  Zali hasn’t even received his cupla yet, and she’s already got him joining our ... dysfunctional family dinners. The thought leaves me wishing I’d rolled in horse shit a few more times.

  I settle into my seat and assess the spread that does nothing to stimulate my hunger. In fact, all it does is knot my insides further.

  “Well, isn’t this cozy?” I look to Baze seated opposite me and beside an empty chair. He’s got an elbow perched on the table, head propped by two fingers prodding his temple, eyes wide like a moon owl. “What?” I ask, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. A dusting of dried shit sprinkles my lap, and I brush it to the floor while I wait for him to answer.

  “What?” Both brows reach for his slicked-back hairline. “Really?”

  I shrug, relaxing into my seat, well aware that we’re one person short for this little celebration dinner—not that I intend to let that dampen my mood. I, myself, was half an hour late. The fact that she’s even tardier reflects poorly on her character, and she should absolutely saddle a horse, get the hell out of this castle, and never return.

  I look sidelong at Rhordyn, the picture of elegant prestige in his inky garb that’s pieced together with fine, silver thread. The jacket is left open to his sternum, revealing a black button-down beneath. He’s reclined in his chair, elbow notched on the armrest, thumb painting paths across his bottom lip.

  “Wow. You’re both so well dressed. If I had known this was a tailored affair, I might have worn shoes.”

  Unlikely.

  Baze clears his throat before the sound of delicate footfalls echoes on the stone.

  I glance up to see Zali looking fresh as a blushing rose, dressed in a neck to floor gown that hugs her athletic figure. Its rusty color compliments her skin tone and the spirals of hair falling over a regal shoulder, almost reaching the dip of her tapered waist.

  She’s the epitome of exotic wrapped in a perfect, well-presented package, and it occurs to me the manure was quite symbolic. Anyone would look like crap sitting next to that woman.

  I look to Rhordyn, still watching me—still running his thumb across that bottom lip. Something about his unwavering stare has me wiggling in my seat, as if the action alone could shake him off.

  “Where’s that smell coming from?” Zali asks, drawing closer, and I let Rhordyn bear witness to the smile I whip up as I lift my hand and wave.

  “Me.” I turn my attention to Zali, now standing near the empty seat beside Baze, her honey eyes taking in my soiled cheek, the straw hanging from my hair, the muck caked to my clothes. “I’ve been bagging manure for my plants.”

  I expect to see her face twist, or perhaps even a gag; instead, she’s looking at me with something akin to reverence.

  She peeks at Rhordyn, smiling a little.

  My chest tightens.

  I’m outside the circle of some personal joke they’ll probably laugh about later when they’re tangled between the sheets. The thought sours the remaining scraps of my appetite.

  Fingers strum against the table—an impatient tune that has my hackles rising a little more with each flourished beat. It takes me far too long to realize the tempo matches the frantic drum of my heart.

  Suddenly—almost violently—it stops.

  “Orlaith.”

  “Yes?” I answer, batting my lashes like I’ve seen the maids do when they pass him in the halls.

  “I see you’ve brought half the stable to the dinner table. Would you like time to freshen up? I wouldn’t want the smell dampening your appetite.”

  “I’m fine. And I’m sure the High Mistress doesn’t mind,” I say, looking at Zali seated close enough to kick under the table. “Do you, Mother?”

  She chokes on a mouthful of wine, and I watch it dribble down her chin like a line of blood.

  Leaning forward as far as I can, I snatch the goblet out of her hand and slog the entire contents in one large gulp. It burns a trail all the way to my stomach, and I wince, hating the taste. But that doesn’t stop me from hailing the servant for a refill.

  Baze moves to stand, but Rhordyn stops him with a slight bat of his hand, chin resting on his bunched fist like he’s enjoying the show.

  Well. Lucky for him, that was barely the first act.

  “You know, I once read that anxiety can stem from a lack of maternal support. Considering I was raised by these two,” I rasp, waving my glass between Baze and Rhordyn like a crystal war flag, “it’s no wonder I’ve got issues.”

  The servant fills my glass from a silver chalice, and I look deep into the pit of Zali’s perfect, almond-shaped eyes ... wishing I could gouge them right out of her head. “But now I’ve got you.”

  It’s Baze’s turn to choke on his drink.

  “Yes,” Zali replies, an amused smile playing on her lips. “Now you have me.” Reaching for a goblet of water and leaning close, she uses her other hand like a shield to block Rhordyn as she waggles perfectly manicured brows. “And for what it’s worth, I agree. I think you deserve a medal for putting up with them for so long.”

  My sail loses all its rigidity.

  Damn.

  A young servant begins placing bread rolls atop each of our place settings, but Rhordyn plucks his up the moment it lands on his plate and relocates it to mine.

  The room falls into a fragile stillness.

  I study that bun like it’s the sum of my salvation and ruin all rolled into a well-seasoned lump of dough.

  “Eat, Orlaith.” The command is not gentle, but despite my lack of appetite, I know he’s right.

  I should eat.

  I’ve never had wine before, and it’s left me feeling a little light-headed. Likely because I’ve barely eaten since the withdrawals kicked in.

  “I have manure on my hands ...”

  Zali clears her throat, and I lift my gaze to the napkin she’s suspending over the table. “I’ve dampened it for you.” Her words are accompanied by a gentle smile that’s almost tentative.

  I set my glass on the table and take the offering, mumbling a thank you as I wipe my hands clean and split the bread.

  Warm, yeasty steam puffs up and I sample the smell, expecting it to curdle my insides. Instead, it’s a gift for my starved lungs, and I draw deeply, moaning as the intake awakens every nerve ending in my body.

  Suddenly, any air ungraced with the delicious aroma feels entirely inadequate.

  A small plate of cinnamon-nut butter slides into my peripheral, and I steal a peek at Rhordyn.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, usin
g my finger to daub it onto the warm flesh, waiting for it to melt down before I take a bite.

  Soft, fluffy goodness yields a wholesome, decadent flavor—the perfect mix of sweet and savory somehow meeting in the middle to form divinity incarnate.

  My lids flutter closed, shoulders softening as I chew, nice and slow, trying to savor the taste. I’m not sure how it’s possible, but Cook has improved her perfect recipe. I doubt anything but these exact bread rolls will satisfy my hunger for the rest of my entire life.

  I glance up to see Baze and Zali watching me with awed intrigue. “What?”

  They tuck their heads down and start ripping apart their own rolls.

  Shooting a glance at Rhordyn, I’m stilled by the haunted look in his eyes. He’s watching me with such primal intensity, I doubt a single strand of hair could shift out of place without him noticing.

  “Is something the mat—”

  I’m cut off by the sound of a blade loosening from the confines of its sheath—the hiss short and sharp, yet still managing to slip a hook through the flesh of my lungs and pull.

  My gaze collides with the small, metal blade Zali is using to butter her bread, spearing my heart with the urge to flee.

  The room closes in, evicting air I so desperately need as I struggle to convince myself I’m not the epicenter of three circling beasts; that they aren’t slashing at me with talons that scrape every time they land a blow.

  A Vruk talon is longer than that blade. It’s black, and hooked at the end.

  Not the same. This is not the same.

  I drop the bun in the same instant Rhordyn’s hand snaps out, gripping the sharp end of the dagger.

  A rich, coppery tang permeates the air.

  The weapon is snatched out of Zali’s grip and folded amongst his napkin, as if out of sight equals out of mind.

  He knows better.

  He’s seen me fall apart enough times to know that particular sound is my weakness. It strikes a match inside me—leaves my blood boiling, brain bulging.

  Leaves me in a pathetic, coiled, screaming heap.

  The side of my face feels to be carved by his stare, much sharper now.

  Colder.

  He’s waiting to see if I unravel.

  “Do you ne—”

  “I’m fine,” I snip, lifting my chin and shoving my shoulders back. “In fact, I’ve never been better.”

  Lie.

  A scream is on the tip of my tongue, begging for me to cut its leash. But this time, it has little to do with the surge of pressure flirting with my head.

  Things are changing. And I don’t like change. I’m not comfortable with change.

  I grit my teeth so hard I’m surprised they don’t shatter.

  “Are you sure about that?”

  The question is flat, but so is my answer.

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” he bites out, “I’m glad to hear it.”

  I stand, staring straight through the wide-open doorway, doing my best to ignore the blatant scour of his scrutiny and the stark blanket of silence that’s befallen the room.

  “Excuse me. I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. Probably all the ...” I swallow thickly, “shit.”

  I walk the long way around the table and head toward the exit, begging the silence to hold.

  “Orlaith.”

  Rhordyn’s voice casts my feet in stone.

  “I’ll be up in thirty minutes,” he rumbles. “Since you’re feeling so fantastic.”

  I’m still useful, then.

  My lids flutter closed, blood frosting from the feral lilt in his tone—the underlying tune of need.

  Well, I have needs, too.

  My eyes pop open, and I continue walking, hands balled at my sides.

  I don’t answer.

  Wrapped in a robe that’s too dense against my fervid skin, I pace back and forth, wearing a path into my fluffy rug while I clobber myself with questions. The roaring fire glints off the sharp piece of metal pinched between my thumb and finger ...

  The one that knows the softness of my flesh; the taste of my blood. The one that helps me drip into this goblet sloshing with an inch of clear water.

  Do I feel safe in this tower?

  To a certain extent, yes.

  Do I want to leave my safety circle?

  Never.

  But I’m suddenly wondering how much of that has to do with me bleeding into this goblet every day for the past nineteen years, giving little pieces of myself to a man who was never mine. A man who’s given nothing of himself in return.

  Nothing

  Rhordyn’s simply a shadow that sometimes drifts through this castle. Just a specter that has a voice dense enough to make him seem real. And now he’s downstairs, sharing a meal with another female while I’m preparing to stab myself in the finger. For him.

  I sigh, bottom lip caught between my teeth, looking down at the pin like it’s a sword about to pierce my stupid, vulnerable heart.

  White-hot fire blazes through my veins.

  Screw it. Screw him. And screw his fucking needs.

  I let the pin fall to that little porcelain plate and set the goblet on the table. Stalking to my bed, I snatch Te Bruk o’ Avalanste and crack it open to a random page, pretending my insides aren’t churning.

  Minutes pass, eaten by the constant tick of my bedside clock while I pretend to read, though I haven’t turned a single page by the time that long, slender hand kisses the thirty-minute mark.

  Footsteps echo up Stony Stem—dense, thunder-clapping ones that could only belong to one person.

  I hear the little wooden door being unlocked, then opened.

  Silence.

  The waiting sort of silence that’s deafening, stretching for over thirty seconds before the door slams shut and those same footsteps hurriedly descend.

  I expel a mighty breath.

  Five minutes later, more footfalls approach—as I’d expected them to.

  They’re rushed. Frantic.

  Familiar.

  Knuckles rap against the wood, and I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear, the silky strands damp from my bath. “You may enter.”

  The door opens and Baze strides in, gaze darting around the room before landing on the book open in my lap. His brows bump up and he quickly catches my eye. “Sorry to, ahh ... interrupt. Are you okay?”

  Interrupt?

  “Better than ever. Just enjoying a bit of light reading. Why?”

  He clears his throat and steals a quick glance at the pin still cradled by my plate. “Have you—have you forgotten something?”

  I lift a finger to my lips and tap, pretending to think while my heart bruises itself against bone.

  “No,” I finally answer, eyes dropping back to the page of ... God of Fertility. Crap.

  Cheeks ablaze, I swiftly turn the page. “I absolutely have not forgotten anything.”

  He retrieves the pin and walks over, waving it in my face.

  I peek up, mouth popping open, hand coming up to cover it. “Ohhhh, that!”

  Baze sighs, all terseness melting from his shoulders as he sets the pin on my bedside table and retrieves the goblet of water.

  “I’m not doing that anymore.”

  He stumbles a step. It’s quite funny, actually. I’ve never seen him do that before.

  “Excuse me?”

  I shrug. “Yeah. Tell Rhordyn he can go fuck himself. Or her. One or the other.”

  He takes a risky step closer. “Orlaith, you’re acting extremely out of character. Is it because I caught you looking at dirty pictures? It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  I don’t think, I just do.

  The book flies through the air, almost clocking him in the cheek. It would have, too; my aim is superb.

  Unfortunately, so are his reflexes.

  With a sharp hiss and a hand that strikes with the poise of lightning, he snatches the book from the air. “What the hell was that for?” He barks, studying me like I’ve suddenly grown a tail
.

  “Out!” I scream, leaping up and herding him toward the door, seizing the goblet.

  He slides back until he’s over the threshold. “Laith—”

  “And don’t forget to pass my message on!” I slam the door in his face and stalk back to bed.

  It’s not until I’m nesting amongst my pillows, the red, misty anger ebbing from my vision, that I begin untangling the past few moments.

  Regret lumps itself into my belly.

  I just threw that beautiful book through the air. Tossed it like it was nothing more than a hunk of trash. And now Baze is in possession of the ancient, stolen relic ...

  “Shit.”

  I set down the hairbrush, lifting my gaze above my vanity to the stout, timber-framed mirror—the only thing that doesn’t bend to fit the curve of my walls.

  The reflection staring back shocks me, as it always does. Makes me wish I hadn’t looked.

  My tutor used to say eyes are windows to the soul, but no matter how much I’ve searched mine, I’ve never found myself.

  Eventually, I stopped looking.

  They’re large and soft lilac flecked with gold, and they dominate my other features.

  My nose is small with a dusting of freckles that skip across my cheeks, giving my otherwise fair complexion a sun-kissed glow. I touch thin, shapely lips, fingers drifting down my sharp chin before pushing the mass of golden hair behind me. Untying my robe, I ease it off bladed shoulders, exposing honed collar bones and slight arms despite Baze’s grueling training regimen. I let the material drop a little more, reveal my budding breasts, and tilt my head to inspect what I’ve been flattening with my wrap since they first appeared ... as if controlling my body meant I could control everything else.

  My entire life.

  Rhordyn wants to inject me into society, but there’s a reason I don’t attend monthly Tribunals anymore.

  Tried it. Don’t like it.

  You can’t control a crowd. Can’t control the way they look and whisper and unravel you with their words.

  “Why her?”

  “Why not our mothers, daughters, brothers instead? What makes her so worthy of being spared?”

  Questions I’ve asked myself so many times, the echoes have left an internal scar.