It’s not good enough.
I suspend the bag of blooms over the edge, gaze diving to the long, metal support beam that runs from the base of Stony Stem by the fifth floor, crosses a courtyard, and anchors itself to a sturdier wing of Castle Noir.
My heart flip flops. “Of course.”
I dash inside and set the velvet pouch on my pillow, though not before I give it a sniff. I’m not searching for the bluebell’s fragrance, but savoring the scent of leather and a crisp, icy lake.
Rhordyn handled this bag. Picked these buds. Somehow knew I needed them. Then went to the effort to remove the stems required to make more Exothryl, leaving only the goods to make more paint.
The bastard.
I stain my lips with another layer of rouge before grabbing my shoes and making a dash for the stairs. They’re full of the murky light of sundown, the sconces not yet lit. They probably won’t be, considering the door’s locked and I’m supposed to be hiding in my tower. But again, I’m not that girl tonight.
I’m strong. Composed. Resilient. Someone who doesn’t cower from the slice of a stare or the hack of a word.
Someone who wears her skin with pride.
I lean against the concave wall, one hand gripping the base of a tall, oblong window. My heart sits high in my throat as I glance across the canyon of empty space, tracing the thin, metallic beam that roots from just below the window, stretching toward a stout part of the castle.
A safe, sturdy destination, which is a lot more than I can say about the beam.
I cast my stare on the stone courtyard five stories below ...
That fall looks terribly unforgiving, but the way I see it, I either tiptoe across this lengthy plank and make it to that damn ball or more innocent people suffer.
There is no option.
I lift my leg, causing my dress to split from knee to hip along the side seam, leaving a gaping hole. I groan, rip it to the hem so it comes across as a risqué fashion choice, then clamber onto the window ledge and shift my grip to better support myself.
If I don’t die now, I will when Rhordyn sees I’m flashing half my ass cheek in-front of the entire congregation.
Praying nobody looks up, I stare at the ground.
“Shit ...”
My one saving grace is my experience walking The Plank, something I hope will aid me to keep my feet firmly planted.
That’s the theory, anyway.
Drawing a deep breath, I secure the train of my dress and cast my gaze toward the opposite window. I settle my first foot on the beam barely wide enough to support the full width of it and relinquish my grip on the sill, transferring a single shoe to my other hand to balance myself.
I push my arms out like I’m flying, my other foot moving on its own, sailing me away from the port of Stony Stem. The chasm of doom yawns beneath me as I settle into that corner of my mind that’s quiet, calm, and entirely naïve.
My heart slows as I walk—paces long and delicate, body light as a feather.
I’m not five stories in the air with my life balancing on a shift of wind. I’m strong, steady, and there’s nothing in this world that can stop me.
The air seems to cradle me as I walk the last few paces, and a laugh bubbles in the back of my throat. I transfer both shoes to one hand and grip the skirting, using it to swing myself through the open window, landing in a narrow hallway like an agile cat.
My smile is so wide it feels like my face is splitting.
I dart down the corridor lined with tall, peek-a-boo windows to my left. It takes a sharp bend, then a fall of stairs has my feet hammering the ground at a swifter pace. The steps flatten to a landing, and I slide my hands over the wall to my right, applying pressure until it swings open and reveals a secret entrance to The Tangle.
This elbow is tight, squiggly, and dark—a trail I have to work my way through by feel alone—but a short route that spits me inside a blanket box. I shove the lid open and clamber out, brushing myself off in the dusty storage room that’s stacked full of old furniture. I pat my hair, secure any loose bits, then step out the door into a loud, bustling hall doused in the smell of baked seafood.
The kitchen is ahead on my left, a steady stream of servants flowing in and out.
I walk at a brisk pace, keeping my chin high and eyes trained forward as I pass the door, inserting myself amongst the river of servers clothed in black—
“Stop right there, missy!”
Dammit.
I spin to chase the source of the fiery inspection burning the side of me. “Hi, Cook ...”
She clicks her tongue, then herds me toward a quieter section of the hallway and eyes me up and down, dusting flour on her already chalky apron while I try not to fidget.
“I was told you weren’t attending, and that I’m to serve a plate of honey buns at the base of your tower once the sun goes down.” She reaches deep into her pocket and pulls out a black key that makes me cringe internally.
“Whoever told you that must have gotten the message wrong,” I say, jerking my thumb toward the flow of servants. “I’m actually headed there now, so I’ll jus—”
“The High Master himself told me.”
Oh. Crap.
I nod, hating that I got caught lying to Cook, but her family lives in a nearby village ...
I’m doing this for everybody.
“Sometimes Rhordyn doesn’t know what’s good for him,” I mutter, and her gaze softens.
“Well. That’s something I can agree with.” She stuffs the key into her pocket and motions for me to step closer. “Quick, let me help you put those shoes on. If you bend over, you’ll tear that dress to your tit.”
My cheeks blaze as I squash a sigh of relief, swinging my shoes into Cook’s awaiting hands so fast I almost flog her with them. She kneels, holds them out, and I slip them on one by one.
As she fastens the buckles, I watch servant after servant rush past with round, silver platters encumbered by brimming champagne flutes, overhearing one of them natter about some announcement that’s about to take place ...
I frown.
“What announcement?”
Cook stands, gives me a sweeping scan, and rearranges a few pins in my hair. “You and I both know which announcement they’re referring to, my girl.”
My heart drops as I glance down the hall, wishing the backs of my eyes weren’t stinging. Wishing the extra surge of determination had everything to do with my will to do good—that it was untarnished by the thorn of resentment poking holes in my heart.
Yes, I know exactly what announcement they’re referring to.
The lilting tune of a distant fiddle accompanies a riot of bodies flowing in and out of the grand ballroom.
Some are maids carrying those silver trays laden with champagne flutes; some are poised women dolled up in dresses cinched at the waist, their skirts flowing behind them like liquid. Their painted smiles and beaded hairstyles make them look untouchable.
Two are dressed in gray gowns that cover every inch of skin aside from their pinched faces—hair pulled back in tight hairstyles that showcase upside down v-shaped scars in the center of their foreheads.
Those people ... I make extra effort to avoid looking at their eyes.
Men are clad in tailored suits that square shoulders and taper hips. Suede suits. Velvet suits. Silk suits as polished as their slicked-back hair.
You can usually tell a person’s territory simply by their garb, but this ball is a colorful, eclectic expression of personality.
Looking down at the ruby dress that’s tailored to the dunes of my curves, I almost lose my nerve. Almost hightail it back to Cook so I can beg for the key to Stony Stem. It’s only the sight of a raven-haired child notched on her mother’s hip that convinces me otherwise; her big, round eyes anchoring me in place.
She appears to be the only one who can see me standing in the shadows, and she’s looking at me like she knows—like she can see into the chasm of my soul.
If I skitter
back to my tower, her breaths are numbered, and I can’t bear the thought of the light bleeding from her eyes.
My hand whips up to the treasures hidden beneath a layer of red; a jewel that reminds me to strengthen my spine and a shell that shields my heart.
The lute changes tempo—becomes dense and beaty—and it jerks me into action. I peel from the slice of shadow clinging to the wall, my tormented toes bearing the weight of every step.
Heads turn and eyes widen, whispers dole out from between lips that barely move as I walk toward the grand entrance.
Admittedly, I didn’t consider how much this dress would make me stand out when Hovard came up with the sketch. I was pissed, off-kilter, and desperate to rattle Rhordyn in any way I could. But now that I’m here, dressed in nothing but a yard of silk that coats my skin like a lick of blood, I’m drowning in regret.
Everyone’s watching. Taking me in. And aside from the rouge and the powder and the kohl, there’s nothing for me to hide behind.
I’m not wearing a bodice like all the other women. My back is entirely bare. There’s a split in my dress that’s inviting peeks of flesh from hip to toe every time my right foot kicks forward a step.
The crowd parts like a split book, as if I’m emerging from the gutter. Though it makes my cheeks scald, it does allow me a clear view of the elegant ballroom cast in a pearly glow. A straight shot to the man leaning against the far wall near a raised podium, arms knotted over his chest that seems to have paused in its labors.
The music stops as the crowd drinks me in, assuaging their curiosity while cool, steely eyes regard me.
Needle me in the heart.
My skin may be blazing with the collective focus of a room full of inquisitive eyes, but it’s his that leaves a frosty scar. His I’m hanging off, despite it being barbed.
I take a moment perched on the threshold of my inevitable demise, certain I won’t survive his wrath for what I’m about to do. Not when he’s staring daggers at me simply for escaping my cage.
But he asked for effort. I’m simply following orders.
I watch his eyes flare as I lift my chin and push my shoulders back. Because right now, wearing this dress that clings to my curves and exposes a shape that’s never been seen, I’m not damaged. I’m not the girl who’s afraid to step foot outside the castle grounds, and I’m certainly not the girl who’s uncomfortable in the sheath of her own skin.
I’m strong, composed, resilient ...
Rhordyn gestures to the musicians, and the music starts again, dissolving the spell of silence. The crowd slowly swirls into action, still pecking me with peeps while filling the empty space and cutting me off from Rhordyn’s prying eyes.
Releasing a jagged sigh, I plunge into the breath-stealing scene thick with cloying, exotic smells, barely five steps in when Baze spears through a gap in the crowd, clad in a black suit that accentuates the strong lines of his formidable form.
“What do we have here?” he grits out, stealing my arm, his face split with a smile that shows too much teeth.
He’s leading me with a hold so tight my arm loses circulation from the elbow down, so I dig my fingers into his side and pinch.
Hard.
“Ow,” he mutters without moving his lips.
I feign a diplomatic smile. “Sorry I’m late. I had a slight wardrobe malfunction.”
“I can see that,” Baze says, steering me through the crowd, weaving between round tables embellished with floral centerpieces and platters of food. “And here I was thinking we were going to make it through the night without a hitch.”
I snag a flute off of a server’s tray and guzzle the contents in one thirsty drag, face pinching as the bubbly liquid wrestles its way down my throat. “Buckle up, buttercup.”
He snatches the glass out of my hand and waves it at my face. “This stuff is not for you.”
“And why the hell not?”
“Because you don’t know how to regulate yourself.”
I frown.
He’s treating me like I’m a child again, and it’s dampening my certitude. I’m just about to tell him exactly that when my other wrist is snatched up and tucked into the crook of Rhordyn’s arm. I’m peeled away from Baze, who flashes me an unapologetic wink before disappearing into the crowd.
Traitor.
“Are you not wearing any undergarments?” Rhordyn asks, the pulse of his icy voice hitting the shell of my ear.
“You’ll never know,” I purr, pretending I’m not affected by the strike of his words. By his manly musk twisting around me like greedy fingers, or by the way he’s holding me against the strong pillar of his body.
He grunts, and I become all too aware of his black suede pants brushing the exposed slice of my leg ...
He’s weaving me through the crowd, holding me like he doesn’t want to lose grip, and it’s messing with my head.
I don’t appreciate this ... effect he has over me.
Especially not now.
A waitress buzzes close and offers us bite-sized slices of bread capped with roe and a creamy spread. I take one despite my churning stomach, my heart suffering the expected pinch of disappointment when Rhordyn waves her off, scowling as if the very sight of it repulses him.
Something inside me snaps.
Perhaps it’s the fact that I’m wearing a roomful of curious stares I’m convinced are studying my mask for flaws. Perhaps it’s that I’m treading the thin line between composure and another embarrassing public breakdown should something set me off. Perhaps it’s simply that he’s here, screwing with my head, but I shove the canapé at his face and glare into twin wells of scarcely veiled composure.
Wide. Unblinking.
Right now, this tiny, pre-dinner nibble is equally as threatening as a weapon poised at his throat. He knows it. I can see in his eyes that he recognizes the challenge I’ve staked in the ground between us.
The question is, what’s he going to do?
A moment hangs, the silence between us roars, and it feels like we’re the only two people in the room. Us ... and this little piece of bread.
His head banks to the side, and he regards me with the intensity of an artist’s chisel, like he’s looking for something to chip away.
I make sure he sees nothing but the icy resolve I wish I hadn’t learned from him.
A line forms between his brows, gaze passing to my offering.
I lift my chin, hand mimicking the motion, thrusting the food closer to his face.
Rhordyn clears his throat and snatches the canapé, shoving it in his mouth. I swear he barely chews before he swallows, and something sparks in his eyes that sends a chill shooting down my spine ...
Something akin to hate.
“Happy?” he bites out, and I release a captive breath, unaware I’d been holding it this entire time.
He just ate in front of me ...
It should be insignificant, but for me ... it’s everything.
I nod.
“Good. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, how the fuck did you get out of your tower?”
It’s hard not to wilt at the growl in his voice, his eyes churning with unsaid threats.
I break away from his scrutiny, feigning disinterest. “I have my ways.”
He grips hold of my arm again, steering me in a wide arc around a waitress bearing a tray of flutes. “I’ll be investigating.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” I say, trying to wriggle out of his strict hold so I can steal another glass. That champagne was tasty, and I like the way it’s warming my belly.
“Why not, Orlaith?”
His words cut into me, and I cringe, thinking back to my little trip across the beam ...
He’ll work it out, and then I’ll probably wish I’d fallen off the damn thing and plummeted to my death.
I glance over to see him staring at me with wide eyes. “Well, now I’m very intrigued,” he bites out, steering me toward a corner fringed with large urns that are spilling potted
night lilies, turning our backs to the wall so that we’re looking out on the busy crowd.
Though his proximity chills me to the bone, it also sets fire to my skin. “Just remember, you’re the one who wanted me to come.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t very clear,” he mumbles, the baritone of his voice only serving to weaken my knees. “But me telling you not to come, trying to secure your dress, then locking you in your tower was my way of uninviting you.”
Praying my cheeks aren’t as flushed as they feel, I compose my features into what I picture is a vision of regal poise. “You took me to that meeting because you wanted to nudge me over my line. If you think I’m ready to face the world, why stop me?”
His eyes harden. “What I want, what I need, and what is right are three entirely different things.”
I almost laugh, stabbing my gaze at the crowd giving us a healthy crescent of space. “How very cryptic of you.”
Can he hear the hammer of my heart? Because I can. It’s roaring in my ears, rattling me to the core.
It’s telling me to push him further—to hack and hack until I break him apart so I can inspect his insides. See if he’s just as stony beneath the hard surface.
I don’t realize his grip on my arm has loosened until cold fingertips graze across the bare skin at the small of my back ...
I jerk from the contact.
“Despite how murderous I am,” he mumbles, and there’s a roundness to his words, like they had to veer their course to get here. “You do look ravishing in that color.”
My breath hitches, head whipping to the side, blood rushing to my cheeks as he begins to trace little circles over my sizzling skin.
They’re tight, taunting, and more delicate than the tapered tip of a paintbrush. They’re stirring my insides, twisting a coil of nerves in my lower stomach like a living, breathing, hot-blooded serpent.
A dampness forms between my legs, and I tighten the press of my thighs, feeling that flush shift from my cheeks, down my neck, where it pinches my nipples into hard peaks.
I’m a stone statue, tentative to move lest I scare him away. Worried that if I shift, he’ll smell my body’s reaction to the small dose of attention he’s gifting me.
To Bleed a Crystal Bloom Page 27
