by Della Roth
I pop its top off and twist the base to raise the deadly, yet lovely, waxy tube. All it will take is one kiss.
Another floor goes by and I stare at the lipstick and its delightful, vibrant coral tint. In one hand, I hold a product—the prototype—that could probably, with further research, enhance Roland’s life. In the other, a product that will end his life.
I thought this assignment would be easy.
I am both the beauty and the beast and I know, deep down, I won’t use it on Roland, and something frees in my chest.
With a small sigh of relief, I slip the tube back in my pocket.
I stare again at my prototype. Pride swells my insides. I’m at the cusp of something great, wonderful, and possibly life changing. I cannot end it now. Not now. I need Roland far more than he needs me; he just doesn’t know that yet.
I can change the continent. The world. Roland. Can I change myself? Can I save myself? Probably not. Again, I think of Roland. My thoughts always turn to him. He saved me once. Maybe I can return the favor.
***
I step off on the ninth floor and hear voices.
Turning in the opposite direction, I climb up another stairwell and listen. I’ve missed the first part of the conversation.
“I’m not saying it’s a bad idea, Roland.” It’s Cat’s voice. “But accelerating everything isn’t smart. I am not convinced Rahda will agree to this. Furthermore, I don’t think she’s capable. It’s like she’s a bomb ready to explode.”
“I’ll admit her methods and ideas are unorthodox, but she has achieved more in twenty-fours than I ever expected.”
Cat laughs. “You call the wound in your calf an achievement? She’ll be your ruin long before she is your salvation. What makes Rahda Plesti unique? And before you respond, I’ve seen the photo. You’re playing a dangerous game.”
Roland hesitates before he says, “She is uniquely situated to prevail in any situation, at any cost, in any location.”
“I wish I had your faith. She’s the old man’s disciple and as such, Rahda risks her own life by not fulfilling his orders. Just look at what happened to those that came before her.”
“Rahda’s different,” Roland says in a way that lets Cat know he’s not likely to change his mind.
“Back home, she is what we call a Khrinda, someone who serves two masters. She isn’t what she seems, and yet, I get the feeling she doesn’t know who she is either. But…”
“But what?”
“I can find out. I can make sure.”
Roland makes a growling noise, like maybe he isn’t pleased with the idea.
“Do what you must. There’s too much at stake. You’ve read Jaucey’s ultimatum. Now, however,” he pauses as if he’s consulting his watch, “I need you to make ready The Gardens. Ensure our guests feel welcome.” He practically spits the word guests.
“Of course,” she says calmly, but I can tell she wants to continue the conversation. “I’ll be back up shortly.”
I hear Cat step into the elevator lift to go down while Roland’s footsteps echo as he climbs into his apartments.
***
I stay hidden in the other stairwell and digest their conversation.
She’ll be your ruin long before she is your salvation.
Just look at what happened to those that came before her.
She isn’t what she seems, and yet, I get the feeling she doesn’t know who she is, either.
Rahda’s different.
So they both know about my mentor, the Grandfather. Strangely, this doesn’t alarm me anymore. Now that I’ve resolved to not follow my original orders to assassinate the dark prince, I can feign ignorance if it’s brought up.
However, what this does tell me is that there are no secrets between Roland and Cat. I’m not sure what to make of this information.
Jaucey’s ultimatum.
Dear Goddess, I know that name—Jaucey—and it irritates me I can’t remember which of the Royals he is.
I wonder what I’m caught in the middle of. This is more than some intrigue between the Grandfather and Prince Roland Rexus.
Standing up too quickly, I get a little dizzy, and sit back down.
It’s too much to think about. I’m tired. I’m hungry. And I want to see if the prototype works.
I climb Roland’s stairwell. His door is open.
“I’m here,” I call out loudly, perhaps even obnoxiously, into the dimly lit apartment. I see his silhouette sitting in one of the chairs near the fireplace. In my mind’s eye, I’m instantly transported to our first meeting, his cold indifference, his demands that I remove my clothing, and the heated exchange afterward.
I notice a tray of food beside the empty chair.
“I thought you might be hungry,” Roland offers.
And that’s all it takes to forget the questions filling my mind.
Food, in a deep-seated instinct, still has a persuasion over me. The army never provided enough and, while I trained in the Old City, rations consisted of dried protein jerky, a fat bar, vitamins, and leaf water.
I’ve never not been hungry. Sitting in the offered chair, I take a few bites.
“Thank you,” I say. He is silent as I eat, and it doesn’t take long to finish the small plate of cold meats, cheeses, and cubed fruit.
“Do you have the prototype, Rahda?”
I shiver as he says my name. He makes it sound so earthy and homey, like he’s been saying it to himself for years.
“Yes.”
Holding it up, it isn’t much to look at in the dim room, but the fire casts an orange glow on it. He nods but doesn’t take it from my outstretched arm. In fact, he isn’t look at it at all. He’s studying me.
Roland lets out a small chuckle.
“Why do I get the impression you’ve been crawling around in a fireplace for the last few hours?”
I turn pink. My clothes are filthy.
“It’s a long story.”
“You have soot all over you.” His tone is playful, amused. “This will never do. Up. Into the bedroom. I’ll start a shower—”
“That isn’t necessary. Let’s just see if the prototype works,” I say.
He pulls me up anyway and leads me into his bedroom. A small corner lamp is lit and its soft yellow light creates a cozy, romantic, shadowy atmosphere.
I look everywhere but at him.
The covers on the large king bed are already turned down for night service, as if a butler just left the room. Thick draperies cover the windows. Cushy chairs, a matching set, sit just in front of the draperies, with a tiny table nestled in between. It’s only too easy to imagine myself sitting there, watching Roland sleep, or reading a book, or being the first face he sees each morning.
This is madness.
“Do I drink it?” he asks, finally pulling the tube from my hand.
“Dear Goddess, no!” I exclaim, facing him. It’s then that I realize he’s teasing me.
“Mr. Underwood, earlier, told me if I consume black ink, I’ll transform into a cuttlefish. I’m not too inclined to trust him on this matter.”
“An exciting thought,” I say dryly as Roland lifts the tube to his face to inspect it, “but I’ve no intention of turning you into a—”
His face changes! I must be imagining things. The glow of the lamp and my delirious state have me seeing things. My heart hammers so hard, it’s trying to punch out of my chest.
“What?” he asks, none the wiser to what just transpired, though he looks at me in an odd fashion, as if he’s trying to decipher my expression.
It’s the Roland from my dreams. His handsome face. And, briefly, at least as long as he holds it near his face, his skin is flawless.
“Give it back to me,” I instruct, my voice high, shaky. Roland looks at me curiously, but he hands it over. “Move into the light.”
I can’t breathe because I’m holding my breath. I’m holding my breath because I dare not dream that it actually works. I turn up the lamp’s brightne
ss.
“Okay,” he says slowly, clearly becoming frustrated with me. “What exactly are you hoping to see?” Even though I’ve seen him, tasted him, and even licked his scars, he still doesn’t want me to see his face. I can tell he’s beginning to think I’m crazy, wondering: how on earth can this little tube do what I’ve hired you to do?
“I’m hoping to see you,” I say in the barest whisper.
Roland doesn’t know what happened this morning to the service robot’s arm; how the earlier prototype seemed to want to transform that little robot. Now, with Roland’s blood and The Pale Waters added, anything is possible.
Everything is possible.
Finally, Roland moves around the bed. His eyes stalk me, warn me, and heat me up. I lift the tube to the scarred side of his face.
An eyebrow arches at me as I suck in a breath.
Oh, Goddess, it works.
TWENTY-TWO
SMOOTH SKIN, A CLEAR JAW, KISSABLE lips, and a clean-cut hairstyle. Not a blemish in sight. Roland’s intelligent green eyes study me. He’s the prince he was always meant to be. Strong. Handsome. Powerful. Seductive. Sociable.
It’s as if he has never known a scar in his life. He doesn’t look like a different person; he looks like himself, like his earlier self, before the scars. The way everyone thinks he looks.
I’m nearly beside myself, jumping up and down. Roland sees something in my expression, my demeanor, that alerts him to the change. Calm down, I tell myself. Act like a damn professional, not some raving lunatic.
“Do you notice a difference? Do I look like a cuttlefish?”
“Oh, shut up, you lug,” I say without malice. “I need to experiment, first.”
He is surprisingly patient. Perhaps my enthusiasm is contagious. Roland smiles at me, and my heart beats faster. I hold the prototype up to his face, and the change is still present. My Goddess, he is gorgeous.
He is everything I’ve dreamt about.
I take a series of steps away from him to determine its radius of effect, much like a radio transceiver, and after four steps, Roland’s face alters. The skin appears to ripple, like a gently crumpled silk scarf. Distinct reddish scar lines reform over his neck, jaw, lips, and up over his ear and into his temple.
The effect isn’t instantaneous, perhaps a few seconds went by, but it’s just enough time to observe someone, look down and, hoping to see that charming, handsome face again, look up to find that you were mistaken.
I return to his side, place the prototype into his shirt pocket as the smooth skin returns. I force him to turn around. I have to see just how much of him this little prototype changes.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Be quiet.”
Pulling the shirt out of his trousers, I inspect his backside. It is clear and smooth. But what if I touch the affected area? I glide my fingertips down his side and I feel him shiver. The scars are definitely there. Raised, bumpy, smooth. I just don’t see them.
“It works,” I tell him once I turn him back around. “Keep it within four feet of you. Do you have a mirror?”
“No.”
I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
“I wish you could see it. It’s amazing. Do I look different at all? Do you see cuts on my face?”
Roland shakes his head.
“No. You look like you did earlier today, just sootier.” He trails a finger over my cheek and it comes away with a black smudge.
“Interesting. Yes, well, it only seems to correct the visual appearance of flaws, not the actual flaws themselves.”
“What do you mean?”
“It means that I do not see your scars, but when I touch you,” I caress his face to illustrate, tracing a scar’s outline, “I still feel them.” He flinches away from my hands. A darkness invades his eyes.
“How long will it last?” he asks.
Why isn’t he more excited?
“I have no idea. I’ll need to do further research, of course.” I move around him, thinking. “I’ll need to observe you until the prototype expires. So whatever you do this evening, I must be with you.”
Roland closes the distance between us.
“For research?” he asks somewhat darkly, though part of his tone is seductive, erotic. Being near Roland and his bed isn’t a good idea. It makes my mind swim with the possibilities.
“I believe that’s why you hired me as your research assistant. For research.”
His voice rumbles into a soft laugh. His fingers capture my chin for a brief second.
“Are we still going with that lie?” he asks mockingly. His voice is rough, gritty. His green eyes are like frozen ice chips. “Though,” he adds, “I particularly like the word assistant. As you conduct your research, I will require your assistance.”
“What type of assistance?” I wonder if he’s referring to whatever’s happening in The Gardens tonight.
He grins. His face is perfect.
“The type that requires my assistant to be clean.”
***
He pops the first few buttons on my shirt.
“I doubt anyone will notice or care,” I say quietly. I do not pull away from him. I don’t want to fight it.
“Obviously, I noticed, Rahda, or I wouldn’t be removing your clothing right now.”
“I’m not a child.”
“I noticed that, too. Fairly early on, actually. Besides, you don’t want me to stop, do you?” he whispers.
He peels the shirt off me, over my shoulders, and tosses it to the floor. I feel a coolness against my skin.
“Beautiful,” he says as his fingers skim down my breastbone, stomach, and latch onto my trouser buttons. “No markings?” I shake my head. No, no markings. “Shall I keep going?”
I swallow. “Aren’t you going to be late for something?” His fingers scorch me, leaving little burning sensations all over me. My tummy flips and I feel it there. The heat. The lust. The urgency.
“I take that to mean you want me to hurry,” his husky voice answers.
The button snaps open. Roland bends down and, with both hands, he lowers my pants. I step out one foot at a time. I wear no undergarments. He stays in the crouched position, the top of his head near my sex, and looks at me. Eyes like fire.
“You have no idea of what you do to me, Rahda. The way I’ve always wanted you, needed you, waited for you.”
“You speak nonsense.”
“Probably. Your love will ruin me, consume me, burn me.”
“What do you want from me?” I moan, whether from anticipation or frustration, I know not. He hasn’t moved. Roland could easily touch me, lick me, own me, and I’d be lost forever. I might even forget my own name, if so. But he just stays there, crouched down, looking up at me with eyes filled with secret longing and darkness. Like he’s of two minds, hearts, souls.
“I want you to do what you are meant to do,” he says.
His hands are on my hips, his fingers kneading softly, exploring the skin on the sides of my thighs, hips, and butt. His thumbs slide wide, skimming, and soon I realize I’m leaning against the edge of his bed and his thumbs are hovering over my hairless sex.
“What am I meant to do?” I croak in between heavy breaths as his head moves back and forth, as if he’s conflicted over what to do next. Should he touch me? Should he not touch me? I wonder what makes him hesitate, if there’s more than attraction brewing here, or if he’s deliberately messing with my head. Deliberate or not, it completely disorients me.
Instead of answering me, he pushes himself away from me, stands, and kisses my forehead.
“You are right,” he says calmly, his face smooth and scar-free. He consults his wristwatch and then looks at the door. “I will be late for something. Use my bathroom to clean yourself up. I’ll find something for you to wear, but Cat will have to assist you. I am expected in The Gardens in fifteen minutes.”
My mouth gapes open as he walks away, leaving me with an avalanche of mixed emotions.
&n
bsp; TWENTY-THREE
I EMERGE FROM ROLAND’S SHOWER CLEAN but conflicted. I get the sense that he cannot make up his mind about me. It’s possible his statements are meant to disorient and confuse me.
Can he see me wavering? Or worse: can he see how much I love him?
I cannot forget what he told me last night about how I am not unique, how he’ll pretend I don’t have another agenda, and how he won’t care about whatever fate awaits me when he discards me. Which completely contradicts what he said a few moments ago to Cat.
It’s amazing to me the amount of emotions that I’ve felt over the last twenty-four hours.
I use a plush white towel to dry my hair and body, wrap it around me, and step into Roland’s bedroom. Instantly, I spot something on the bed: a formal sterling silver fabriskin robe encrusted with black diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. I touch it, expecting it to be hard, stiff, and cold; yet the sterling silver is crafted in such as way that it feels like the softest, most pliable silk.
“It will look glorious on you, Rahda,” a throaty voice says from the doorway to my right.
Cat Evinas.
She always shows up when I least expect her. I wonder where Roland is, but I won’t ask. Not her. Not when I’m not sure of my own emotions.
Tonight, Cat’s black fabriskin robe is a series of braided black diamonds sewn into silky threads that, with the slightest touch, might suddenly burst into a million sparkly bits. Her silver-gray hair is pulled high, braided and threaded with the same black diamonds and twisted into a bun. In her arms, she holds her communicator tablet. Always the chief of staff. Always ready to serve Roland, even if it means taking out the trash, or, as the case tonight might be, getting me ready in time for the event in The Gardens.
“I cannot possibly wear this,” I say to her. “What if I…”
“Ruin it?” She says in a voice that clearly indicates she believes it is entirely probable. Ruin… the word seems to be very popular these last few hours. “We do not have much time for debate. I will help you dress.”
