by Sarah Cross
He stretched her arms above her head, laid his cheek against hers, so that his body covered her like a shroud. All she could see, all she could feel was him. “I would have done anything for you,” he said. “Anything you’d asked. But this—Mira, stopping this, sparing you … that’s the one thing I can’t do. I’m sorry….”
He was really going to—
She screamed—for help, mercy, anything—and he kissed her, his lips pressing hard on hers until the sound died in her throat.
The world turned gray for an instant, flickered with stars, like static. Felix kept kissing her—hard at first, and then softer as she stopped resisting, his lips as gentle as water, lovely and romantic, like this was a special night. More precious than a first time—because it was the last.
He ran his hands over her body, and there was something dizzying about his touch, something that made it easy to give in to, and hard to breathe. The softest death imaginable. She arched her back, and he bent his head to kiss her throat; and it was wonderful, like it always was—she never wanted it to end. It was horrible—it would end, and her world would end with it. She didn’t want to lose him; didn’t want to lose everything.
She hated that he could provoke these emotions in her, even when he was hurting her. Murdering her. She hated that her heart would fail her before it would fail him.
When Felix lifted up on his elbows to look at her, his face swam above her like a mirage. She wanted him to stop. Wanted him to touch her again, so softly, but to say it was all a lie. That he could forgive her for intruding, for uncovering his secret. That he was sorry for every horrible thing he’d done—and he’d never do them again. He could change for her.
He brushed the tears from her cheeks, and the tenderness of his touch was like a language she didn’t understand. “It was so hard,” he confessed. “So hard to let you go once I knew you loved me. The feeling was so beautiful, so addictive … but I held back. I wanted to have something real with you. But you wouldn’t let me. You had to be like everyone else. And ruin this …”
She’d always trusted Felix not to go too far, not to hurt her—even once she knew he already had. She’d forgiven his trespasses without an apology, any acknowledgment on his part that he’d done something wrong.
But he refused to forgive hers.
This time, he wouldn’t hold back. He was going to take everything.
Felix kissed a farewell path along her body. Every touch stole her warmth, weakened the thread that bound her to life, that made her aware of the bed beneath her, and his weight above her, the scent of his cologne, the rasp of his breath as he coaxed yet another wisp of life from her body. His hair hung in his face, disheveled, wild, so different from before.
“At least you’ll have your happy ending,” he murmured. “I can give you that. This won’t hurt. It will be … just like the other times. And I’ll always love you. I’ll never forget you….”
“No …” she said feebly. “This isn’t happy, Felix—please don’t do this….”
“You’ll be happier than I’ll be when this is done. At least you can know love without having to destroy it. I have to go on. I have to keep playing this game until someone listens. And we both know … no one ever will. No one ever does. This has to be your happy ending, Mira. Because this is the only ending you have.”
Life and love swept away from her like a wave pulled into the sea. It was all Mira could do to hold on to consciousness.
She’d struggled at first—but she’d long since stopped fighting. One kiss and her resistance began to drain away; two and the weakness, the strange euphoria set in. Three kisses and panic warred with resignation in her mind, the only part of her that still seemed to function.
She felt like she had in the Knights’ too-warm swimming pool: her body floating, gravity disappearing, only the brush of a hand against her skin reminding her that she had a body at all.
There was one thing she couldn’t forget. One thing no amount of numbness could steal.
The pendant lay bundled against her chest like a chrysalis, a razor-blade butterfly waiting to be freed. She could feel it even as her senses abandoned her. The danger it represented weighed heavily on her heart.
And as her mind struggled to find a way out, an ending other than death … the blade began to seem like a second chance.
Love was something you had to do. To feel. It was active, not passive.
Could you love when you were asleep?
And if she didn’t actively love Felix—if she were as cut off from her emotions as she’d be from the rest of the world—could he still tear that love from her, steal her life from her, kiss by kiss?
She brought her hand to her chest, slowly, and began to unwind the gauze.
Her fingers were as numb as they were in winter. She couldn’t even be sure she was unwinding the gauze properly, but the primal fear that shook her each time she touched it made her think she was succeeding. The razor was her trigger. Her body didn’t want to be near it. It told her in no uncertain terms, instinctively: NO.
Felix ignored her fumbling; he was too preoccupied with her murder. She’d stopped fighting, and was numbly letting him feed. Even as he robbed her, as he rid her of everything that mattered, he didn’t tear her dress, or do anything they hadn’t done before. It was ironic; he treated her body with a sort of polite consideration, but he had no qualms about killing her. She supposed she should have been grateful he didn’t take her violently; she didn’t need that trauma on top of everything else.
The ribbon of gauze fluttered into her palm.
She couldn’t see Felix anymore; could barely feel him. Her thumb struck the metal of the razor blade, and it met her with a jolt of recognition: You know me. I’ll hurt you. Welcome home.
Death or sleep. One or the other was coming for her now.
She didn’t have time to regret this. The razor blade bit into her finger, drawing blood.
And the world disappeared.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AFTER THE SHOW, half the club spilled out of Stroke of Midnight and followed Rafe to a promised blowout on the beach. Blue tried not to think of Mira: why she’d left the club early, what Felix had said to make her go to him. It was after midnight, close to 2 A.M., so it was officially her birthday. … He wanted to wish her a happy birthday, but he didn’t want to be angry or depressed right now—which was how he’d feel if he saw her with his brother, and she said, I’m happy. Can’t you let me be happy?
He was grateful for distraction. He threw himself into the party wholeheartedly: drinking, mocking people who were drunker than he was.
Girls trailed after Freddie like seagulls stalking a fishing boat … and seemed to find it cute when he fled in terror. Jewel slipped away with a blonde named Luxe, one of the jaded, ever-bratty Kinders, who’d laid her claim to fairy-tale infamy back when she was a preteen, after pissing off and robbing a house full of bears. The two girls kissed for a few minutes, then came up for air so Jewel could wipe the gems from her lips and push them into Luxe’s pockets. Rafe pounded empty beer cans against his forehead until he wore a crown of bruises.
And Blue missed Mira. He wished she were there to ask him why he was friends with Rafe. Or so he could tell her the Luxe-robbing-the-three-bears story, and make her laugh. Or stand in the surf with his arms around her, while she pretended not to like it.
Wills swung Viv around like a rag doll, his hands on her bare abdomen; he set her down to be confronted by Henley and suffered a punch to the face. Then all three Knight brothers ganged up on Henley, drunk and stupid with the hero gene, granting black eyes like wishes.
It turned into a brawl on the beach, with the lower-born Cursed coming to the Huntsman’s aid. Slick bad Wolves and cocky Jack-the-Giant-Killer types. Blue didn’t like fighting, but black eyes and bruises fit his anti-Romantic agenda, so he jumped into the fray for a few souvenirs. They fought until the cops came to break it up, and he and Freddie ran and hid until the chaos died down, feeling
reckless and alive.
Dawn broke over the beach, chasing them home.
Blue and Freddie stood in front of the Dream, gaping at the sight before them.
The entire building was covered with thorns: spiked branches that scaled the hotel walls like razor-sharp ivy. A tangle of briars crisscrossed the glass entry doors and the windows, locking everyone in, locking them out. It wasn’t until Blue tried to touch one and a branch zipped out and scratched him, drawing blood, that he realized it wasn’t an illusion.
Mira’s curse.
Blue swore. He turned to Freddie, whose eyes were shining with excitement—one person’s tragedy being another person’s treasure, he guessed. “I’ll get my sword!” Freddie said.
“That sword isn’t going to do anything.” Blue groped for his phone. “I’ll get Henley to bring an axe.”
“Henley?” Freddie blanched. “But I—I hit him in the face with a piece of driftwood a few hours ago. Do you really think that’s a good idea?”
“Fine—get your sword. But hurry up!”
Freddie was already on his way. “Don’t worry!” he shouted—and took off running down the street. Freddie was Honor-bound; he finally had a princess to save, and nothing about that could be a bad thing, as far as Freddie was concerned.
Blue, on the other hand, didn’t like that fate had chosen today to strike. Mira’s sixteenth birthday; talk about ominous. It felt like everything was falling apart. …
There were more than fifteen hundred rooms in the Dream. Over a thousand places where Mira could have fallen asleep. But no matter how many rooms there were, there were only two or three places Mira was likely to be.
With Felix. With Felix. With Felix …
Viv’s phone went straight to voice mail, so Blue rang the Deneuves’ house phone—Regina would pick up. And she was enough of a bitch that she would happily disturb Viv’s beauty rest to make her talk to him.
Viv would love being woken up by her stepmother. But he could deal with her wrath. He was ready to promise her anything, kiss her ass for the next hundred years, personally taste-test every apple she was offered for the rest of her life, so long as she got Henley to come down to the Dream with an axe and get him past those briars.
He needed to get in there. Needed to find Mira and make sure she was okay.
Because there was sleep—and then there was Felix. And he had no idea which one had gotten to her first.
“I don’t think this’ll work,” Henley said. He’d arrived with an axe, a chain saw, and Viv in tow. Freddie wasn’t back yet—which was why Blue wanted Henley to try to chop through the briars now. When he’d told Freddie to hurry, he’d forgotten Freddie would interpret that as go ahead and shower and change and brush your teeth so you’re minty fresh for your destiny. Then hurry.
“Just try,” Blue said. “Try before I throw myself through the briars. The last thing I need is Knight freeing my entrapped dead body with his sword.”
“I’m just saying,” Henley went on, “these briars are enchanted. They’re only supposed to part for a prince. Hnnh!” Henley swung his axe, and the thorny branches cleaved in half at the touch of the blade, then shrank apart, turning silver and brittle. The glass door cracked from the force of the axe.
Viv examined a dead-looking branch. She touched one of the thorns, and it crumbled into dust. “Is Mira sick?” she said. “I don’t think the briars are supposed to be this weak. Unless there’s something wrong with her …”
“Axe in hand. Get. Out. Of. My. Way. Vivian,” Henley ordered, readying the axe for a second swing.
Sick. Weak. Wrong.
Blue found his hands curling into fists. He wanted to kill Felix. Kill him.
“Get the door open!” he snapped.
Heaving deep breaths, Blue stood back as Henley hacked through the rest of the briars—each branch curling back pitifully once it was severed.
Every crack of the glass made Blue’s heart jump. He needed to find Mira. Needed to believe she could be okay. That it wasn’t already too late.
The last of the briars gave way, and Henley kicked in the busted panes of glass.
They stepped through the hole into a silent nightmare.
Well, not quite silent.
The Dream was always alive. Always buzzing with excitement and despair, voices filling the air like the rush of a waterfall. No matter what hour of day or night.
Until now.
The slot machines still made the same electronic racket. Rows and rows of dinging machines, the sounds overlapping each other so there was never a scrap of silence, never a moment of calm.
But the players slumped in their seats, cheeks smushed against video poker screens, slots waiting for another spin. Fat plastic cups lay on the ground or overturned on sleeping laps, coins spilling to the floor.
The roulette wheels had stopped turning. Dice lay frozen on craps tables. Full houses went ignored. None of the blackjack players hit or stayed; instead, they slumped on the tables or on the floor, limbs at awkward angles, cards scattered.
The cocktail waitresses had dropped their trays and lay unconscious in pools of liquor and melted ice. Pit bosses watched nothing but their dreams.
Every last person in the casino was asleep.
It was like walking into an apocalypse. An end-of-the-world movie in which the machines kept going—even when the people were gone.
“Where do you think she is?” Viv asked, her eyes taking in the sleeping guests.
“I don’t know,” Blue said. “But—I have a few guesses.” He took out his wallet to get his passkey, identical to the key Felix had given Mira, and which he’d taken from her—and saw that one of the cards was missing.
She’d stolen it.
She must have taken it during the show. Because he’d had it before that; he remembered checking for it, paranoid that it would be gone.
So she had to be—
“You guys need to stay down here,” he said, his hand shaking as he returned his wallet to his pocket. “You can’t go where I’m going.”
“Oh, Blue, you don’t think …” Viv trailed off.
No one would finish the sentence.
They knew his tale; they knew the one place that was for bidden. And what went on there.
Henley took Viv’s hand, and for once, she seemed glad; she
curled into the space beneath his arm, fear in her dark eyes. Blue just nodded. He was afraid he’d lose it if he spoke. “You want the axe?” Henley said.
Blue shook his head. If he took the axe, he was afraid he’d use it on Felix. And no matter what Felix had done, no matter how much he wanted to hurt him, he knew he couldn’t kill his own brother. He didn’t need more regrets.
He turned and started running toward the elevators.
Suite 3013 was as tranquil as a tomb.
Spots of blood flecked the snow white carpet in a trail that led to the bedroom. A single sheet of paper lay on the floor. Everything else was in order.
But the bedroom door was shut.
Blue’s eyes went to the trail of blood and stayed there. As if it wasn’t enough to drain her. He’d hurt her, too.
Blue gritted his teeth and pressed his palms to his eyes. He breathed in and out a few times, trying to calm down. He couldn’t give in to despair. Not yet.
The scent of roses met him as he pushed into the bedroom, pressing against the door both steadily and gently, afraid there would be a limp body blocking the way. He didn’t want to disrespect it, harm it—even if all the life had been stolen.
He’d been in this room once before, when he was thirteen. And Felix had never forgiven him. They’d never had a great relationship, but Blue’s intrusion into Felix’s most secret place had destroyed what little friendship they’d had. It had ripped the veil off Felix’s carefully hidden crimes—and destroyed the illusion that Felix was less of a monster than their father.
To enter a Romantic’s chamber was the ultimate invasion of privacy, and it came with a heavy price.
For most, that price was death. With the exception of blood relatives who shared the curse—and the shame—no one who entered could be allowed to leave, to reveal the loathsome secret. Intruders had to be silenced, and added to the collection. And if the intruders didn’t love you, if you couldn’t silence them and strengthen yourself through the theft of their love and their life, then you silenced them in bloodier, more traditional ways.
Hence the so-called bloody chamber. The clotted blood on the floor, the women hanging from hooks in fairy tales, the slit throats. But Felix never had to take those measures. He was the quintessential charmer, suave and generous, handsome enough to overcome the centuries of mistrust blue hair had fostered. And Felix didn’t like getting his hands dirty. He would never cut someone unless he absolutely had to.
So if there was blood, Mira must have fought him. Or maybe she was stronger than most girls, because her blood thrummed with the magic of fairy tales, and he’d lost patience, panicked, feared there was no way to silence her except with violence.
It was too much to hope that she didn’t really love him. Blue had seen the effect his brother had on Mira; had witnessed her weakness with his own eyes. He’d sat beside her while she’d slept in his bed, unconscious and impossible to wake—his eyes on the slight flutter of her eyelashes, the faint up and down of her chest as she breathed.
He’d thought that had been agony.
This was infinitely worse.
When Blue had entered his brother’s chamber the first time, Felix had been seventeen. There had been two girls in the room then, both lovely and young—younger than Blue was now. They’d been lonely, friendless girls; pretty enough, but both so deeply wounded emotionally that they’d never found common ground with anyone else. And they’d gravitated to Felix, who accepted them, who knew exactly what they needed. Felix liked lost souls, orphans, runaways—just like their father did.
Because no one ever came looking for them.
Felix’s first two girlfriends were still there—their clothes and hairstyles about four years out of date—but they’d been joined by almost two dozen others. The girls who appeared to have acquiesced—no bruises, no signs of struggle—sat or lay neatly on the furniture, or curled against pillows. The girls who’d fought had received more careless treatment, and been flung wherever they would fit. Two girls had even been stuffed into a wardrobe that hung open, their limbs tangled together, legs battered as if Felix had slammed them with the door while trying to force it shut.
