“What do you mean?” I ask, instead of giving into the almost overpowering desire to kiss her.
“You can never know who to trust. Not really. I know my stepfamily was never the most affectionate or loving, but I figured we were still family. I was very wrong.” Her voice drops to a low, dark pitch. “The moment my dad died, they turned on me. They hated me and I had no idea. So not only wasI devastated over my father’s passing, but I found my family wasn’t really my family at all. Suddenly I wasn’t allowed out of the house. They locked me and forced me to clean like a servant. It was like that for four years until I couldn’t take it anymore and left when I was sixteen.”
“Sixteen,” I echo, stunned. I often wondered what happened to the human girl after her father died, and now I know. “How did you get past the border?”
Without my necklace or Cinder’s shoes, there are portal points between the realms—gates guarded on both sides. My father is strict on border patrol.
She shook her head. “Dumb luck. I was so small, I was able to sneak by. But the constant blood loss took its toll. By the time I escaped, I was severely anemic. The iron supplements help, but it's a constant battle to keep my levels up.”
And it doesn’t help she’s been living two lives, her head spinning from one emotional shock after the next.
“I lived on the streets of Boston for a while until I found jobs here and there. Then I met Goldie. She introduced me to Rap and the Poison Apple. I got some actual money and put myself through college for art. But this. . .” She sighs at the stretch of canvas. “I’ll never be this good.”
“You should stop comparing yourself. Your father was talented, but so are you. In a completely different way that’s unique to you.” Then I lean back, observing the painting closer. “Did your parents love each other?”
She nods. “My father adored my mother. But I bet if they lived long enough, they would have been disappointed in each other, or maybe even in me. But here in this painting, there is so much love. It can’t be taken away. It can’t turn into bitterness, resentment, disappointment.”
With that, Cinder pushes up to a standing position, dusting her hands off. I’m on my feet in a second.
Something in me says she’s been too vulnerable for too long and she’s trying to shut it down. But I won’t have it. I got past her defenses for just a little while and I’m fucking addicted to it. I could live off her hardness, any scraps she’d throw my way. But now that I’ve brushed against her naked underbelly, I can’t stop until I’m nestled in there, a permanent fixture in her softness.
“Your parents would never be disappointed in you. If they were here, you would have been safe and loved.” The word comes out almost ferociously.
Cinder shakes her head. “I used to fantasize about that, but the more I know the world, the more I realize people live too long. Not just fairies. Live long enough and I think we’ll find everyone ends up hating one another or at best, drifting apart. At least you and I have a straightforward agreement.”
I swallow over a lump in my throat. I want to tell her she’s wrong. I’ve seen the way she completes the Poison Apple, the way her friends look at her with such love and acceptance. Even her boss would protect her from the likes of me. I want to show her that’s not how relationships work, but truthfully, I wouldn’t know.
I turn and run my hand along a crate of paintings, almost wishing for the stab of splinters.
“I’ve never had that acceptance you spoke of. My father only views me as an heir to his throne, a pawn of power. I still remember the day I found that out. I began training at twelve in martial arts, and when I won my first tournament, I went to my father after to share the pride I felt. I worked my ass off.”
I remember stepping into the training arena, my heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and nerves. “At twelve years old, it was my first real martial arts tournament against other young nobles learning the warrior disciplines.”
All eyes turned toward me as I made my way to the center mat. The King's icy gaze bored into me from his ceremonialthrone. I could feel the weight of his expectations like a lead vest strapped to my chest.
“The referee called the first match, and I faced off with a wiry boy a couple years my senior. We exchanged the traditional formalities and then the bout began.”
Months of rigorous training took over as we traded blows and grappled. I had been drilled mercilessly on form, tactics, and sheer ferocity. Mentors beat those lessons into me until they were deeply ingrained instinct.
“Eventually I landed a decisive strike, sending my opponent sprawling. The referee's hand shot up, declaring me the victor. A primal sense of accomplishment surged through me. I had proven myself, overpowered my adversary through sheer skill and fortitude.
“As I turned with a flushed smile toward my father, desperate for his approval, his expression remained chillingly impassive.”
As I tell Cinder the story, a painful coldness extends out from my center.
The King's voice had cut through the arena like a blade. “Continue.”
I didn’t understand. The other kid was on the ground, dazed. I’d won.
My father’s eyes narrowed to slits. My chest deflated as surely as if he'd struck me. Before I could respond, he continued in a booming proclamation. “Continue.”
Realization dawned. The word hung in the air like a sword suspended above the captive onlookers.
I stared at my downed opponent, already battered and beaten. A sudden pit opened in my gut as I realized my father demanded I continue wailing on him well past any honor or decency. Simply for the sake of dominance.
“And no one on the court would stop either him or me. I was to make an example of our power, our ruthlessness. I was meantto inspire fear and let everyone know the Charming throne ruled all.”
When I opened my mouth to protest, my father’s granite expression turned any objection to ash on my tongue. The truth was laid bare—the approval I so desperately craved would not come through upholding virtues like honor or mercy.
