And I know that’s exactly what pulsates under my skin as I catch my blurry reflection in the mirror, taking stock of the damage in the castle corridor.
Rage.
Vivid mottled bruises swell across half my face. My knuckles are split and swollen, dripping blood along the floor.
Does the rage spring from a young boy who still wants his father’s love, or if not that, his approval?
No. It’s born from the fact my father does not even bother to lift a finger to inflict pain.
“Holy fae fucking hell.”
The world around me is mostly dark, so I turn to see Cinder from the narrow slit of my good eye. She stands there, a gothic vision of royal enchantment and zero fucks. The only shift in her normally expressionless face is the downward tilt of perfect lips and a slight furrow in her brow.
Okay there may be one fuck lurking in her somewhere.
The court has been keeping us both ridiculously busy with tedious meetings and fittings, so I’m surprised to run into her alone. Two women emerge from the room where she was.
Ah there it is. The entourage attempting to shape up her etiquette for polite society and dance lessons. Interest and curiosity spark in their eyes. I need to get out of here, fast.
I try to smile. My lips instantly crack, filling my mouth with my blood. It tastes rancid.
“Really got to be careful not to sleep with married women,” I say, playing off the wounds again.
Another couple of people emerge from the room. Ambassadors from the Common World. A half-elf and a human who both openly gape with shock.
“I mean it was a while ago. Of course I am only ever faithful to my bride,” I rush to say. “Unfortunately, there is no statute oflimitations on punishment for sleeping with another’s partner.” I do my best to throw a cheeky smile their way to put them at ease, but blood rushes faster into my mouth as my lip cracks open further.
Something crosses Cinder's features, but I'm not sure what. Disgust? Disbelief? Suspicion? No matter what it is, my battered brain won’t be able to discern anything until I heal.
“See you tonight,” I force out the words from the less bleeding half of my mouth with a curt bow before beating a hasty retreat.
Only when I’ve turned a corner do I resume my slower, limping gait until I reach my destination.
One sideof the castle’s kitchens is lined with cold boxes that store blood while the far side has several wood stoves for heating it. It’s still early when I enter the massive stone room. Later, familiars will be pouring and preparing a mass amount of blood and champagne to serve at yet another engagement ball.
It takes a painfully long amount of time to pour myself a chalice of blood and set it on the massive granite island that could easily fit forty people at its edge. A ridiculous design choice seeing how little preparation is needed for our food. The emptiness of the unnecessarily large kitchen echoes inside me. It’s reassuring I can find places where no one will watch me, and I can just be.
My palms press against the edge of the countertop, causing my already injured hands to explode in a white-hot burst of pain. I grit my teeth and stare down at the chalice, forcing myself to feel the full extent of the agony tearing through my body and soul. Every nerve is on fire, sending bolts of electricity into mybrain, screaming at me to release the pressure. But I can't. Not yet.
Focusing on the pain helps me compartmentalize what I’m about to drink.
I hate it.
I hate erasing all the marks he leaves. I hate the fact I need the blood to recover. Even the thought of the thick, viscous liquid makes me queasy.
To others, feeding is a pleasure.
To me, it is medicine for the afflictions I’m forced to act out on myself.
Worse yet, I hate knowing that this is how my people reduce the value of humans. To many, Cinder is just a blood bag. Just a chalice filled with something delicious but easily discarded after use. I don’t know whose blood this is. If they gave it willingly. What their name is. This lack of detail always makes me uneasy.
The tendons in my forearms flex as I gird myself. Then I clumsily attempt to wrap my broken digits around the cup. When I find I can’t successfully do so without sloshing most of the blood out, I’m forced to bend my knees and stoop to drink from the side as I tip it gingerly into my mouth.
Fuck. Ow. Shit.
Unsuccessful again, I set the cup back down.
I really need to start smuggling in big cups with straws from the Common World. A straw would be fae fucking life-changing right now.
