Crushmyspirit, if used in the correct setting.
“Their ...rulesdon’t allow for the exportation of honey buns.”
I’m no expert on things that reside outside the castle grounds, but I’m sure that’s a crock of shit.
“So?” he pushes, pinning me with his full, undivided attention, making me feel like I’m standing trial, awaiting punishment for something horrific.
I thieve another backward step and find a small amount of air to soothe my staggered breathing into something more rhythmic, yet he continues to ruin me with cunning eyes that make my skin feel translucent. Like he’s seeing straight through me, watching my cogs whirl.
Does he see how they rely on the circles they spin? How one delicate shift could break me apart and scatter my bits all over the floor?
“I’ll stay here,” I whisper, and a shadow shutters his eyes, the muscle along his jaw feathering.
“Live, Orlaith. All I’m asking is that youlive.”
“Iamliving,” is my lackluster answer, one that’s met with a sigh that pushes out of him as if it’s been bottled up for a while.
Perhaps he’s growing tired of this game. Well, that makes two of us.
He jerks his chin at me. “Aren’t you supposed to be wrapped in measuring tape right now?”
Fuck.
Dropping my stare to his chin dimple, I go back to wringing out my hair like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “Oh,damn. Must have slipped my mind.”
He does that beckoning gesture with his finger again—making it bounce like a lure.
Just like a stupid fish, I snatch the bait, only to see that he’s still looking at me like my skin’s transparent.
I return the favor, though Rhordyn’s waters are so muddy I doubt their sediment will ever settle enough for me to truly garner his depth.
“Slipped your mind, Orlaith? I didn’t realize it was slippery.”
I shrug and make a small grunting sound, staring forlornly at the entrance of Stony Stem ...
“Lucky for you,” he rumbles, gesturing in the opposite direction of my refuge, “I’m heading there now. I can escort you.”
Of course he can.
For a fleeting moment, I consider making a dash for my tower. He never goes up there unless I’m behind the door that separates us and a droplet of my blood is flushing the water in my crystal goblet.
I think better of it when his head tilts to the side, as if heknows.
A shudder rakes through me at the predatory gesture—one I try to hide by lifting my chin, tossing sodden hair over my shoulder, and stalking off in the direction he’s motioning.
I know when to pick my battles, andthisone ...
It already has me beat.
* * *
Ihate this place with its rolls of fabric stuffed into corners and mannequins crowded around in various stages of undress. I have no appreciation for fine things and exotic fabrics—no interest in parading around with my feathers fluffed like some of the men and women who attend the monthly Tribunal.
I behold my daily attire pegged on a wire strung between two walls, dripping water all over the ground.
That’s all I need. Movability without the frills. Clothing that helps me blend in.
I sigh, towel-drying my hair, ass perched on a seat and jammed in the corner of the room like some inanimate object. Beside me stands a mannequin with similar features to a doll I used to have ... before I tossed it over my balustrade because its wide-open eyes kept staring.
