Those two words could fuel me for aneternity.
I push up and wobble to my feet, rubbing the back of my head, and make for the boy in three long strides. Gripping his torn and soiled tunic, I drag him along the floor toward the ray of light shafting down from above.
He kicks and screams, clawing at my arm. I discard him on the ground, watching his eyes ignite as he scuffles onto his ass, gaze whipping between me and Father muttering incoherently, rocking to his own twisted beat.
I step back, hold the boy’s wide, frightened stare sparkling in the light, and whisper, “Good luck.”
He clambers to his feet and scurries toward that chalky line he thinks will save him from the unhinged predator at his back.
Father’s head snaps up, features sharpening. His shoulders swell as he snarls.
Salivates.
The boy doesn’t make it far before Father barrels him over with bone-crunching force, pinning him to the ground, stretching his neck to the side. He latches onto the opaline flesh, and iridescent blood explodes across his rabid face.
It hurts seeing him like this—a twisted shadow of the man he used to be. The man wholovedme despite …
Everything.
But it’s better than not having him at all.
Ibathe in milk, honey, and fragrant oils for exactly one hour. I know because I watch every minute, everysecond,tick by on a clock above the mantle as a team of quiet servants scrub me, pluck me, shave me in places that make me want to scrunch into a ball and hide. Instead, I stuff every wisp of emotionally driven weakness beneath my field of tiny domes, then plaster another bigger,strongerdome atop the lot—a double layer of protection that instantly loosens my bones, my muscles, leaving me with nothing but stony determination that will hopefully carry me through the next few hours.
Nobody seems to blink an eye at the wound on my neck as I’m dried with a thick, warm towel. My hair is combed into a cascade of tumbling curls, my skin slathered in a lotion that smells like orchids—sweet and musky.
I’m swathed in a blue silk dressing gown and escorted from the bathing chamber. Six women bunch around me, and we move through the lofty corridors like a single unit; past guards who nod curtly and servants who bow or curtsey, as though my steps are now paved by the Gods.
It couldn’t be further from the truth.
Kolden opens the door to my suite, and we gush past, the door shutting behind us. Izel and another handmaiden are standing by my dresser that’s littered with stubby bottles, bowls of gray slop, and tins of cosmetics.
I glance out the open window, the gluttonous moon rising above the cityscape that glitters in the distance—bloated with heavy promises that don’t pack the same punch when I’m feeling …
Nothing.
Sounds of merriment spill across the bay: the thunder of drums, a chorus of voices, and more of those loudpopsas seeds of light shoot up into the sky and explode into a myriad of falling stars.
Izel gestures for me to sit before my vanity, and a few fine braids are bound around the crown of my head, pinned in place and adorned with tiny blue flowers. My nails are painted with something that makes the tips look like they’ve been dipped in gold, the dark circles under my eyes dusted with a powder that matches my skin tone. My lashes are swept into dramatic curls with a liquid that tints their length, the ends embellished with golden dewdrops. Finally, my lips are stained blood red, each sweep of the brush making them tickle.
I’m escorted to where a heavy shard of silver light pours in through the open balcony doors, my robe slipped off my shoulders, baring my naked body that feels like it no longer belongs to me—a thought that skims the surface of my hardened mind rather than gnawing through its spongy flesh.
Someone lifts my hair and picks at the latch on my necklace. I whip around and snatch her wrist.
A hush falls upon the room as I shake my head. “This stays on.”
“But, Mistress,” the unfamiliar handmaiden sputters, big blue eyes nipping at Izel, “wemustremove all jewelry except your cupla. It is tradition.”
“Then I will do it myself when I’m ready.”
There’s a moment of hesitancy before she dips her head in quiet submission, and I drop my hold on her.
I turn my attention back to the moon, sighing internally.
The servants each hold bowls of that gray slop that smells like sulfur, wielding delicate brushes. They get to work painting my body—adorning me in cold, tickling lines, swirls, and flicks that make me shiver all over.
I glance down, and my eyes widen when I realize what they’re doing. Painting me in scriptures I’ve seen before—scrawled across Rhordyn’s skin—tailoring to every dip, curve, and hardened peak of my body.
Enhancingme.
