She flickers in and out of view, half-obscured by the motion created by the man ramming in and out of her.
Tears stream down her cheeks. Her mouth is swollen, bruised, black and blue, her lower lip split open. One side of her jaw darkens with the bloom of a fresh handprint.
Next to me, the first Iris cries out, her body shuddering toward climax.
In the mirrors, the broken one weeps.
The images begin to overlap, and the broken Iris suddenly appears over the throne, screaming in pain. Begging Ethan to stop.
A silent shout tears from my throat.
When I look back at the mirrors, the crying, disheveled Iris is reflected back at me. Different versions of her haunt the mirrors. In one, she stands at the far end of the chamber. In another, she’s only feet away. In another, she’s directly behind me.
She looks so vivid I can make out the shine of tears on her skin, the violent bruising around her mouth, the faint tremor in her breathing. She lifts one hand slowly, almost weakly, and presses it against the transparent pane of glass between us.
I don’t remember moving, but suddenly I’m there too, our palms nearly aligned, mine only slightly larger against the glass.
Her eyes lock onto mine, and her lips part. “Help me.”
I wake to a chilly wind raising goosebumps on my arms. For a moment, I lie still, caught between sleep and wakefulness.
Moonlight climbs the posts of the white four-poster bed. The pleasant evening breeze has become an icy gale, rattling the opened windows and carrying a bite of danger.
E didn’t visit me after I stormed off. Not in real life nor in my dreams, and I’m almost disappointed.
I wanted space, but I find myself wishing I’d let him sleep beside me.
Like that would have been enough,my inner self snickers.
My interlude with E left a giant hollow at the pit of my belly. I felt his anger and jealousy, yet neither affected me the way they should have.
I was scared of my own reaction and came this close to abandoning all rationality. Thankfully, the sight of the throne in the mirror as his hands slid over my hips poured some much-needed perspective on my body's insane urges.
The way it warped in the glass unsettled me. It looked as though someone was sitting upon it on the other side of the mirror, watching us through the reflection.
It sounds silly now, when I think about it. It’s probably my lifelong fear of mirrors playing tricks on me.
Still, an itch burns at the back of my throat. I'm incredibly tempted to wake up tomorrow and burn Willow's magic out of E—her imprint, her memory—just so I can have him for myself.
The thought is selfish.
Monstrous.
Another glacial burst of wind blows across my face, and I frown. The night air smells impossibly clean, touched by clouds and distant rain; a storm is brewing.
Shivering, I push back the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The cold floor bites my bare feet as I cross the room to the windows, pulling them shut and securing the small golden latches one by one.
A handful of snowflakes drifts past the last window before I’m done, the largest one swirling down to kiss my cleavage.
Before going to bed, I changed into an opal nightgown I found hanging in the wardrobe. The neckline plunges all the way to my navel, revealing far more skin than I’m comfortable with. The fabric is cool and light, yet somehow stimulates every erogenous zone on my body.
Despite shutting the windows, the freezing wind still toys with the hem of the skirt. I look down at my legs, at the shimmering fabric stirring around them.
The window is closed.
So why is my skirt still moving?
I cross the room to the solid wall there, and the tapestry…breathes. The sight of the moving wall sends my heart into a frenzy.
