Page 89 of Facade

The itch was too hard to get to; my nails barely scratched the top of my back. Still, I fought the urge to moan at the small relief, scarcely taking into account how much danger I could be in right now.

“Care to tell me how you managed it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I gritted out.

Aiden reached a hand toward me, his eyes never leaving mine. A flash of fear crossed my face as his tight grip squeezed my shoulder, roughly turning me. My heart pounded in my ears—this is it. He’s going to tie me up again, then I’ll really be trapped—

But he didn’t tie me up. Instead, he started scratching my back. The relief overpowered my shock, as I shuddered, goosebumps trailing over my skin.

“I thought I would’ve earned your trust after all of this time together,” he whispered, the sound caressing my ear as it had on so many occasions during this journey. It could just be from the relief he brought me in this moment, or my own complicated feelings rising to the surface as I tried to justify all of his actions and moods in my head.

My eyes drifted closed as I leaned a little further into his touch as he scratched every single spot that itched. As if he knew exactly where all of those spots were. Because he did.

“I’m still a prisoner, and you, my keeper. What reason would I have to trust you? We may be attracted to one another, but you haven’t told me anything about yourself. You won’t even answer my question of what you are.” He stopped scratching, stepping away. I instantly missed his touch as I wriggled, trying to get comfortable.

“I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t,” I growled, turning to walk away. He grabbed me, whipping me around to face him, his fingers digging painfully into my injured shoulder.

My vision went black.

23

Evanee

I hid in the stairwell as my mother waited in her sitting room for the Queen’s emissary.

The golden banister that I'd slid down as a child numerous times was cool against my head as I sat in the empty space. Often, I imagined my father waiting with open arms below, always smiling. But he wasn’t there. He’d died before my mother knew she was pregnant with me. His face was something I had to make up in my mind—we had no paintings of him anywhere. Only the description my mother had given me.

I was told I looked just like him. Mother often said my hair was unnaturally black, even darker than his, as if the shadows themselves lived within the thickened strands. I also had his eyes. A green so pale, with just a hint of gray. Unlike any other green anyone had seen. Completely at odds with my hair. I wished I’d known him. I wished he were here now.

The sound of horses and a carriage sounded outside our manor. I ducked lower as one of our servants answered the door. Greetings from Mother flowed through the grand entrance, her lilting voice reaching to the vaulted ceilings above. Then the door to her sitting room slammed shut. Unfortunately, she'd sealed the room years ago to prevent me from eavesdropping. So I slumped back on the stairs, my gaze glued to our ceiling.

Such a boring ceiling. Typical paintings of our distant mountains, with the moonflower fields blooming beneath them. It didn’t do the real image justice. The moon cycle had been meticulously stenciled above the peaks as well.

It looked ridiculous.

I wouldn’t have something like that painted in my home. I didn’t even want a grand home. I wanted to be a warrior. To train with the King’s guard. To fight and protect those I loved. More and more female Gargoyles were being allowed to join, and I planned to be one of them.

When I wasn’t being forced into dresses and lessons on being a lady, and what my duties would entail as a matched female, I was training. Sure, I didn’t have a clue how to wield a sword correctly, and the arrows I did manage to shoot off generally hit the target sideways, but I’d gotten pretty damn good with daggers. That’s probably because I constantly practiced against my bedroom door.

Mother’s laugh—such a dainty, feminine sound—flitted up as the door opened, followed by the clank of the teacups and kettle as our servant wheeled them back to the kitchen.

“We are so honored.” I heard her say. My skin prickled as I bolted upright. Honored about what?

“The Queen will be very pleased you have accepted.” The emissary’s nasally voice snaked through the door before it clicked shut again.

I paced the servants’ halls, flipping a dagger mindlessly in my hand, as I waited. And waited. And waited. Until finally, the emissary left, and I dashed out of the hall, right to Mother’s side.

After talking to her, I shuffled through the house like a ghost. I might as well have been one after she shared the news—I was to marry and be matched to the prince.

All of my dreams of being a warrior shriveled to nothing.

As I sat there, the weight of Mother's decision crushed me. I knew they would never let a royal princess, a future Queen, serve in the guard. It was unheard of. Anger surged through me, hot and bitter, as visions of my lost future played through my mind. I begged her not to trade me into that life, to have faith in my abilities to take care of us. But she admitted my father had left debts she’d been paying for twenty-four years, and our money had run out. In exchange for my hand, the court would forgive the debt. The betrayal struck deeper than the daggers I threw at hay targets that day—but it was done. And there was no going back.

The night I was presented before the Queen, Mother fussed over me. She had a new dress made in the palest pink she could find and grumbled that my hair and eyes never worked cohesively with the colors she chose.

The sleeves covered my arms and cut low above my breasts, yet it stayed tasteful since I wasn’t large to begin with. I stared at my solemn reflection. I’d always been sun-kissed—staying up past sunrise to practice in the daylight while most Gargoyles slept. Only the humans milled about, and they kept my secrets. But I’d already become so pale from Mother giving strict instructions to the staff, not to let me out anymore during the day. My eyes were not the usual bright, pale green. They'd somehow dimmed to a muted grayish-green, and my hair, currently woven behind my head, interlaced with delicate purple flowers, was lackluster. As if the shadows that my mother claimed had taken solace there had evaporated. Abandoned me. I looked every bit the future princess as my beaming mother placed a thin, diamond-encrusted diadem atop my head.