Page 19 of How to Claim A Shadow King

AVELINE

Idon’t realize I’m crying until the top of my dress is wet.

I don’t realize I’m hopelessly lost until the bottom of my dress, my slippers, are cold and heavy, soaked through with moisture from the forest floor.

“Of course I’m lost,” I say miserably, staring up at the dark canopy of leaves blocking all chance of starlight. “I can’t do anything right.”

This was stupid. So stupid.

My mother always made sure to point that out, always made sure I was fully aware of every single one of my failings. Too tall to be as beautiful as she was, as desired; too bookish to be of interest to other girls as a child. Too scatter-brained to be a good conversational partner.

The tears roll down my cheeks faster than ever, my chest heaving.

My feet sink deeper into the loam of the forest with every step. Thorned brambles claw at the fabric, like something’s trying to keep me from moving further into the woods.

I am tired of being kept out.

Suddenly, the sadness turns to rage, sheer stubbornness rearing its ugly head.

If I want to go into the woods, then I’m going to go into the woods, damn it.

The hem of the dress is already wrecked. I blow a lock of hair out of my face and make a snap judgment.

“This won’t do,” I mutter, using the letter opener to saw at the fabric. It’s fine enough that it’s really a chore, though, and I never thought I’d curse the weave of a truly fine silk, but I also never thought I’d be trapped in a castle with a pig-headed fiancé who calls me his as if I’m property and not a person.

A frustrated sound tears out of me, and I shove the letter opener back in my pocket and rip at the ruined silk with my hands. Finally, it gives way, and I’m rewarded with a satisfying rip. Then another, and another.

Shimmying out of the underskirts, I let them drop to the forest floor, and I manage to knot the remainder of the dress around my legs.

“There,” I say, rubbing the dirt off my palms onto my hips. “I knew I should have worn the damned pants.”

I take a long, shaky, extremely self-righteous breath, and I stand up, pleased with my handiwork. The silk is strong enough that it will keep my legs from being torn to shreds by the brambles, but now I can actually walk.

Evening gowns, it turns out, were not made for evening jaunts fleeing from one’s fiancé into a dark forest.

The minute the words dark forest enter my mind, I regret the thought.

A chill runs down my spine, and the bravado I felt disappears.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

Someone… or something… is watching me.

My throat gets tight, and I slowly pull the sad little letter opener out of my pocket. It’s incredibly dark.

With the branches and leaves blocking the night sky, any moonlight’s been swallowed up by shadow.

Slowly, I take another step, still looking up, hopeful for any trace of light that might help guide me forward.

I’m not going back.

I swallow hard, past the tight lump in my throat, and no matter how hard I grip the letter opener, my hand won’t stop shaking.

Running deep into a forest might have been a mistake.

Something stirs ahead of me, a branch cracking. It hits me then—this forest should be alive with noise, with small animals and evening insects and life.

It hasn’t been.