Page 13

Tris leads me to the fourth floor, to a carved wood door I have been through not long ago. Like last time I laid my eyes upon it, when I was sneaking out in the Warmth, the shading of the wood is warped. It was blue then, but now I watch as splotches of ruby red and ink blots spread over the distressed wood.

The wonder of it captures me for only a moment before Tris knocks her slender hand on the doorframe, then reaches for the unpolished brass knob.

She pauses.

Only a second passes before Daxeel’s barbed voice hums from the other side of the door, “Enter.”

Tris turns the knob and pushes the door open.

I peer over her shoulder at the bedchamber that Daxeel and I forged the bond in. It’s as I remember it, but nicer… Maybe it’s the warmth of the orange flickering light coming from the hearth, the turquoise glow of the jarred larva set around the wainscoted cerulean walls or the deep midnight gleam that glitters from the lush trees through the tall, panelled windows.

Now, the almost romantic lighting calls to me.

I am lured.

Behind Tris, I take the steps over the threshold too easily.

Whatever fight I gripped onto, it left me somewhere between Comlar and Kithe. It’s not only that I remember my purpose in all of this, to win Daxeel’s favour and forgiveness, all to aid my escape from a miserable future, but also that I love him, I do.

I want that future with him.

Even now, buried under the aches he’s plagued me with. I want my love to choose me.

So I play these games.

And too willingly, I follow Tris to the centre of the room, then watch her dip into a curtsey. I trace the gesture to the shadows shrouding a button-tufted chair.

Daxeel lounges in the chair, one arm draped over the cushioned leather armrest, his other hand loosely gripping a crystal tumbler of tavarak.

Without a word, Tris leaves and closes the door behind her.

That faint click of the lock is much too loud in the silence. The occasional crack and pop of the fire is all that can be heard after.

In silence, Daxeel and I just consider each other.

Black linen pants are all he wears. That’s the first note I make in my observation. How disarming it is to see him dressed for home, for the ambience of his bedchamber, and it’s moments like these I wonder if I ever truly knew him outside of his mask worn for me, away from his leathers and weaponry.

I watch him, how his lazy movements bring the rim of the glass to his lips, his eyes burning through the shadows at me, thighs slightly spread, and his back rested on the spine of the chair.

I see a husband who waited for his wife to join him in the bedchamber, one who enjoys a drink in silence, and he watches her dress for bed.

I don’t know why I see that.

I just do.

But that isn’t my truth—and I have not dressed for bed.

I’m reminded of this ghastly yellow gown as his gaze drags over the bell-skirt, and his nose crinkles. He tries to hide the crack in his mask, the grimace of distaste, with a lingering sip from his glass, but I caught that one wrinkle of his nose before he managed to hide it.

“Dress nice,” I echo his command back to him, but I can conjure no bitter or nasty smile to go with it. “Do you think it’s nice?”

Daxeel’s eyes sear through me.

He drinks down to the last drop of tavarak before he tosses the glass aside. It hits the side table with a rattle that jolts my shoulders. And I know he meant to startle me.

I don’t need to tell him I wore the ugly dress to spite him, to spite the favouritism he has of my slips and sheer dresses and little skirts and stockings. He’s figured that out all on his own.

“Maybe it’s not practical,” I say and, clasping my hands together at my middle in the perfect picture of a lady, I sway my hips side to side. The skirt swishes like a bell. I loathe bells. “I can’t exactly clean or garden or cook very well in this,” I add. “Not that I can do any of those chores in a better fitted dress.”