Page 16

Chapter 16

“WHY ARE YOU ON THE floor?” a stiff feminine voice demands.

With an irritated groan, I crack a lid and look up to find Tove staring down at me. Her hands are on her hips, and her upper lip is curled with consternation while she observes the makeshift floor pallet I fashioned out of a fur throw and a super-soft blanket made of something I can’t identify but am now obsessed with.

“Something wrong with the bed, Frills?”

My bleary attention drifts to Chastain just as he launches himself into the middle of the dragon-sized mattress and starts flopping around like a headless sidewinder.

“That’s not my name,” I grouse uselessly, knowing full well there’s no escaping it now. I’ve made my bed and now I have to lie in it, or my floor pallet anyway. Waving a limp hand in the direction of Chastain and the horribly uncomfortable bed, I address both his and Tove’s questions. “It’s too soft,” I murmur before pulling the fluffy blanket over my head and burrowing deeper into the lush fur beneath me.

“Oh no you don’t,” Tove grumps, snatching my cozy treasure away and then hastily backing up until she’s out of reach so I can’t swipe it back. “You’ve been sulking in here for days. Enough is enough. It’s a beautiful morning and we’ve got shit to do.”

I throw an arm over my eyes to block out the bright light and groan. “It’s called recovering, Seeder, not sulking. Don’t you have a garden to weed or some trees to boss around?”

Chastain snickers and Tove chucks my blanket at him.

“Trees to boss around? Come on, Lizard , that’s the best you’ve got?” Tove taunts, and I drop my arm from my face and scowl up at her.

“He laughed,” I defend, pointing at Chastain, who’s made himself comfortable on the massive bed that makes me feel like I’m slowly sinking in quicksand.

Tove’s snort is derisive. “That’s not the boon you think it is, Syphon. Chastain’s idea of pique comedy is using his air affinity to make fart noises.”

Chastain titters unabashedly, and I can’t help the small smile that starts to tug at one corner of my mouth.

“Get out of that bed,” Tove snaps at Chastain. “If anyone scents you in there, you’re going to be a dead Airhead.”

The Channeler makes a face. “Who’d be sniffing the sheets?”

Tove tosses him a cutting look, and it must communicate something I don’t get, because Chastain pales slightly.

“Point made,” he promptly concedes, his eyes darting around like he’s suddenly very concerned that he touched anything and isn’t sure how to get out of the predicament he’s put himself in without touching even more.

An unexpected burst of wind moves through the room. It lifts the Channeler out of the bed before blowing around the space to clear as much of the drake’s scent away as it can. Chastain floats to where Tove is standing before gently dropping to his feet like a dainty little feather instead of the brick wall of a male that he is. The air once again grows calm and docile, but I look around warily like I expect it to try to sneak up on me.

“You’re right, the bed is too soft,” Chastain agrees. “But I thought you prissy dragonesses liked all that froufrou shit.”

Tove and I scoff in tandem and then glower at each other, offended at the possibility that we might agree on something.

“This prissy dragoness is going to kick your ass in forms later,” Tove deadpans, shoving Chastain when his only response is a lecherous eyebrow wag and a cheeky wink.

My ears perk up at the mention of forms. Do they have a gym nearby, or do they go down to Thrasher Keep? Ooh, I wonder if they have any of those fancy simulators I’ve heard about.

“Why do you look like that?” Tove demands, a guarded look entering her gaze as she surveys me even more shrewdly.

“Genetics,” I snark, abandoning my makeshift bed and getting stiffly to my feet.

The floor was better to sleep on than the bed, but it’s still a floor. I should be used to it by now, but I feel like that ridiculous girl in the weird bedtime story about breaking into people’s houses and complaining about the oatmeal and beds not being right for her. Beggars shouldn’t be choosers, and yet my body is whiny as fuck today.

“Not that.” Tove rolls her eyes. “You got all cheery just now, why?” She watches me like she’s caught me plotting something nefarious instead of seeing a brief flash of enthusiasm that I accidentally let slip through.

“Why are you two here?” I grump, changing the subject and heading for the bathroom.

Tove follows me. Thankfully, Chastain stays where he is.

“We’re your guards…for now.”

My huff of annoyance morphs into a growl of indignation when Tove pushes through the bathroom door before I can shut it in her face.

“I don’t need your help taking a piss,” I snap at the obnoxious female.

“No, but you must need help cleaning up, or you would have done it already,” she claps back, her brown eyes narrowing at the tattered gray skirt and top I’m still wearing and the matted, tangled state of my hair.

I fold my arms over my chest, my irritation deflating until I feel like a pathetic limp balloon. “I couldn’t figure out how to turn the water on, and I didn’t have anything to change into,” I admit softly, nodding in the direction of the shower that has no handles, heads, or faucets. I even scoured the walls, looking for a control center or hidden screen, but couldn’t find anything. I thought maybe it was motion activated, but no amount of jumping around, dancing, or begging encouraged the damn thing to cooperate.

Tove strides confidently toward the long vanity and the massive mirror floating behind it. She taps the glass, and a frame of bright blue and red command buttons light up along one side. She enters a quick sequence, and a baby waterfall drops out of the ceiling of the large shower stall.

I glare at the falling water. Of course it was the mirror. I should have guessed the key would be in the one place I’ve been actively avoiding even though I put the charmed anklet from the hospital back on.

“Got it,” I chirp, eyeing the control panel on the mirror like we’re enemies.

“If you tap the wall to the right, a recess will open with everything else you need. There should be a detangler in there too,” Tove offers, pointedly staring at the wild animal pelt that’s supposed to be my hair. “You just pour it on and let it sit,” she explains after a beat when it dawns on her that if I don’t know how to turn on the shower, I probably don’t know much about a lot of other things too.

I wish she was wrong. It’d be nice not to feel like a complete idiot around this caliber of tech and all of the fancy things here, but I don’t remember any of this from when I was little. We sure as shit don’t have stuff like this in The Scorch. We weren’t in a position to waste resources or our time on things like vid screens where we could watch shows about how the rich and famous lived or see ads for all the things that might make life easier. Things that we could neither acquire nor afford. I’ve spent time traveling around the southern territories but never anywhere even close to as nice as this bathroom alone is.

“The Horde’s best stylists will be arriving soon. They’ll get your nothing to change into situation sorted. There’s a robe for you there when you’re done washing up,” Tove tells me, nodding to a folded pile of midnight blue silk sitting on the vanity.

The idea of a bunch of strangers invading my space with the sole purpose of playing dress-up makes my stomach clench. I wish there was a way I could get out of it, but I need access to Four Tiers and Paragon City, and I’m not going to get it naked—not the right kind of access anyway.

Tove leaves without saying another word, and I start peeling myself out of my grimy clothes. I stare at the charm on my ankle for a moment, wondering if it’s safe to get wet. After a beat, I decide to take it off, just in case. I know the magic powering the charm is going to fade at some point; no need to rush that along if I can help it.

Snubbing my reflection, I move past the mirror and the vanity and step into the shower. The stream of water is the perfect temperature, and I bite back a groan at how good it feels. Instantly I settle into the soothing heat, letting it relax me like this is my normal everyday routine. It should feel unnatural, and while a lot of it is foreign, I can’t deny how right it feels.

Endless food on call, soft blankets, luxurious living quarters, my own personal shower waterfall… I could get used to this. If I’d grown up here in Four Tiers, in the keep, like I should have, I would be used to this. I would be the scion everyone was curtsying and bowing to. It would be my ass they’d be kissing.

Ens and I would have been soft, cherished, pampered little scionesses. We would have worshiped our brothers and been protected by them. Our mom would have sung us to sleep and tried to keep us in line. Our father would have happily doted on us and spoiled his girls. We probably still would have been hellraisers. Ens and I had a knack for mischief even when we were young, but we wouldn’t be killers. We wouldn’t be the damaged, desperate survivors we are now. We would have been content, maybe even happy. Instead, our futures and our hopes were snuffed out, and everything was ripped away.

And now I need to make sure it doesn’t happen again.

I don’t know how long I stand under the cleansing spray, letting my thoughts wander and weave around my predicament and what to do about it. Muffled voices on the other side of the bathroom door finally pull me out of my head and get me moving again. I tap on the wall Tove instructed me to, and sure enough, a panel slides open to reveal rows of cleansers, moisturizers, polishers, and a bunch of other things I’ve never even heard of.

I spot a bottle of detangler and dump half of it on my head. The instructions tell me that microbots in the solution will instantly work through the snarls and mats without needing me to do anything else, so I get to work scrubbing several layers of skin off my body. I pretend all the raised lines and ridges I feel almost everywhere are no big deal, that it doesn’t bother me in the slightest that I can’t scrub the scars off too.

When the detangler stops tingling, I rinse it out and then wash my smooth, tangle-free hair twice before sealing a repairing serum into the tresses. I force myself out of the luxurious water, even though it’s tempting to spend the rest of the day here if for no other reason than to avoid the primping reality that’s waiting on the other side of the bathroom door.

The room is thick with steam when I step out of the shower, but a fan kicks on and warm air quickly dries me and my hair while clearing the air of the thick haze. I move to grab the sapphire blue robe off the vanity and freeze. I blow out a shocked exhale, and my warm relaxed muscles instantly grow taut and tense.

I knew it would be bad, that it would be startling. I gave Aeson and the others shit for their reaction, but this…seeing it head-on with nothing to soften the blow, I instantly know how awful my cruel words and callous judgments were toward Aeson and his Wing the other night.

The familiar stranger in the mirror blinks. I stagger closer to my reflection, my stunned gaze skipping from line to line and row upon row of ruin. The scars are three-inch vertical gashes, all perfectly spaced and even. I wear a collar of them around my throat, and a starburst pattern of them across my shoulders and chest. The marks stop just above my breasts and start again right below. They’re etched all the way down my torso, stopping at my hips. They encircle my arms in stacks and mar the entirety of one of my thighs. Wistan had promised to start on my calf the next time we spent time together, but then I got away.

I take in the places the bastard didn’t mark, my bikini line, my ass, my boobs, knowing full well his brand of pain would have crossed those lines eventually. Wistan kept the others from touching and taking, but only because he lived for the mind fuck of making me ceaselessly wonder if today would be the day he finally went there.

I stare for so long my vision starts to blur. Not from tears, but because I can’t seem to blink or tear my eyes away from what’s been done to me. I’m covered in a fucked-up chainmail of torment, the pattern purposeful and planned. It could almost be beautiful if you didn’t know the horror of what it was, how it happened.

But I do.

I’ll never forget.

I turn to take in my back, catching just a glimpse of the destruction there before I gasp and quickly hide it from view. The scars on my front are methodical, a calculated claiming of sorts done against my will. But my back, that’s what happens when Wistan loses control. That is raw fury and devastating havoc.

I’m marked by both aspects of the Tainted fuck, the calm control and the raging monster.

And now I’ll never stop seeing him when I look at me …just like he wanted.

With a keening snarl, I smash my fist into the center of my reflection. The mirror spiderwebs from the impact and then shatters. My knuckles split on contact, and blood speckles the fragments of my ruined image before they go smashing across the counter and explode on the ground. I bite back the roar that wants to rip from my throat and close my eyes against the pain of needing to shift but not being able to. I would give anything to rip through this body and become a massive, enraged, terrifying dragon right now, and yet I’m forever fucking stuck with the horrors etched into the weak, fragile skin of my drake.

“What in the fae-cursed fuck is going on?” Tove demands as she throws the bathroom door open and storms in.

She takes one look at me, the broken mirror, and then my fist, and her anger quickly dims with understanding. She doesn’t say a word as she grabs a towel off a shelf and hastily wraps it around my hand. She plucks the folded robe off the counter, shakes off the shards of glass, and then drapes it around me. I don’t say anything as she carefully feeds my wrapped limb through a long sleeve that drapes almost to the ground. I slip my uninjured hand through the other arm before Tove belts everything together around my waist.

Glass crunches under her boots as she moves, and something about the sound helps me keep my shit together. It’s as though I don’t want to hear her stepping on the broken shards of my soul the way she’s stepping on the shattered splinters of the mirror, so I keep my fractured pieces right where they are.

Chastain pops into the doorway, concern swimming in his brown eyes. “What happened?”

“Get Jori,” Tove orders instead of answering his question.

“Don’t,” I cut in, and both of their agitated gazes snap to mine. “It’ll stop bleeding soon. It’s no big deal, and what’s a few more scars anyway?” I add, but it comes out less carefree and more despondent than I mean it to.

Tove shakes her head and grumbles something unintelligible as she straightens in front of me, her determined stare demanding my attention. “I understand that help might be a foreign concept to you, but your stubbornness is only going to hurt you here.”

I try to cross my arms in front of my chest, but the towel around my hand makes it awkward, so I abort the move.

“Statements like that only make me want to dig my heels in more,” I tell the female.

“I know, which is why I’m going to do something I don’t normally do, which is explain what you’re up against instead of simply forcing you to comply for your own obstinate good.”

Tove wraps another layer of the towel around my hand when she notices I’m starting to bleed through the one that’s there. She nods at Chastain, who then lifts a fist to his mouth. A small vortex of air forms in the Channeler’s palm, and he talks into it before blowing the tiny tornado off his hand and out of the room, probably in search of Jori.

“You need to understand some things about the world of dragons, Frills,” Tove starts. “A lot changed after the wyvern rebellion. King Tenebrae’s death rocked our foundations and destabilized The Horde more than the outside world knows. King Noctis has done everything he can to bring us back together, to give the illusion that there’s still a united front amongst the dragons, but it hasn’t been easy, and his position isn’t nearly as secure as it should be.

“The minute you step out of this room, you are going to be in the thick of it. You’re not facing off with the nobles just yet, but don’t dismiss any interactions you have from here on out as unimportant. It may only be stylists and seamstresses in that room…”

She gestures to the open door and the quiet murmur of voices that can be heard through it.

“But each of them dresses and serves other kiths, and they won’t hesitate to pass along whatever gossip they can collect about you to enhance their position or someone else’s. If you walk out of this room injured, they’re going to notice that you aren’t healing.

“Your existence alone is going to rattle the powers that be, so don’t let your pride or ignorance become a weakness they can exploit. Don’t paint a larger target on your back than the one that’s already there.”

“Do they know who I am?” I ask, reaching for the charm on the vanity and bending down to re-secure it around my ankle.

“No,” Tove answers evenly. “The king has called a Convocation for next week. I believe he intends to Name you there, but we don’t expect your secret will last that long. We’re not hiding you or what you are, but we’re also not shouting it from the rooftops either.”

“The fact that you’re staying in this room should give the busybodies and spies plenty to scuttle around about for a few days,” Chastain adds before flicking his wrist. All of the broken glass on the ground lifts off the floor and countertop and then rides a gentle breeze into a bin in the corner.

I marvel at the simple show of power, the vanity and floor once again clean and safe to traverse. “Show off,” I mutter, and Chastain chuckles.

“My affinity is good for more than just fart noises and blow jobs. You should see what I can do between your—”

Tove slaps the back of Chastain’s head, cutting off whatever inappropriate thing was about to slip out of his mouth.

“What was that for?” he demands, rubbing the back of his skull.

“Do you have a death wish?” she asks with a glare.

“What? No,” he stammers, once again looking confused.

“I swear, Wind-For-Brains, it’s a good thing you’re pretty and know how to follow orders. How you’ve survived this long in life is truly a mystery,” Tove grumbles, just as Ogdan and Jori strut in through the bathroom door.

Ogdan’s gray eyes sweep the room, landing on my towel-covered hand and the way Chastain is rubbing the back of his head.

“You punch him?” the Burner asks, amused, as he stops just inside the door and lets Jori pass him.

“No, she picked a fight with a mirror and lost,” Tove informs him as she steps back to give Jori access to me.

I glare over at the prickly female. “And here I thought we were bonding.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Come on, Tove,” I tease. “You know you want to braid each other’s hair and giggle about our crushes. You don’t have to act tough just because the guys are here.”

Tove shoots me an unamused look and runs her palm purposefully over her buzzed hair. “I don’t giggle,” she deadpans.

Jori huffs an amused sound and starts to unwrap the towel around my hand. He holds the blood-splotched cloth out to Ogdan, who takes it and instantly lights it on fire. I watch the red flames crawl up the edges of the towel, greedily consuming the bloody material until there’s nothing but a small pile of ashes, which he brushes into the garbage to join the pieces of the broken mirror that Chastain already dumped there.

“Who’s guarding the commander if all of you are here?” I ask, waving away the lingering envy I feel over the way they adeptly and all too casually use their affinities.

Ogdan tosses me a wide smile. “I’ll let the commander know you’re downright distraught over his safety, but worry not, Kindred, the rest of our Wing is with him.”

I choke on air at the unexpected term of endearment.

“We aren’t family,” I insist, taken aback.

Ogdan’s smile grows. “Aye, not by blood maybe, but us gingers have to stick together,” he counters, flipping the ends of his shoulder-length burgundy hair, which is free of battle braids today.

My hand warms as Jori sandwiches it between his, the cuts on my knuckles already starting to disappear with the wash of his healing magic.

“The peanut gallery out there suspect anything?” Tove asks Ogdan.

“Nope. We were already escorting a last-minute addition up here when Chastain’s summons found us. They’re out there tittering and placing bets on who the commander’s mate might be.”

Once again the air gets caught in my throat, and I have to fight it to breathe. I cough and scowl over at the other drakes. Chastain mentioned something earlier about staying in this room and it giving the gossips something to gnaw on for a bit, but I got distracted by his affinity and didn’t think about what he was saying until now.

I’m in a mating suite…Aeson Noctis’s mating suite. The stylists probably think they’re here to compete for the chance to make my wedding dress.

“Who’s winning?” Tove inquires, a spark of mirth flickering over her features as I slap at my chest and gasp for air.

“Dasha,” Ogdan says as he starts ticking off his fingers.

“Oh please, like Aeson would ever,” Tove retorts caustically.

“Rosalin.”

“Only if the king ordered it,” Chastain harrumphs.

“And Priya,” Ogdan finishes.

“Interesting,” Tove hums thoughtfully. “I didn’t know she’d thrown her horns in the ring.”

“You can wash the blood off now. You’re good to go,” Jori announces, and it takes me a second to realize what he’s saying and that it’s directed at me.

I look down to find my hand is fixed. The only evidence that anything happened is the streaks of dried blood on my knuckles and fingers. Reeling, I turn around and do as I’m told. I study the bloody water as it circles the drain and disappears. It feels alarmingly symbolic.

“I can’t go out there,” I whisper as the water turns off, and I spin to face the drakes.

Jori offers me a clean towel, and I take it from him and start angrily drying my hands.

“They’re going to think I’m Aeson’s Bonded,” I point out as though no one else has realized it.

Tove smiles, and all kinds of alarm bells start clanging in my head.

“I know,” she chirps, her smirk spreading until her whole face is alight with glee. “They’re going to shit kittens when you walk out. The circling harpies will be losing it within the hour. It’s going to be great.”

“But I’m not his mate,” I argue.

The Seeder shrugs like that’s nothing more than an insignificant detail and holds no bearing on what’s happening here, but something in her eyes almost seems to contradict the action.

“They don’t need to know that,” she assures me. “And before you go freaking out, Frills, remember what I told you. You’re a target and you need protection. This…” She gestures to the other Wing members and then to the room itself. “Is a good way to protect you until the king can announce what’s really going on. Don’t let your pride get you killed, Syphon .”

The way my kith designation falls from her lips is both a warning and a threat. An unnecessary one at that because I’m all too aware of exactly what’s at stake here.

“If it makes you uncomfortable, you don’t have to tell them you’re his mate. Just don’t correct them when they assume it,” Jori offers, compassion warming his bronze features.

“And Aeson agreed to this?” I ask, a kaleidoscope of butterflies coming to life in my stomach as I wait for the Healer to respond.

“It was his idea,” Tove assures me.

My gut lurches at her answer, and once again, instead of those words making me feel better, they throw me even more off kilter. They do confirm my theory, however, that what happened the other day with Aeson must have been an act.

The question is, for who?

Not his Wing; they clearly know what’s up, and if the commander’s Wing is in the loop, then Lorn’s Wing probably is too. If the performance was just for me, they wouldn’t be telling me all of this, so it must have been for the Oric.

Lorn warned Tahir to keep her mouth shut, but he must have known she wouldn’t. If that’s true though, they’ll be expecting her to blab about the whole Syphon thing and not just about the way Aeson reacted to me, and that contradicts what Tove was just saying.

Puzzlement pools through me as I try to work out all of the angles and see the game the scions are playing, but none of the pieces match up exactly right, leaving me even more bewildered.

Ogdan claps his hands and then rubs them together in eager anticipation. The sound jolts me from my haphazard thoughts and shoves me front and center back into the shit show that’s about to go down. My heart speeds up and my chest tightens as the others drop their dignified, no-fucks-given, Royal Wing masks in place.

Ogdan sweeps a hand toward the door and gives me a brazen look that I swear is taunting me with the easy way, or the hard way?

“After you, Frills,” he tells me gregariously, but all it does is make me want to deck him in the face. “Let’s get this show on the road.”