Page 7 of The Nightmare Bride

A fter I’d cleaned Amryssa up and brushed the snarls from her hair, I put her to bed. She’d barely slept last night, and while a nap wouldn’t restore her completely, it might ease the shadows beneath her eyes.

Once her breathing lengthened, I slid her wedding gown from its hanger and brought it next door to my room, where I spread it across my bed.

The dress would never accommodate my average-sized torso and generous backside, and I didn’t have the sewing skills to alter it.

But I did have another means to solve the problem.

I slid my dagger free and went to my vanity, where I plunked down before the splotched mirror.

My lip curled. I looked like lukewarm vomit. Zephyrine knew I would’ve liked to stay that way—to repel Kyven through sheer disgust—but I couldn’t give him any reason to balk at this sham of a marriage.

Best reel him in with something at least halfway enticing.

I laid my dagger on the vanity. When I brushed the hilt, something quivered inside.

I didn’t know what, exactly—Olivian had never told me where he’d gotten this thing, and I’d never asked.

But whatever witchery answered my summons felt.

..old. Primal, almost, though I’d never equated its single-mindedness with simplicity.

I’d instead concluded that at some point, the dagger’s inhabitant had gotten broken.

Fragmented. Like a sheared-off piece of something that had once been whole.

“What are you?” I murmured.

The dagger’s awareness pulsed beneath my skin. But it never answered that question, no matter how many times I asked.

With a wry laugh at myself, I set to work.

Magic trickled from my fingertips, softening my flesh and turning it pliable.

With careful strokes, I smoothed the hollows beneath my eyes, then sharpened the arch of my brows.

I left my nose alone, but honed my cheekbones and chin.

My skin warmed and reshaped, the magic seeping in like rainwater permeating soil.

When I finished, I looked different. Not so much that the prince would notice—he’d only assume I’d cleaned myself up, hopefully—but I’d accomplished what I wanted.

I looked...fiercer. Hawklike. Not beautiful, but striking enough to stand out in a crowd, and I wanted people to startle when they saw me.

To sneak glances when I wasn’t looking, to guess at whether the contours of my face divulged those of my soul.

I wanted them to wonder whether I only looked like the sort of woman who’d slice them apart if crossed, or if I actually was .

I smiled, pleased to find an edge of menace there. Briefly, I tried to recall the face I’d been born with, but I hadn’t glimpsed it in so long that my mind held only the vaguest impression of bland features, dishwater eyes, and a weak chin.

I didn’t regret having shed that skin. Having forgotten.

Next, I smoothed a hand over my lank hair, infusing the locks with gloss and adding another inch of length. This was my one concession to vanity—this raven mass, so thick and black and slippery it shone even at night and resisted any efforts to constrain it in a braid.

That done, I went to work narrowing my waist. The result looked borderline absurd and squished my organs into places they didn’t belong, but I would reverse this particular change the moment I wriggled free of Amryssa’s dress tonight.

I rose to try on the gown, but a soft knock interrupted. Its distinct pattern shot a tiny smile across my lips. Merron .

I veered to the door and opened it. Our head steward waited in the hall, as solid and compact as if hewn from brown oak. Scruff clung to Merron’s cheeks and last night’s storm had carved new lines around his eyes, but somehow, he only looked handsomer for it.

He ran a hand through his dark hair. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I said, startled by the softness in that word. Somehow, Merron always relaxed my defenses.

“Sorry to show up unannounced. I just needed to know you were all right.” His voice was husky, the usual byproduct of our nightmarish ordeals.

Not that I would ever point it out. Merron had never told me which truth the storms excised from his soul, honed to an edge, and used to lacerate his mind. But he always screamed sooner than the rest of us, so it had to be particularly bad.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just tired.”

His gaze narrowed, sweeping my face. “Did you...change something?”

I glanced toward the vanity. “Yeah. A little of this, a little of that. Nothing I won’t put back eventually.”

“Oh. Well. It looks good on you.”

My lips flirted with a smile. He always said that, no matter what I did. I could probably remold myself as a hag and Merron would react by singing her praises. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he said. “Could I...come in, maybe?”

I paused, but I hadn’t forgotten this morning’s resolution. “Sure. Why not?”

Astonishment flitted across his features—unsurprising, given that I only occasionally said yes.

Mostly I said no. But I was getting married tonight, and the urge to mark that transformation rushed through my veins.

I wanted Merron to brand me. Not as his, but as.

..my own. As something uncaged that would now submit of its own accord.

I closed the door behind him and leaned against the wood.

He approached the bed and studied Amryssa’s gown. “This is quite the dress. What’s it doing in here?”

“It just needs some alterations.” I crossed the room and ran my fingers up his spine to distract from the lie.

Merron gathered a breath, turning with it still trapped in his chest. He stared down, his pupils flowering to wide black pools.

“Harlowe,” he rasped.

A smoky sound escaped me. “Merron.”

“It’s been so long.”

It had, and there was a reason for that. “I don’t want to talk. I just want everything but the talking. Do you think we could do that? Please?”

Hunger came alive in his eyes. “Of course. Whatever you want.”

Oh, thank goddess.

He lowered his lips. I tilted my face up to meet him, palming the back of his head, sucking his tongue into my mouth. I wanted heat. I wanted sweat and pleasure and effort, the glorious mindlessness of skin on skin.

Merron’s hands rose to circle my ribcage. I kissed him hard, fervently, and when he released my waist to spear his fingers into my hair, I pulled him down onto the bed atop me.

Amryssa’s wedding dress rumpled beneath us. Merron half-straightened, propping himself on an elbow as he considered the crushed gown with alarm. “What, right here?”

“Yes, here.” I tugged at his gray steward’s jacket.

“Are you sure?”

“Very.”

He searched my eyes, gauging my determination, but ultimately gave in. He dove for my mouth again, his hips slotting between my thighs as he fumbled with the fastenings of my dress.

I closed my eyes. This felt...right, somehow, desecrating the symbol of Amryssa’s subjugation like this.

Soon, my red dress lay in a heap on the floor, joined shortly by Merron’s livery, then my corset and underthings. I welcomed him, opening my arms, parting my legs, taking everything he could give.

His sweat mingled with mine as the sunshine cooked us to a simmer.

I fell inward, into that endless warm ravine filled with sensation and half-formed whispers.

My fingers roved over hot skin and shifting muscle.

Merron’s labored breaths scorched my ear as we moved together. Each minute melted into the next.

He finally spent himself with a guttural cry and collapsed on top of me.

I held him for long minutes. I didn’t usually, but today, gratitude shone within me, spilling out in my embrace.

“I might not be able to do this again,” I murmured. “Not for a while.”

He raised his head, his brow pleated. “What? Why not?’

I bit my lip. I shouldn’t have admitted that, but I cared for him. Not in the way he cared for me, exactly, but enough that I wanted to tell him the truth.

Which I couldn’t, of course.

“Because,” I hedged. “Amryssa needs me.”

What would happen tomorrow, once Olivian discovered my treachery? Whatever my punishment, it probably wouldn’t leave me free to couple with our head steward in the middle of the day. “She’s losing weight, and her mind is getting worse. Which means I need to be with her. Now more than ever.”

Merron twined my hair around his fist, his expression pained. “But you’re always with her.”

“Not always . Not right now.”

“No, but...” His brows crooked. “She consumes you, Harlowe. I keep hoping you’ll realize it. I wait for you every evening, you know, in my room. I fall asleep wondering if the door’s about the crack open. If tonight’ll be the night you finally come to me and say you’ve had enough.”

My chest twinged. I eased out from under him and sat up. “I don’t know why. I’m not worth dreaming about. And I thought we agreed to no talking.”

“We did, but...” He trailed off, but apparently, he couldn’t help himself. “You are worth dreaming about. You’re the only person in this goddess-forsaken place that is.”

I averted my face, an intolerable ache unfurling behind my breastbone.

“You understand that, right?” His tone grew imploring. “You must know you’re the only reason I’m still here.”

I stood and went toward my vanity. The walls bowed inward, crowding me, and I picked up the first thing my fingers touched, a dented metal hairbrush I turned over and over.

I remembered now why I hadn’t slept with Merron in months. He always did this, no matter how many times he promised not to. “I don’t think I can give you what you want. I’m sorry, Merron, but I can’t.”

An exhale punched out of him. “But I’m not asking for that much. Just for you to let me in, Harlowe. To stop running when I get close.”

“I don’t run .” I thunked the brush down. “How can you even say that? I’m right here. I’ve been here. I suffer through these nightmares month after month, year after year. I never even complain.”