Page 28

What. Is. Happening. To Me?

I’m still standing there long after he disappears beyond the door frame, a single finger held out in front of me. I touch a hand to my forehead, fingertips brushing my hair. I pull a strand out to discover it completely dry. He dried my hair. I didn’t even notice. It all happened so fast.

I don’t feel like myself. There’s an energy slushing through my blood. But it's not just embarrassment. It's a different sensation that makes me feel hot, heavy, and befuddled. Like a physical entity has taken station over my body. I feel overly aware of my skin.

I’m attracted to him.

I take a few steps away from the door frame…Attraction. The whole concept has always been a bit foreign to me. The other Shrouded and my handmaidens loved to point out the guards they found handsome. And, of course, I could tell when a guard was handsome however no one ever really stood out to me before. I never really felt anything for them.

I always knew my path was to either remain Shrouded for life or be given to a man many times my senior. It’s not like I didn’t bring myself to pleasure at night, but sex always felt like a duty, a torture I’d be forced to endure. I never thought I’d desire that with someone. And definitely not with a witch .

Granted, I haven’t spent any time around men. Is this small amount of time I’ve spent in his company enough to reduce me down to my base animal instincts?

No better than an animal?

A pet.

Maybe this is what the Shroud was always intended for, separating us from society, from any men so when we are gifted to one, we’re so desperate, starved for affection we’ll gladly fall into the hands of whichever man we’re given to.

It’s not just me. He’s flirting with me. After making it abundantly clear that he has no interest in me. I’m supposed to be his punishment, so why? Maybe he flirts with anyone who has the right parts? That didn’t seem like a stretch. I don’t know any men but it’s not like I haven’t heard about their antics from the mouths of handmaidens. No, I don’t…I can’t like him. It’s not feasible. I don’t like him. I hate him. This has to be…some sort of witchery. I clap a hand over my mouth.

I don’t need potions.

What if it’s him? What if he’s doing this to me? Manipulating me with his magic. Would I even be able to tell? Why would he even want that?

The vision of those horses walking single file behind the soldier comes to mind. Because he wants me to be his pet .

You’ll be following me around like a puppy, eagerly waiting for my return, so desperate for whatever scraps of attention I give you, I’ll have you eating from my hand in no time.

This time I’m the horse. He’s manipulating me to quit fighting him. Except not with force or obedience—with infatuation.

My pulse quickens. What if he makes it to where I no longer want to leave at all?

That thought is still running circles in my mind the next day and I pace the chambers, the dāemon lashing under my skin like an angry beast. I can’t live the rest of my life like this. I don’t want this life sentence of being trapped in here to serve as someone’s punishment, subservient to a witch’s whims, not even knowing if my impulses are my own.

I can’t stay here with him. I need out of here. Before this wedding party tomorrow. Find the noughts that Div spoke of and…and… I tug the knife out from between the couch cushions and grip it tightly in my palm as I walk over to the sealed door. This fucking door.

I rear back and launch it at the pane of wood with all my strength. It bounces, reverberating all of the force straight back into my hand. I try again. Again and again and again. Not even a dent. I hack at the knob next. Maybe I can lop the whole thing off. The knife collides against the metal with a loud ping. It’s a good thing no one lives on this floor because I create a racket.

I scamper over to the chest of knives with a growl and remove a different one. Maybe one of these knives will have some magic in it that can break through whatever magic keeps the door sealed.

I stab every single knife at the door and toss them into a pile on the coffee table. By the time I pull out the last one, I’m a sweating, heaving mess.

It doesn’t work.

I launch the balcony door open and go after that invisible wall surrounding the balcony, praying I’ll hear the beautiful cracks of that force field shattering. Once I’ve repeated the process with every single knife, I sink to the couch in defeat, a bitter acceptance washing over me. The tantrum has at least washed some of my anger away, replacing it with apathetic acceptance instead.

This is my life now. I stick my head into the cushion and drift somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. The doorknob jangles, and I sit up straight. He’s back already? The sun is still out. My dinner plate hasn’t arrived yet. The energy shifts the moment he walks in the door. His magic filling the space so full I can feel it buzzing against my skin. A tendril of fear, a trill of something else. His hands are filled with an assortment of bags. He sets them on the table and comes to a still. “Pet…”

I relay him with a bland look, making great effort not to show a sliver of the effect he has on me.

“What are you doing?” He murmurs slowly, carefully .

“Nothing.”

His eyes dart between me and the coffee table, the towering pile of unsheathed knives. Guess I hadn’t bothered to put those away.

“Why are the knives out?”

“Oh…I was trying to hack the door down.” My voice is flat, monotone, defeated . “Didn’t work obviously,” I say with a shrug. The side of his cheek bulges from the scrape of his tongue. He’s trying not to smile. Prick .

He picks up a large fabric bag, hangers peeking out the top. “Your clothes. I’ll put them in the armoire.” I feign disinterest. “I got you some things,” he says as he strolls back in. He begins extracting items from the bags and stacking them on the table. A woven blanket in varying shades of blue, a notebook, pens, and paints.

Peace offerings, some sort of consolation for keeping me locked up in here. He draws out each item slowly, watching me for a reaction, like he’s dangling strips of meat out to a predator and waiting for it to lunge. Sewing supplies, a pair of black boots, a small silver item I’m not sure the purpose of until he flicks at the switch and produces a small orange flame like that of a candle, knitting needles and a ball of yarn.

Does he think I’m going to sit here and knit all day? I don’t bite. The last thing he draws out are books. My body betrays me with a twitch. He holds one up labeled ‘Rapunzel.’ “I think you’ll like this one. It’s about a witch that locks a girl in a tower. She even has very long blond hair.” He cocks his head, obviously amused as he lifts a palm. “She does eventually escape and you… won’t . But still, I thought you could relate.”

I seethe in silence. When I don’t respond, he sighs. “You should get ready.”

“Why?”

“So we can have dinner?”

“My dinner comes here.”

He drags a hand through his hair, ruffling curls until it rests against the back of his neck. “I think there’s something they say about walking your pets every so often.”

My body betrays me with another twitch. I shield my face with my book. I don’t want him to know his magic is having an iota of effect on me. “No thanks.”

He stalks over and peels the book down, brows drawing down into a sharp v. “Are you angry with me about something?”

“I’d label it more as a general dislike of you.” I try to heft my book back up without success.

“Would it help if I said I’m sorry for however I’ve offended you?”

His expression is so annoyingly earnest it makes me question all of my previous conclusions. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t say that very often?”

“Why do I get the feeling I’m going to be saying it very often now?”

“Well, it’s not something you can really apologize for. I just don’t like you.”

He frees my book with an exhale, and I sink back into the couch.

“You know what? That’s fine. We can find something to do here.”

“I’m going to read.”

He slumps down on the other end of the sofa. “Guess I’ll watch you then.”

“You’re going to watch me read? ”

“Precisely.” Defiant eyes bore into my soul as he rests his chin against a fist.

“Suit yourself,” I say with feigned nonchalance, lifting my book back up to my face to hide it from view. It remains like that for mere seconds before it begins to lower. I squeeze it with all my strength until my hands are quivering. It’s no use. It stops its descent, stilling just below my chin so my face is exposed to him.

“That’s better,” he croons.

I can already feel him, his magic, embedding itself inside of me, taking root in my bloodstream, blooming in every thump of my blood. I stare at the words on the page. They might as well be those strange symbols for all I can comprehend of them. “Sorry, I know this must be very boring for you,” I say letting out a forced yawn.

“On the contrary, I don’t think this is boring at all.” He drawls each word lazily yet with the precision of the swishing tail of a cat. “I’d go as far as to say it’s the opposite of boring.”

My blood pushes to the surface of my face and neck under his scrutiny as though it were trying to escape the confines of my skin. I wish it would.

“Has anyone ever told you that before? I thought maybe not, seeing as you were covered up for all those years? So that pretty much makes it my responsibility, don’t you think?” He clicks his tongue. “ Pretty. ” The word is uttered out like a breath of air blowing out the petals of a dandelion but it’s my mind that’s scattered to the wind. I suck in a breath, trying to draw the scattered pieces back together. “I especially like—“

“What—“ Words fail me as my book thumps to my lap. I get trapped there in his gaze for a moment, half-lidded eyes that threaten to suck me in and never let me back out. I shake my head, forcing myself out of his pull. “What are you doing?” I hiss.

“Look,” he says diplomatically. “I know I can be…” He lifts a palm, struggling for words.

“A massive dick?”

“Crass,” he offers. “And you can be…well—“ His eyes widen pointedly. “You can be…what I’m trying to say is I realize I have maybe gone about things between us in a way that is not effective. ”

I sigh, knowing he’s likely to keep pestering me until he gets his way. “Dinner?” I ask, suspiciously.

He grins. “Yeah.”

“Where?”

“In the dining hall,” he says, like this should be obvious to me.

“Won’t there be other wi—Magi there?”

“Yes.”

“I thought it was too dangerous for me to go out there.”

“With me? Pf, no.” He ushers me with a hand. “Go, get ready.”

I hesitate. “I don’t know what to wear.”

“You want me to pick out your clothes?” There’s a hint of a threat in his grin.

“No,” I say quickly. Definitely not. My shoulders sag. “I want to blend in…I don’t want to stand out.”

“Just use the mirror.”