Page 33 of They Call Me Blue

Violet powder dusts her gray, patchwork cheeks. Matching lipstick pulls tight as she spreads her mouth into a feline smile and drops the armful of silks. “Lyrick, it’s so good to see you.”

“You as well.” Years of mandatory etiquette training snap into place, and I bow at the waist. “Are you here to help my father prepare the estate for our Ring Day celebration?”

“I’m here for you, dear,” Colette answers. “You and I will be in the city today, getting ready for your inauguration.”

I blink.

Brows furrowed, I glance between her and my father, my attention settling on Azerin. “You’re appointing me the next Karesai of Hunters? I thought the council’s vote needed to be unanimous for that.”

“It does.” My father frowns, stroking his myrie’s pale hair. “Given your . . . performance at the arena, Sorso was not an easy man to convince. It cost me dearly.”

Azerin’s gaze lingers on his pet, and spiders crawl down my spine at the implication.

“Sorso doesn’t seem the type to share,” I say.

My father sighs, tracing idle circles on the elf’s shoulders. “He isn’t. His youngest daughter is a Trainer, though, and she’s quite enamored with Chalk’s hair.”

At the sound of her name, the elf’s head rises.

Likely, it’s one of the only words she knows—aside from the sexual ones needed to perform her duties.

My insides curdle. This elf has done everything right.

She’s never fought, never screamed, never cried.

Despite her near-perfect temperament, my father is still going to kill and scalp her. For Sorso.

For me.

“Did he make any other demands?” I hiss.

How much did you pay to force me into this role?

“I believe the words you’re looking for are ‘Thank you, Father.’ And ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to clean up my messes again.

’” Azerin rises from the couch, tugging on his myrie’s leash.

Her swollen stomach brushes against the table as she fumbles to find footing.

When she steadies herself against my father’s pant leg, her innocent, wide eyes latch onto mine.

She’s so fucking oblivious—holding onto her captor when she should be fighting him with everything she’s got.

I rip my gaze away.

It’s worse than the mess hall. At least those creatures saw the blade coming.

“Will you be visiting the city with us?” I ask.

In my periphery, Azerin lifts the elf by her armpits and sets her gently on her feet. “I will, but Chalk and I must stop by Yaklan’s surgery first. The babe is far enough along. It can be extracted now.”

“I take it she won’t be returning?” I ask.

Run.

Bite him.

Do something!

A thousand orders die on my tongue.

“He’ll euthanize her at the office.” Sighing, my father rubs the elf’s belly then tuts. “I’d hoped to breed her multiple times. She’s so much easier than the last one.”

Colette smiles, brushing down her skirts as she tiptoes over the bundled silks. “I’m certain we can find you another myrie today. My girls have trained some very docile, very beautiful ones.”

Stepping toward my father, she examines Chalk in a slow circle.

With a wave of the hand, Azerin cuts her off. “No need. My Hunters spotted Blue last week. She’ll be a more than adequate replacement.”

I smile to myself, knowing he’ll never touch her. He’ll never breed her, or eat her, or sell her body in parts to a man like Sorso. As long as that bite mark is on Arden’s palm, she’s mine. And I intend to finish what I started.

I just have to escape first.

Colette, Azerin, and I exit the house, Chalk stumbling behind us on the jingling metal chain that connects her to my father.

Lush grass and blue wildflowers surround the sprawling estate.

Insects buzz around us, flying in lazy circles as they collect pollen.

It’s almost peaceful were it not for the muffled but rhythmic hitting of chisels against stone.

Up close, my father’s home is a paradise.

Warm sunlight bounces off a wraparound porch made of sapphires.

Waterfowl nest on a turquoise lake that’s so clear, I can see each individual stone at the bottom.

But far enough away, the nightmare looms. Blue-leaved trees blot out the mining shafts where Butchers and slaves extract our cold iron.

Silver buildings gleam with blood, not paint.

It’s a dark contrast no one seems to notice but me.

Two palanquins—portable rooms with bisecting poles through the frames—wait for us at the front entrance.

One is a large bamboo box with a curtained window on the front door.

The other is made of glass and gold and glitters brightly in the sunlight.

A menagerie of elvish slaves stand at attention, ready to lift and carry the palanquins on our cue.

With a click of the tongue and a tug on her leash, my father orders Chalk into the glass one.

He opens the door for her, then maneuvers her onto the blue cushions inside, waving us goodbye as he joins her in the seat.

His arms wrap protectively around her swollen stomach, and she leans into the touch—all stupid and defenseless and cooperative.

Colette trained her well.

A sharp whistle pierces the air, and my father’s slaves move into position.

Three on each corner raise the bisecting poles, lifting it onto their shoulders.

Doe-eyed, Chalk presses her hands to the glass as they march down the estate toward the hundred-foot limestone walls that separate us from the jungle.

It’s not the first time she’s seen the property like this, but her eyes light up like glowflies every time.

It's clear to anyone she's happy here. Content with the scraps she’s been given.

Fucking idiot. If I could shake her, I would.

“Should we eat along the way?” Colette asks, her voice sweet like honey.

I arch a brow. “What?”

“The way you’re staring at her, dear. You look hungry. I’m not a fan of the mess halls, but for you . . .”

“I’m fine.”

“If it’s her you want, I’m sure your father wouldn’t mind sharing. Once the babe has been extracted—”

“I said I’m fine,” I growl.

Fuck, I may never eat again.

My stomach roils at the very visceral image of Chalk splayed out for me, her belly open and bleeding, too weak to fight back. My father would let it happen, too; that’s the worst part. He’d rather me give in to my most primitive instincts than embarrass him at the games again.

Forcing a smile to my face, I climb into Colette’s bamboo box, the floorboards groaning as I settle into soft blankets and colorful cushions.

She joins me soon after, forcing the hoop skirt through, shoving it up against the cramped wooden walls.

Her lacy yellow dress spills onto my lap as she leans out the window and whispers orders to a slave.

Then, we’re up.

We sit crisscross in silence, staring at the estate as it passes by. Blue-black leaves flutter. Orange fur darts between the tall grasses—Prowler, out for a hunt. My verncat is equally unsuited to city life and more bored than I am. But at least he’s permitted to leave.

“What are you thinking about?” Colette asks.

Snapping every guard’s neck and joining up with Sarvenna.

I turn my gaze away from the window, forcing myself to play my father’s shitty political games. “Nothing,” I say. “I’m just wondering what my preparations will entail.”

Colette scoots infinitesimally closer, her expression that of a viper’s. Patting me on the knee, she grins in that saccharine, unsettling way of hers. “You’ll see.”