I look around my room, feeling a fresh wave of loneliness crash into my bones. This tends to happen from time to time, and I swear if I didn’t know better, I would think Braxton would have the servants avoid me on purpose, so that I would at least look forward to having some form of human interaction with him. That gives him, and the small handful of brain cells that occupy his mind, too much credit, though.
Shaking the feeling off, I grab the sage silk robe hanging off my bedpost and slip my arms into the sleeves before tightly securing it around my waist. Crossing to the other corner of the room that gets most of the sunlight from the single window, I decide that I might as well start my morning routine while I wait for Rhoden to join me.
The first thing I do every morning, after scowling at the unwanted bouquet burning a hole in my bedside table, is make my way to the beautiful oak desk in my bedchamber and begin writing a letter to my fiancé, Phillip. I remember when I first demanded that Braxton send my letters and updates to my family as I wrote them. He didn’t even hesitate before snagging the letter from my hand and agreeing with a non-committal shrug.
At first, it was more hope than trust that I had to rely on whether any of these letters actually got sent, but one day Phillip wrote me back, and it felt like a new light was brought back into my world. It’s become almost compulsory, and some days I feel as though if I didn’t get all of these words out of my mind andwritten on paper, I might actually go insane, or at the very least, lose my grip on reality.
My fingers slide across the soft feather of the quill before my grip tightens around it, and I dunk it into the ink pot next to the paper. The quill easily glides across the parchment I’ve unraveled as I begin writing. I feel my eyes grow misty the longer the letter becomes. With every word inked onto the paper, a small crack shatters what’s left of my heart. While these letters to Phillip can be therapeutic and help me feel as though we are still connected, there’s no avoiding the pain that accompanies each word written. Sometimes I wonder if this was why Braxton agreed to these letters. If he somehow knew they were hurting me to the same caliber that they were healing me. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got some kind of sick and twisted pleasure from that thought.
After signing the letter to Phillip, I paint my lips with a soft rouge color, a color I remember he always told me was his favorite, and kiss the empty spot on the paper next to my signature.
Unfurling another piece of paper, I dunk the quill back into the pot of ink to prepare to write one more letter. A letter to someone whom I haven’t written to since I was stowed away here. A letter to someone I’m having an excruciatingly hard time forgiving. My father.
Thick drops of ink fall from the tip of the quill and splatter across the paper as my fingers stall. I’ve tried to write this letter a myriad of times, but every time feels equally as painful as the night he let Braxton take me away. For whatever reason, I can’t seem to grasp the memory of that night with any sense of clarity. It almost feels like a hazy dream whenever I try to recall it, and I can only assume it’s my mind’s attempt at protecting myself from the horrific truth.
More painful than thinking of that night, though, is remembering all the nights before it. I grew up on the Northeastern Islands of Contedefes. More specifically, I grew up on Minem Island right along Blushing Bay. It was named that due to the pink sand beach, which reflected an almost rosy hue at the water’s edge. My home, or more accurately what I used to call home, was beautiful. It was easily one of the most beautiful islands a part of Contedefes.
I got to soak in the sun that would darken and freckle my olive skin, splash in the water that tasted of salt, and wander the entirety of the island to my heart’s desire with no one holding me back.
That was all before Prince Braxton Carter took me away to live here, in his castle in Contedefes’ Eastern territory. I don’t know exactly where we are, mostly because Braxton won’t tell me, but what I do know is that there are no beaches nearby. There is only the rare sparking of sunlight that graces the grounds, and Braxton refuses to give me any free range in actually exploring the castle grounds or its surrounding land.
Right as I’m about to get too lost in the cherished memories of a life that seems so very far away now, I hear a light wrapping on the door. Even though I’m fairly confident of who it could be, I pull my silk robe tighter around my body.
“Come in,” I call while dropping the quill down on the desk and crumpling the unwritten letter to my father in my hands. The splotches of fresh ink spread and stain the pads of my fingers as I do this, and I already know that will act as my reminder for the rest of the day that I still couldn’t muster up the courage to forgive my father. Rhoden pushes the door open slightly before popping her head in through the crack. Her lush black hair curtains around her head, as her eyes dart around and scan the room.
I snort. “You know, I wouldn’t tell you to come in if I wasn’t decent.”
She shrugs before stepping into the room, her hands clutching a tray filled with an assortment of breakfast foods. I send a silent thank you to the Sky’s Divine that Braxton usually has business to take care of in the morning, meaning I get to have a peaceful breakfast by myself. I can’t fathom why he is so insistent on eating meals together, especially supper.
“Since you’ve demanded your wardrobe be filled with the most luxurious gowns and dresses, I never know what I’m going to walk into because you need my help to actually get into any of them.”
I purse my lips as I look at Rhoden and snatch a pastry from the tray. “You make a fair argument.”
Rhoden smiles, slightly thinning her pouty lips. With an over exaggerated roll of her eyes she plops on my bed, barely making the mattress dip beneath her. Rhoden and I are physically opposite in almost every way possible. While I have a bountiful fill of curves lining my body, she has a beautifully crafted, long, lean frame. Where I have a bronzed complexion, she has a milky one. Where I have wrinkles etched into my forehead from scowling, she has the subtlest hint of smile lines.
“Don’t I always?” Using the pointed tip of her fingernail, she stabs into a strawberry before bringing it to her lips.
“Hey!” I shoo her hands away from the food. “You know I’m starving after not having supper last night.”
“That was your choice. I brought up more food for you. I even snatched it right out Marita’s hands so you didn’t have to deal with her lecture.” She wrinkles her enviable little button nose at me.
She’s right of course. Marita is the head cook of the castle, and when her food goes uneaten she takes it personally. Since I often storm out of supper without finishing my meal, I’m not one ofher favorite people. The last time she had to bring food into my room she practically force fed me.
“I know, but I didn’t want to give Braxton the satisfaction,” I grumble, leaning back in the desk chair and taking a more aggressive bite of my pastry.
“Yes, because he absolutely would have known if you decided to take a few extra bites of the fresh steak that was brought up to you.”
I shrug my shoulders. “He monitored me enough to close the library,” I huff and cross one leg over the other at the same time as I twine my arms across my chest. “I can perfectly picture his stupid, satisfied at seeing me give in.”
“Give in and what? Eat? I hate to break it to you, Zel, but everyone needs food.” Rhoden stands up and opens the doors to my massive wardrobe before starting to sift through the dresses.
I glare at the back of her head. “Whose side are you on?”
“I’m on the ‘Azalea stays alive and doesn’t yell at me because she’s hungry’ side.” Rhoden glances at me over her shoulder with a twinkle in her deep green eyes. “And unfortunately, a growing girl like you does need food to accomplish that task.”
I scoff, sidling up next to Rhoden to help her sift through the dress options I have for today. Each day, between the time when I’m finished getting ready for supper and before I inevitably stomp back to my room for bed, my entire wardrobe is switched out with an array of new dresses. Only when I really love a gown will I pull it out to make sure it’s not taken with the rest. They’re then stored in my other wardrobe so as to make sure they never get taken for me to never see again. Of all the things I hate about being in this castle, getting to dress in lavish gowns definitely is not one of them.
“Growing girl? I’m old enough to have a growing girl. You know I could be a mother. I could be out there starting a family, startingmyfamily, but instead, I’m trapped in here.” I knowRhoden made her comment in jest, but I have to turn my head away to keep her from seeing the hurt that shadows my face.
