Zaria’s tail flicks once, her eyes narrowing slightly, a hint of worry there. “Energy, or restlessness?” she teases, her tone light but edged with curiosity.
“Maybe a bit of both,” I reply, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“You look . . . lighter,” she remarks slowly.
I blink at her, and a smile tugs at my lips. “Maybe I am,” I whisper quietly, more to myself than to her. “I saw Maxon. The bond opened for me.”
Zaria’s brown eyes widen. “It did?”
“Yes, we fed from each other,” I admit softly, unable to hide the mix of emotions swirling within me. “I can feel the effects of it already. My muscles aren’t sore, my head feels clearer, and our bond—it’s stronger than ever.”
Zaria practically radiates excitement, her energy bubbling over as she claps her hands together. “That’s amazing!” she exclaims, a grin lighting up her face.
Before I can say anything else, she strides over to the wardrobe with purpose, throwing open the doors. Her hands move swiftlyas she rummages through the array of garments until she pulls out a vivid blue dress. It’s simple, understated even, but before I can fully appreciate it, she pulls out an overcoat to pair it with.
My breath catches as I take it in. The overcoat is nothing short of stunning. Its long, flowing design exudes both power and grace, the different shades of blue blending seamlessly into a masterpiece.
“Did he tell you anything we should know?” Zaria inquires casually as she holds up the dress for me.
My cheeks heat instantly, and I avoid her gaze as I slip my arms into the dress. “We . . . didn’t do much talking,” I mumble.
Zaria pauses, then turns to me with a soft, knowing smile playing on her lips. She doesn’t say anything, but the glimmer of pleasure in her eyes says enough.
“Here.” She holds up the long overcoat. I slide my arms into it, the luxurious material hugging my skin like a second layer. As I turn to the mirror, I pull my hair free, letting it cascade down my back.
Zaria steps behind me, her arms wrapping around my waist to fasten a black belt that sits snugly, holding the floor length coat in place. The buckle catches my eye—a gleaming symbol of the sun and moon, intricate and beautifully detailed.
I freeze for a moment, my breath catching in my throat. The design . . . it’s strikingly similar to my birthmark.
Zaria doesn’t seem to notice my sudden stillness, or if she does, she doesn’t comment. She steps back, letting her hands brush against the material of the coat as she admires her handiwork.
The overcoat’s collar stands tall, framing my neck with regal elegance. The deep V-neck plunges to my waist, balanced by the long sleeves that fit snugly, the velvet-like fabric soft andluxurious. The subtle gradation of blues, from deep sapphire to shimmering azure, adds a regal elegance to the ensemble.
“Wow,” I breathe, turning slightly to take in the full effect. “This is . . . stunning.”
Zaria’s grin widens, and she folds her arms, clearly pleased with herself. “It’s one of my own designs,” she says with pride. “I was aiming for something elegant and intricate, something that exudes sophistication and nobility.”
“You’ve definitely succeeded,” I murmur, still turning in front of the mirror, the fabric catching the light with every movement. “I feel like I’m ready to command an army or walk into a royal court.”
Zaria laughs lightly. “Good. That’s exactly the energy I want you to carry. You’re meant for greatness—might as well dress the part.”
Chapter forty
Maxon
Iwake groggy, my mind thick with confusion. The world around me spins as I blink into the shadowy surroundings, my mouth dry as sandpaper. But something’s different—something is missing. The constant hunger, the gnawing emptiness that’s plagued me for days, is gone. It takes a moment to register, the absence so strange that I instinctively brace for it, expecting the sharp pang to return. It doesn’t.
I take stock of my body, and my pulse stammers, then surges, sending a jolt of alarm through me. I look down, scanning for the familiar aches and pains, the bruises, the cuts—broken bones and gashes I’ve come to accept.
But they’re not there.
It can’t be.
My skin is smooth, unmarked. Every wound, every trace of the torture I’ve endured is gone.
I run my hand over the spot where a deep gash marred my ribs, my fingers brushing over nothing but smooth skin. The disbelief nearly chokes me. The pain that crippled me mere hours ago—it’s vanished. Healed as if it never happened.
Was that dream . . . Was it real?
