Her body jerks. Eyes widen. Blood spurts from her mouth, spraying my face with warm droplets. She glances down, lips parting and closing silently. The embedded scissors wobble, pulsing dark liquid down her front.
“No!” I run to her aid, trying to catch her collapsing body. But she slips through my arms, a heavy weight.
“What have you done?” shrieks the priestess, dropping to the ground to help. She yanks the scissors from Lenora’s chest but inadvertently releases a geyser from an arterial cavity.
Instinct moves me. I reach for the discarded scissors, drowning in the growing pool of warm blood. If I slice a veinopen on Lenora’s heart and pour my own blood into her, I might be able to save her. My fingers slip and fumble on the slick scissors. By the time I control my grip, it’s too late.
One moment, emotion and life fill Lenora’s teary eyes. The next—they’re empty.
The Baron throws back his head and laughs. It’s cruel and cold and echoes against every corner of the room.
The golden rose fades from Lenora’s skin. The Baron roughly lifts me to my feet and rips open my robe, baring my breasts. I glance down and fight my smile. My sternum is bare.
He snarls and scans the room.
“What are you doing?” I shout as he stalks toward Vesper Marinda, who is cowering behind the wooden clothes rack.
“Giving you what you desire.” He flashes an evil grin and drives his dagger deep into the young woman’s chest.
Other Vespers scream and pound against sealed doors, but there’s no answer. Which means whatever happens in this room stays secret. Just like it always has.
Fight, Flori. Fight like hell.
Fresh air burns my lungs. Damp stone presses against my cheek. My body won’t respond to simple commands like open your eyes, lift your head. Drayven’s voice pierces through the fog,Fight, Flori. Fight like hell.
I force my eyes open, but only see red-tinted darkness. Where am I?
Pushing up, my fingers scrape against flagstones. Silk slides across my skin. I pause. That’s different. Not my soft cotton robe. I glance down with a heavier-than-usual head. My long hair spills forward, along with a thin veil. It catches on my lip and tastes of rosewater.
When did they?—?
My hands shake as I touch my hair. Washed. Styled. I venture higher and almost prick my finger on a tiara of thorns. Heart-pounding, hesitant, my hand traces the strip of silk from my shoulder, down my breast, over a sash, and inward, between my thighs. I gasp. Bare. Smooth. Waxed.
The red light must be the blood moon. It’s midnight. The Bride Hunt is about to begin.
Six hours. They stole six hours.
Soft feminine voices stir around me, their confusion echoing off the ancient stone around us. Walls stretch toward a hole in the ceiling. The tiny gap to freedom frames stars I recognize like the back of my hand. I stare at them nightly and pray to Amara for guidance.
My head spins as I glance down. Golden light shimmers from my sternum. Kasaros’s mark. A closed rosebud and stem. My blood goes cold. How many Vespers died before the mark appeared on me?
Demaya’s face flashes in my mind. I dig my nails into my palms.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
I hardly a tear shed for a decade. I’ll be damned if I cry now. I blink away my burning eyes and then exhale, grounding myself by focusing on the tattoos on my hands and wrists.
Thorns. A key. Birds. Scrolls. Runes. Each mark burns with its lesson—pain endured with grace, submission feigned withcare, desires read and mirrored. They tried to craft their perfect bride. Instead, they armed me.
This might not have been how I wanted to begin this night, but I’m here now. I can still win this and show every woman in the Iron Kingdoms, and beyond that, they don’t have to wait for their fate. They can seek it out. Own it.
If only my body was as confident as my mind. I tremble. My stomach rolls.
A maiden huddles nearby, a crown of flowers made from gold weaves through her hair, her fingers white-knuckle her simple dress. Beyond her, a woman with shrewd eyes and braided hair catalogs our environment, perhaps assessing threats. Her white dress is fine, and feminine. She meets my gaze, assessing then dismisses me.
Good.
The more brides who can handle their own in here, the better. I need to focus on helping the weaker ones.
