I nod, grateful to be out of everyone’s sight line for a few minutes. When the twin arrives with a garment bag, I take it with a pout. The zipper on the bag scrapes softly as I pull it down, the parting side of it whispering promises of transformation. My fingers tremble as they trace over the delicate lace juxtaposed with the harsh metal embellishments adorning the skirt. It’s a masterpiece of contrasts, a visual representation of the tumultuous journey that’s led me here.
For a moment, I’m lost in the vision of myself as someone fierce, someone not to be trifled with—a punk rock princess.
“Fiadh, are you ready for this?” Tanya’s voice is a lighthouse in a sea of tulle and leather. “We need you out here to finish up.”
“More than ever,” I reply, though a part of me still clings to the girl who’d rather wield a pair of brass knuckles than wear a pair of heels.
The gaggle of artists comes barreling in at my words, and I take a deep breath to center myself. Their hands are everywhere, tugging the skirt into place, strapping the leggings tightly around my legs, ensuring each buckle on the combat boots clicks just right. I should feel suffocated by the flurry of activity, the cloud of hairspray, the dizzying scent of makeup. But as I catch my reflection, all I see is power staring back at me.
“Howdamn.” The word slips out and my lips curve up as I look at the reflection in the mirror above us. “I look like atotal badass.”
Orchid and Basil smirk in unison, opening the door so I can walk out to face the guys. When they see me, Khol drops his glass, shattering it on the ground. The heat in Dezi’s eyes turns to blazing crimson, and I damn near preen at their reactions.
“Keep your jaws up, boys,” Gwennon’s growl slices through the air, her protective gaze fixed on Dezi and Khol. “She’s off-limits until showtime.”
A chuckle vibrates in my chest, but it’s quickly drowned by the roar of anxiety. It claws at my throat, threatening to unravel me before we even begin. Yet as Dezi slides a glass of scotch into my hand with a knowing look, the liquid courage burns away the worst of the fears.
“Get out of your head,” Dezi murmurs, his eyes reflecting both pride and something fiercer. “You are worth more to us than anything out there, and the Prince agrees.”
I nod, taking another sip, letting the warmth embolden me.
I can face all these superficial dickholes; I fight monsters now.
Tiernan shatters the moment, his presence commanding the space like a storm rolling over calm seas. In his gear, he’s less guard, more mercenary—raw, dangerous allure wrapped in duty. My heart stutters, once, twice, as he offers me a grin that’s all confidence and no quarter.
“Shall we?” His arm extends, an invitation to face the world beyond our cocoon in the private bus.
“Absolutely.” My response is steel wrapped in velvet, the scotch and their appreciation giving me the boost in confidence I need to face cameras and questions.
Together, we stride towards the backstage area, where the press buzzes like a hive disturbed. My nerves dance beneath my skin, eager to break free, but I anchor myself to Tiernan’s side, to the weight of Dezi’s gaze, to Khol’s silent encouragement.
It’s a gauntlet of flashes and microphones, questions hurled like arrows. But as I stand there, amidst the cacophony of curiosity and demand, I find strength in the persona crafted for me—the badass princess who will kick your ass if you breathe wrong.
“Remember, breathe and freeze their balls off with that glare of yours,” Tiernan whispers just for me, his voice a tether in the tempest.
I inhale deeply, the scent of leather and scotch mingling with the electric charge of anticipation.
We’re almost through with this charade; just a little longer until we can slip away from the chaos.
The flashesfrom the cameras are blinding, each burst of light punctuating the cacophony of voices hurling questions that feel more like accusations—or worse, lewd invitations. I wrap my fingers tighter around the edge of the podium, plastering on a smile that feels as thin as the veneer of civility in this room.
“Fiadh, sweetheart, tell us who you’re wearing tonight!” a minion for Rev’s bitchy manager calls out, her tone dripping with a venomous sweetness that makes my skin crawl. It isn’t really about my outfit, and we both know it.
“Is it true that you’re the inspiration behind Revelin’s latest hit?” another chimes in, his leer unmistakable even from this distance. The implication is clear, and it’s not about my musings or anything I’ve contributed creatively.
A question slices through the clamor, sharp and unwelcome. “How does it feel to be just a pretty accessory for Revelin?” Amethyst’s new groupie, my old nemesis from home, smirks from behind a sea of eager faces.
Heat scorches my cheeks, the words stinging like a slap. I’m more than this, more than an ornament on Revelin’s arm.
That does it.How dare she imply I’m equivalent to a fucking wristwatch?
“Fiadh’s role in this journey is—” Revelin starts, but I cut him off with a raised hand, my newfound boldness fueled by indignation.
“An accessory doesn’t help fight off shadow monsters at the mayor’s mansion,” I retort, my voice steady despite the maelstrom of flashbulbs and judgment. “I’m here because I chose to support myfriend, and I’m no more a decoration than you’re a Rhodes scholar, Khorinea.”
The crowd murmurs in shock, and for a moment, I revel in their surprise.Take that bitches.
But the nasty questions don’t cease; they grow more personal, more biting. I feel the weight of eyes on me, appraising and unwelcome. My fists clench at my sides, nails digging crescents into my palms. This isn’t what we’re here for. Revelin is here for his band and they’re getting ignored so petty people can pick me apart for their own enjoyment.
