“Look at me.”
I do.
His face is hidden, cloaked by the mask, and eyes shuttered–but underneath is what I’m looking for and whatever he’s looking for, seeking, he drives deeper trying to find it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my breath hot on his ear. I mean it. I meant to destroy that night at the Manor, but I didn’t mean to harm. Not these men who belong to me, whether we like it or not.
“Fuck,” he grunts, not quite an acceptance, but it doesn’t matter. Not now. Something inside me breaks–not pain, not pleasure, just open. My body comes without permission, walls spasming, clinging to him. I come harder than I should, my muscles fluttering around the ladder like it’s a prayer in a language only my body knows.
He growls, buries himself, and floods into me–hot, thick, claiming.
The forest blinks, and I’m back in my skin.
Whole.
The girl in the meadow is smiling.
The pain was the key. The redemption. The rebirth.
He holds onto me, our bodies slick with sweat, connected in the most delirious and delicious way.
Maybe now we can move forward together.
They cutthe ropes at my wrists, and my arms drop heavy and weighted at my sides. Blood rushes back, causing pins and needles that feel like stings from bees.
My Barons take my elbows–gentle, which is worse than rough. I’m naked, raw, my legs trembling so hard I stumble. The forest floor is cold under my soles. The cold air dries the sticky mess between my thighs.
They lead us down a path, with only the moonlight guiding the way.
The heartbeats of the Shadows fade behind us. The torches shrink to fireflies.
Water.
I smell it before I see it—wet stone, iron, rot. My stomach clenches.
Water tried to kill me twice.
First, when I clawed my way out of the forest, lungs full of river, the Demon’s breath on my neck. Then Damon–his palm on my crown, bubbles and black spots and the taste of pennies.
This is it. This is my grave. It’s been calling to me, one bony finger beckoning me to the depths.
I go.
The river glints under moonlight, black glass, and on the shore: he’s there.
The King.
Masked, always masked–ceremonial, like the others, made of stag bone, antlers curling like a crown of knives. His black robe is open at the throat, collarbones exposed. He doesn’t move when he sees me. Doesn’t speak.
I want him to say my name.
I want him to touch me–fingers under my chin, thumb on my lip, anything to sayyou’re still mine.
He doesn’t.
A low chant starts behind him—Latin. The Shadows form a half-circle at the bank.
“Per noctem crucem, per sanguinem et semen, per aquam redeamus.”
