“Elle?” I call, but only silence greets me.
I turn toward the guards. “When’s the last time anyone checked on her?”
The one closest to me grimaces. “It’s been several days, Your Highness.”
An image of the guard’s head on a stick flits through my mind. “Days?You’re supposed to be checking on her multiple times a day, you fucking morons,” I snarl at them.
“She’s a prisoner,” the guard says with a shrug.
My pathetic attempt at self-control vanishes. I turn to him, black flames already in my palm. His face pales, the whites of his eyes glistening. To his credit, he doesn’t back away. I close the gap between us and hold my flames to his face. Sweat begins to bead on his upper lip.
“Do you consider yourself above my rule?” I whisper.
“N-no, Your Highness,” he stammers, gaze fixed on my flames as they purr in my palm.
I’ve always found solace in them. Whenever Father left me in the dungeons, they would comfort me like a friend. A friend that could never leave me. They’ve always been quick to listen to me, my earliest power that developed.
“You know,” I whisper as we both watch my flames inch higher,now darting wildly beneath his chin. “I used to think I was Mother-damned, and that my black flames were more Sister-given, that they belonged in Hell. The next time you disobey a direct order from me, you’ll meet one of them and you can ask them which one blessed me.”
“Y-yes, Your Highness.” His eyes are basically as wide as dinner plates by now, and I want to shove my flames into them.
But I don’t. I turn and stalk back through the doors.
Cora follows behind me. “Your father would be proud,” she croons.
I used to yearn for those words. How ironic that they make me sick now. I once thought of my father as strong, but it turns out, he’s as weak as the rest of them. He is a boot-licking excuse of a man who craves the scraps of power that he is allowed. And I am his son, through and through. I am no better.
I am worse.
I take a deep breath and clench one hand into a fist, smothering the fire that threatens to return. Sometimes, my anger feels like a living extension of me, like it might take over any day and ruin everything I’ve worked for.
I follow the bond to the bedroom and fling the door open. The stench is even stronger in here. I rip the curtains open and yank open the window. Elle doesn’t flinch as a cold gust of wind floods the room. She lies on the bed, eyes wide but vacant.
“What do you want?” she asks, but it’s weak. There’s no fire behind it.
“We have visitors,” I say as I assess her. Her red hair is limp and tangled. She’s so fucking thin. Her cheeks are sunken and her shoulders look angular inside her sleeping gown. It’s only been a week.
“Get up, girl,” Cora orders from the edge of the bed.
Elle just stares at me, those lifeless amber eyes shredding into me. Until they’re not. Her head snatches back as she’s yanked up by an invisible string.
“I said get up,” Cora says. “We don’t have time for this.”
“Cora,” I say placatingly, despite the way my muscles have gone rigid and how my entire body flushes with that fucking anger I’m barely keeping tame. “She can’t join us like this. She’s a mess. She needs to bathe.”
She cocks her head to one side and purses her lips. “And? They’re waiting.”
I force myself to breathe. “I would appreciate not having to force her to do every little thing so I can concentrate on the conversation with Koa,” I lie.
Cora stares at me with a blank expression. I’m ready for her challenge, but it doesn’t come. “Fine,” she says, then turns on her heels. “Ten minutes.”
The door slams, and Elle’s body collapses against the bed as Cora relinquishes her control.
She looks so small. So different from the fiery female I first met all those years ago. I don’t know what in the world compels me, but I scoop her from the bed. She’s all bones and sharp angles. I carry her to the bathroom and set her in the oversized tub, flip the spigot, and warm the water with my magic.
She leans her head against the edge, the column of her neck exposed.
“I feel sorry for you,” she croaks.
