Marik’s eyebrow raises infinitesimally, but it’s enough. The guards scramble, eager to exit the confined space of the bathroom and away from their master.
“I requested that Ruby and Nora assist with preparing you for the ball,” Marik says to me, harsh tone gone, replaced by something softer. “However, they do need to prepare you as Mae.”
I’m so tired.
One last time, little fawn,Marik’s voice whispers in my mind.
He hands me a blade, a bold thing to do. But I don’t have the energy to use it against him. I take it from him, then dig it into my skin and whisper the words. Mae’s image comes to mind swiftly, and I hate the ease with which I can become her. I feel as if I lose a little bit of myself every time.
Ruby and Nora do their best to not look fully freaked out, but they have a difficult time hiding their alarm.
“The guards will be close, but they won’t bother you,” Marik says, his eyes lingering on mine for a moment too long before turning and exiting the bathroom.
The duo work in silence, Nora working out the knots from my now-white hair, while Ruby pulls out bottles of liquid and powdered makeup. Nora’s brush tugs at every knot. She mutters apologies with every forceful yank, while Ruby dabs different liquids on my face, her movements tender.
Normally, I’d hate it. But right now, I’m just thankful that she’s in between the mirror and me, blocking the reflection. Maybe I can pretend it’s really me they’re getting ready.
“What are you thinking for your dress?” Ruby asks as she brushes shimmery blush along my cheekbones.
I shrug. “Pick something for me.”
Her expression turns somber. Mae must have had all manner of opinions about her wardrobe. Yet another disappointing thing about me on the throne—I would rather spend my days locked in battle and drenched in sweat than wear a gown. I would happily wear a pillowcase to the ball, if only to wipe the smirks from every single person there.
Ruby returns from the closet, holding a sleeveless jade green gown made of velvet. Intricate floral embellishments spun from gold thread cascade down the skirt. “What about this?” she asks.
“Sure.”
She sets the dress down with a sad smile.
“Almost done,” Nora says from behind me. She managed to de-matt my hair, and it feels like my scalp is bleeding, but I’m grateful for it. She comes around to face me, perfecting the placement of each curled lock, then motions to Ruby, who walks over with the High Crown. She places it on my head, secures it around my ivory antlers, then steps aside.
“Ta-da!” Ruby says.
Mae stares back at me in the reflection of the mirror with dead eyes. I look away.
Ruby helps me into the velvet dress, every button done with care. When it’s on, I collapse back into the chair.
Ruby and Nora gather their supplies and give me hugs that are over too soon. I could go entertain myself with a book until it’s time for the ball, but the guards never come back, and I don’t feel like being watched by them. Not yet. So, I spend the remainder of the afternoon in the bathroom. I resume my staring contest, but this time, I stare at the floor. Anything to avoid my reflection. To avoid the reminder of the way I continue to slip away.
Half an hour later, footsteps come down the hallway. I brace myself.
The door opens, and the quiet sound of dress shoes on the tile grows closer. “Are you ready?” Marik asks from behind me. It’s too soft, and my skin prickles. How dare he treat me like I’m something fragile when he’s the one who made me this way?
He places something cold around my neck. The necklace is back. After being free of it for so long, its weight feels suffocating. “Just for appearances,” he says, his black leather loafers coming into view as he steps around the chair. He crouches down and peers up at me with eyes like starless galaxies.
The necklace, the dark mark, the leash I wear that connects me to him. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t.
I snap.
I launch myself from the chair. He stumbles back, and we both collide with the floor. My teeth sink into his brow. Pain blooms as they jar against the hard surface of his skull, but it feels like a victory. He curses as metal coats my tongue, my blood mixing with his.
Crimson drips from his brow, cutting through his eyelashes and streaming down the curve of his cheek, the sharp angles of his jaw, the slope of his neck. He does nothing to stop it. He just stares at me from the floor, me on top of him. He grips my forearms, leaving crescent moons embedded in my skin.
I meet his gaze, loving the way the flames ignite in my chest, the way my anger feels like a simmering hearth, stoked and ready to burn him. Underneath me, his chest heaves. His pulse thrums—rage? Fear? Or…something else? Something dark and twisted that I cower at? That I can’t stomach the thought of? That makes me want to hate myself even more than I hate him?
“I hate you,” I grind out.
He smiles at me with blood-drenched teeth. “I know.” He pushes himself onto his elbows, his face now inches from mine. His tongue darts from his mouth and he licks the blood from his bottom lip, his teeth scraping and tugging with the movement. My skin tingles, and I fight the urge to run from whatever the hell thisfeeling is.
