Page 426 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

I curled over my knees as his fancy suits swung closed in front of me. My hands flew to suppress the sobs fighting through my chest on a mission to wail my agony to the entire fucking castle.

Grief, cold and bitter, slammed through me as violently as the fall as I stared up through those clothes, a sliver of light falling across my face.

I was six years old.

In a very different closet.

Sick with terror, squeezing my legs together to keep from urinating on myself as my mother screamed.

Staring up at a monster with sad eyes in a horned mask, the face of it scarred.

A monster with eyes the color of our garden in the rain…

As though my entire body wasn’t racked with adrenaline, a knock at the bathroom door had me jolting inside my skin. I blew out a harsh breath as I sucked the snot back into my face, willing the tears to cease.

“Witchling?” Barry. Concern lined his tone—charms or not, he likely heard or felt that impact. I waved my hand, casting aside the charms so he could hear my response.

“I’m okay,” I croaked, hoping it was loud enough for him to make out. “I don’t feel so good, Bear,” I added, a little louder as I forced myself to my feet. My back screamed in protest. So did my ass. Grimacing through the pain, I glanced around, rushing to put the masks back in place as bile climbed up my throat.

I whirled, scrambling for an idea, an excuse, something, anything⁠—

I snatched one of his tent-sized t-shirts before yanking my scrubs off in a rush. I pulled his shirt on before stealing sweats and slipping into them too.

Fuck this.

If I was going to die in this castle, it would be because I got justice for all the people this monster hurt. Or I’d die trying. I didn’t really give a shit which anymore. Nobody else was tethered to my lifeline.

So, I slipped one of his daggers into the rolled waistband of his sweats.

Let my hair down.

Splashed water on my face to explain my flushed skin and bloodshot eyes. Glamoured the latter for good measure.

Barry stood anxiously waiting when I emerged. I was irritated I hadn’t let myself pee first. “Hard week,” I explained with a sniffle. He just nodded, the pinch between his brows deepening as a tendon flexed beneath all that ink on his neck.

I made a beeline for the couch. Scooped the throw off the back. Tucked myself in.

“Goodnight, witchling,” Barry murmured softly as he extinguished the lights.

Months. For six months I’d slept within feet of the man in the mask.

Among the monsters who’d brutalized my mother.

Hung her from a garden gate, branded and broken.

For six months, I let myself be kept, a rat in a cage, instead of clawing my way free—to fresh air or the After.

I wasn’t entirely sure what I’d do when he returned. Realized I couldn’t be sure—couldn’t have a plan, because he’d know it if I did.

And so, I simply resolved to defend myself against threats.

With the chill of the blade gradually warming against my skin, I closed my eyes and let my mind drift.

Drift to whimsical gardens covered in twinkle lights, to the sound of my mother singing, to the little cottage shielded by curtains of moss. To Reyna Gwyne, relaxed and laughing on our porch as her dogs brought their toys to her feet for her to throw on an endless loop.

To the echo of screams that haunted my nightmares.

To one nightmare.