To Bleed a Crystal Bloom

by Sarah A. Parker

  He clears his throat, the sound a crush of his deep vocals, and my gaze darts to his beckoning finger.

  A silent request for me to look him in the eye.

  My chest feels too crowded to contain my lungs and fluttering heart, but I draw a tight breath and abide.

  Sable, silver-licked curls that have nothing to do with age are currently pushed forward, half-shielding me from pewter eyes framed with thick, black lashes. Eyes that search my face before cutting across every other part of me like a shaving blade, leaving me utterly boneless.

  “You’re hurt.” His words are nails hammered into the too still air.

  “Just a graze.” I wave my injured hand at him. “Nothing major.”

  “And the one on your leg? Is that also nothing major?”

  Crap.

  “I—”

  His eyes narrow as I flounder for words, feeling Baze’s attention bore into the side of my too-hot face.

  Yes, I nicked my leg during training, then chose not to disclose it since I was so jacked on exo that to stop would have been torture.

  Problem is, Rhordyn doesn’t know we train, and I prefer to keep it that way. The only reason I agreed to it in the first place was because Baze let it slip that Rhordyn wouldn’t approve of me learning to fight like one of his warriors. I’d be lying if I said I don’t get some sick satisfaction from going against his coarse grain.

  But that slice on my thigh? I have no doubt that if he were to inspect it, he’d know exactly where it came from.

  “You were saying?” Rhordyn asks, challenging me with a hardness that practically begs me to lie.

  So I do what I do best. Because lies are pretty little masks we place on our words to tint the truth into something palatable.

  I straighten my shoulders, finding my spine. “No, nothing major. I got them both tripping on my stairs.”

  The words slip out like silk, but I can tell by the way his midnight brow jacks up that he knows my tongue is tainted.

  I take a sip of my juice, smacking my lips against the sharp tang. “Clumsy feet.”

  “Clumsy, you say?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  He reclines in his chair, ankle resting on his knee. His boots are covered in dirt and soot and ...

  Blood.

  I glance away, the honey buns becoming little lumps of lead in my stomach.

  At least he changed his shirt.

  “Well, you’ll have to be more careful,” he chides, waving off the servant trying to pour him some juice from a large, sweating jug. She’s garbed in the traditional threads of our territory: black pants, black coat, black boots. A silver pin clings to her lapel with Rhordyn’s sigil pressed into it—a crescent moon pierced through the middle by a lone sword. “Tanith will tend to it after breakfast.”

  I steal a peek at my quizzical handmaiden backed against the wall at the edge of the bare-bones dining hall, her auburn brow raised.

  Tanith is all too used to the cuts and bruises and blisters I get from training.

  To split the awkward tension, I set two more buns on my plate as if my appetite didn’t entirely dissolve the moment Rhordyn entered the room.

  He knots his arms over his chest and spears that chilling gaze down the table. “Baze.”

  The word lands like a boulder.

  I repress a flinch, looking left, watching Baze’s throat work.

  “She had a nightmare.”

  Silence stretches between them, tension crackling. I sip my orange juice, marinating in the flow of soundless words that seem to have their own ill-tempered heartbeat.

  “We’ll talk about this later,” Rhordyn rumbles, his voice a dark promise of something unpleasant.

  A shiver scuttles up my spine.

  “Of course,” Baze grates out before pushing his plate of eggs to the side.

  Rhordyn has the power to do that—to pluck you out of your pleasant atmosphere and stuff you into his unforgiving aura.

  I peel a mandarin I don’t intend to eat and pretend I don’t exist.

  “Why were you out so late?” Baze watches Rhordyn with a steady gaze while rolling his sleeves.

  “Received an urgent sprite. Scouting ship returned earlier than expected. I went to meet with them.”

  Baze’s hands still. “And?”

  Rhordyn offers Baze a small shake of his head.

  Looking down at my fruit, I battle the stubborn rind, wearing a frown that feels like it’s going to leave a permanent indent between my brows.

  Their silent conversations always grate me the wrong way.

  “Orlaith?” I glance up, Baze’s voice cutting through my inner musings. “What are your plans today?”

  “You’re paid to keep track of me. You probably know my routine better than I do ...”

  He shrugs. “Your tasks don’t always fall in the same order. What’s up first?”

  He’s right. My routine does hinge on the weather, how badly he’s whipped my ass during training, and whether or not people are visiting the estate.

  But still ...

  He’s making small talk, something he never does, and that makes me uncomfortable. He’s either trying to divert my attention or he has other intentions.

  “Well, I’ll probably visit Cook first ... check my nabber ... Oh!” I almost shout, bouncing a little. “I just remembered. I finished painting Kai’s gift yesterday. Hopefully it’s dry so I can gift it to him during my visit this afternoon.”

  The room chills.

  Baze takes a swig of his breakfast juice before dishing me a cloying smile. “Sorry I asked.”

  Sorry he—

  My attention pulls to Rhordyn, only to be assaulted by his stony glower.

  Oh.

  “You don’t like Kai?”

  Drumming fingers against his bicep, his lips form a thin line. “I never said that.”

  “Your face is wearing your opinion.”

  He arches a brow, and I swear the sterling pools of his eyes swirl. “You’ve never introduced me to him. How could I not like him?”

  I open my mouth, close it, suffocating under the weight of his perusal.

  I hate it when he does this; challenges me to step outside my comfort zone. Pecks at me like I’m something that needs fixing.

  My solitary existence, my routines, my weekly escape to the bay ... they keep me in control, and I won’t dare risk tarnishing the friendship I have with Kai simply to satisfy Rhordyn’s dominant dispositions. Kai’s the only thing I have that’s truly my own.

  Dropping my gaze, I stare at the small pile of mandarin skin that’s zesting the air.

  “That’s what I thought,” Rhordyn rumbles, and I bunch my hands so hard I punch little crescents into my palms.

  Bastard.

  Right now, I prefer it when he leaves that seat empty. Because this ...

  This is not enjoyable.

  A normal, relaxed conversation is obviously too much to expect. If I had known he was coming here to wield an attack on the borders of my personal limitations, I’d have walked out the moment he entered.

  Instead, I let my fluttering heart get me caught in his snare.

  “I’m done,” I say, standing. “Places to be, things to see. I’m a very important person, you know.”

  “Sit down, Orlaith.”

  The command in Rhordyn’s tone is a strike to the back of my knees. My bum lands on the chair, and my fists tighten further, face aflame.

  He must know the effect he has on me. And based on the way his lips are hooked at the corner, I’m sure he uses it to his advantage.

  Arms unknotting, he runs his thumb back and forth across his lower lip while I suffer a sharp examination. “I’m hosting a ball on the same weekend as the next Tribunal.”

  The words are a blow to my chest. “A ... a ball?”

  “Yes. As well as a Conclave for the Masters and Mistresses—high and low. I’ve already sent sprites. There will be many new faces around over the course of a few days.”

  There
’s a certain lilt to his tone that has my spine stiffening. Has me listening to all the words he’s not saying.

  A challenge.

  “I don’t get it. You’ve never held a ball before. Or a Conclave.”

  My tone is steady, somehow hiding the fact that my heart is waging war against my ribs.

  “Not since you’ve been here, no. But things are changing. I need to solidify bonds and ease curious minds.”

  “Okay ... well, thanks for letting me know. I’ll stay out of everyone’s way,” I say, more question than statement.

  Testing.

  He’s not done with me yet, I can feel it. He walked in here with a chip on his shoulder, and he’s using it to slice up my shell.

  His eyes darken to a deep, stormy gray. “No, Orlaith. You’ll be attending the ball.”

  I suck a sharp breath, as if I’ve just been struck.

  Attending? What’s the use? Nobody needs to see me. And I certainly don’t need to see them.

  “Why?” I lash the word, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

  “Because you’re an enigma. The girl who survived a Vruk raid at the tender age of two.”

  “What’s that got to do wi—”

  “You keep to yourself when newcomers enter the castle grounds, and refuse to be involved with the monthly Tribunal.”

  Here we go.

  “That’s not true. I used to attend.” Sort of.

  “Twice. And if I’m not mistaken, you spent most of the time sticking to the shadows.”

  The shadows were more friendly than the stares.

  The whispers.

  My knuckles protest from the bunch of my hands. “I have no troubles to publicly voice, no interest in what everyone has to say, and therefore no reason to attend the Tribunal. Simple as that. I certainly shouldn’t be punished for it.”

  His brows kick up, eyes narrow. “No interest, you say?”

  “Zero.” I practically snarl the word, watching the muscle in his jaw feather the moment it leaves my lips.

  “Well,” he bites out. “So you don’t choke on that lie, I’ll offer you a chaser of truth. You’re almost twenty-one. I’ve not seen any effort to overcome your fears, and my string of patience is thinning. Fast. You don’t want to find out what happens when it snaps.”

  A vision of me being hurtled over my Safety Line springs to life, and my blood chills, becoming so cold even the fire crackling at my back struggles to thaw my icy composure.

  Definitely should have walked out the moment he entered the room.

  “As I said, you’re an enigma. And people fear enigmas, Orlaith. They start twisting things to make sense of it all. The last thing I need is further discord in my Territory.” He leans forward and plants his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together. “I need them to see you’re just you. Nothing more.”

  A weight lands in my stomach; almost has me vomiting honey buns all over the table.

  Just me.

  Right.

  Gaze falling to my plate, I swallow the smear of bile coating the back of my tongue. “I hate crowds.”

  Though the words come out a murmur, they’re clipped—aimed to fend off the circling predator.

  The statement isn’t entirely true. I like crowds, so long as I’m watching from a distance.

  But he’s asking that I be involved.

  “I’m giving you plenty of notice. You don’t have to stay at the ball for long, but you will be there.”

  He might as well be hurtling me into the forest to fend for myself, letting the ancient foliage chew me alive. Something he also has the power to do.

  At the end of the day, I’m his ward.

  I’m the one imposing on his life, not the other way around, so I should really make an effort to be more pliable. Attending a ball isn’t going to kill me, but getting tossed over my Safety Line might.

  “Anything else?” I bite out, peeling my nails from the flesh of my palms.

  Rhordyn’s nostrils flare. Only delicately, but I notice.

  “I’ve instructed the tailor to fashion you a ...” he clears his throat, “a gown.”

  I stare at him, wide eyed.

  Baze chuckles low, and I find myself wishing this table were decorated with those knives and forks like I’ve seen in picture books—utensils Rhordyn banned from the castle. Apparently the sound of them scraping across the dishware left me curled beneath the table with blood gushing from my nose when I was young, but they’d be mighty handy to stab these two assholes for their obvious amusement at my expense.

  “His assistant will be ready to take your measurements and shape the pattern at midday.”

  Lovely. My gown fitting will double as a torture session.

  “Dolcie always pricks me. Can’t Hovard do it?” He’s never once drawn blood while making sure my pants were cut just the right way. He has gentle hands. But Dolcie ...

  I’m certain she has it in for me.

  “Dolcie will be expecting you in the tailors’ wing at noon.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but with a simple cant of his head that looks almost feline, the words get caught behind my lips.

  Releasing a sharp breath, I look to the closed doors, feet bouncing under the table.

  I need to get the hell out of this room.

  “That it?” I ask, and I know he nods by the way the tension between us snaps, like someone took a blade and severed the connection.

  I swipe my bag off the ground and stand, then beeline to find some air to draw into my fossilized lungs, plucking an apple from Baze’s plate as I stalk past.

  “Hey!” he blurts.

  “Hey, yourself,” I mutter, the heavy whip of my hair swaying with every frustrated flick of my hips.

  “I thought you hated apples?”

  Two stoic servants pull the doors open, dousing me in a spill of sunlight, and I toss a smirk at Baze from over my shoulder.

  “Kai doesn’t,” I say with a wink, hearing Rhordyn grunt as I exit the room.

  You can always tell what time of the day it is by the varying smells in the kitchen.

  Midday belongs to the hearty aroma of slow-roasted game. Evening’s filled with fire-charred root vegetables and rich botanical seasonings. At night, the air is either pinched with the acidity of pickling liquids or sweetened by sugared berries being reduced into a jelly preserve. And in the mornings, like right now, there’s the yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread ...

  My favorite time of day.

  Tentatively, I edge into the bustling kitchen that’s pregnant with cheery chatter. Strangers from forest communities and tribes often stop by to deliver fruit, vegetables, and game, and the years have taught me to proceed with caution.

  Always.

  It saves me from the unfamiliar stares and whispers that were never quiet enough.

  Lex, the sous chef, is up to her elbows in dough, wrestling it into submission. She offers a friendly smile that lights up her sea-green eyes. “All clear.”

  I smile back.

  Everyone else seems to understand that I don’t want to step a single foot outside my safe, ordinary existence.

  My bubble of protection.

  Drawing a lungful of goodness, I move deeper into the room that holds the heart of the castle; a woman with a barreling laugh and the ability to brighten your day with her wholesome recipes.

  I reach for the steaming roll set on a small plate beside the hearth, splitting the soft, spongy dough in two. There’s a glob of cinnamon-nut butter piled on the plate that I sweep my finger through and smear across the bread, taking a large bite.

  “Morning, girly!” Cook hollers, and I spin, cheeks bulging as I offer her a wave.

  Her rosy, silver-streaked hair is pulled into a tight bun, auburn eyes twinkling, full figure swaying. She sets a large, copper pot on the cooker, making water slosh over the sides.

  I skirt around the edge of the kitchen, plate in hand, dashing into the cellar stacked full of grain sacks, rounds of aging cheese, a
nd big barrels of wine. Knees kissing the cold stone, I set the plate on the ground and thread my arm down a circular air vent cut into the wall, extracting my nabber—a mousetrap made from a hollowed-out tree branch, some coiled metal, and a bunch of ingenuity.

  I lift it, peering down the spyhole only large enough for a rodent nose to fit through.

  Curled at the end is a small, frightened mouse who obviously has the same appetency for cinnamon-nut butter as I do.

  “This is not your lucky day,” I murmur, releasing the latch, lifting the lid, and digging my hand in to hook the squirming rodent out by its tail.

  “Is it a fat one today?” Cook asks from behind, her warm, robust voice basting me with an immediate sense of ease. “There’s been something mighty big chewing holes in one of my grain sacks, so I’m hoping you’ve caught the vermin.”

  “Normal size,” I answer, watching the poor thing swing back and forth, trying to twist up and bite me.

  Cook hums her disappointment while I root around inside my bag, locating the jar with air holes. I unscrew it one-handed, drop the mouse in, and secure the lid. Spreading what’s left of my butter on the nabber’s internal wall, I reset the latch and slide it back in the hole.

  “Any special requests?” Cook asks, and I smile, glancing over my shoulder. “Best get them in early. The kitchen will be busy over the coming weeks. We haven’t had a ball here in years.”

  I clear my throat and stand, stashing the mouse in my bag, ignoring the heaviness that settles on my shoulders. “What about some of those apple and pastry rolls you used to make when I was little?”

  Her brows draw together. “The ones with lemon-toffee drizzle?”

  I nod, wiping buttery fingers on my top.

  “You only ever asked for them when you were feeling blue ...”

  “I’m fine,” I lie, forcing another smile. “Just an abundance of ripe lemons on my tree. I’ll bring some down later.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Time to change the subject.

  “How’s your granddaughter? Did you make it to Cardell to see her yesterday?”

  That makes her cheeks swell. Her daughter and son-in-law are truffle farmers in a neighboring village, and recently welcomed their first, long-awaited child.