To Bleed a Crystal Bloom

by Sarah A. Parker

  Days like this generally start me off on the wrong foot, so the fact that I even made it to the breakfast hall despite my delicate condition should absolutely be noted on my effort chart.

  “How are you coping?” Baze asks, staring at the morning report while stirring a sugar cube into his tea. Pretending the question is casual when we both know it’s not.

  I shrug, scanning the spread of food, stomach twisting. My gaze snags on Rhordyn’s spare place setting and my chest tightens.

  Part of me hoped he’d be sitting here after what we shared last night. Foolish, now that I think about it.

  But he hasn’t had my blood in a while ...

  I know he said he doesn’t need me, but after falling asleep in his arms last night, there’s a hopeful spark in my chest. A warmth I want to nourish.

  Oil for those precious cogs that keep me spinning.

  A servant fills my glass with some zesty juice the color of sunshine. I wait until she’s returned to her spot at the wall before my attention drifts to my empty plate. “I’m out of caspun.”

  Baze’s cup clatters to the saucer. “You’re fucking with me.”

  I catch his wide-eyed stare, saying nothing.

  There’s nothing more to say.

  His mouth works like a fish out of water before he finally finds his words. “How the hell did you go through three years’ worth of caspun in three months?”

  I continue to stare, waiting ...

  He throws his head back and looks to the roof, hands threading behind his head. “You’ve been using it as a preventative, then relying on exo every morning to counteract the comedown.”

  “I’ve been ensuring I get a good night’s rest,” I say, gripping my glass of juice—the only thing on this table I can think about consuming without wanting to dry heave.

  “Does Rhordyn know? That you’ve been using it as a preventative?” I can feel his glare burning the side of my face as I take small, tentative sips from my glass.

  “If he didn’t work it out last night, I suspect he’s about to find out.”

  “Well, you’ve got that right.” He lifts his own glass of juice, pretending to clink with me.

  No point being bitter about it.

  “So ...” I jerk my thumb at the empty seat on my right, “is he gone again?”

  Baze takes a bite of his apple, watching me with a shrewd gaze as he slowly chews, then swallows. “He’s around. Now, since you’re dressed for the occasion, we can spend a few hours training on The Plank. Unless you have some rocks to paint?”

  The bottom of my glass practically assaults the table, making me wince from the bite of sound. “Really, Baze? You think I look capable of walking The Plank right now?”

  “No,” he shrugs, “you look like death. But perhaps a swim with the selkies will do you the world of good?”

  Yeah, like losing a toe ever benefits anyone.

  I pluck a grape from a pile and toss it at his face, but he snatches it out of the air with his teeth.

  Rolling my eyes, I shift in my seat, not entirely sure the juice was a good idea after all. The few sips I took are sitting like spikes in my belly.

  “You should eat before everything gets cold.”

  “I’m not hungry. And your collar has rouge on it,” I say, spotting the smear of red matching the blush of the blonde, busty servant standing at the wall behind Baze, her gaze cast on the floor.

  He pulls on his collar, inspecting the stain. “Well, I do love a good souvenir.” Throwing me a wink, he buffs his jewel-encrusted ring. “And look at you, artfully diverting the conversation.”

  “Who gave you that?” I ask, admiring the way light refracts off the polished faces of all those tiny, ebony gems. “I’ve always wondered.”

  He watches me from beneath raised brows. “Who do you think?”

  He really needs to lower his expectations of me for a while.

  “Just ... give me multiple choice answers so I don’t feel inclined to toss a melon at your head.”

  “Well,” he drones, tone mocking, “let me give your sludgy, hungover brain a hint.”

  I’m going to murder him.

  “The same person who puts those clothes on your back and pays Cook to keep you brimming with honey buns. Speaking of which, want one?” He gestures to the pile stacked in front of me.

  My stomach knots.

  “Not unless you want me to vomit all over you. And how long ago was that?” I ask, massaging my temples again, trying to ignore the dull throb.

  The corner of Baze’s lips sweep into a hook. “You know what, the years kind of ... blur together under his management. Now,” he slams his hand on the table—the sound a blade through my skull, “let’s get moving. If we’re lucky, we might catch a few rogue rays of sunshine before the rain hits.”

  And if he’s lucky, he might survive the day.

  “Wait, what about our swords?” I ask, trying to keep pace with Baze’s long, determined strides. Hard when I keep getting distracted by all the fluffy rose bushes.

  The spurt of sun has done them good.

  “We’ll grab them later. Rhordyn wants me to spend an hour or so focusing on hand-to-hand combat,” he mutters, chewing the end of a long piece of grass.

  I scoff. “Funny that, seeing as I managed to kick him in the balls the other day.”

  Baze’s head swings around so fast, I’m surprised his neck doesn’t snap. “Excuse me?”

  I shrug, massaging my temples, trying to draw comfort from the spongy grass beneath my bare feet. “He called it a cheap shot—”

  A smooth, melodic giggle tinkles through the garden, attacking me with its sweet harmony. What swiftly follows makes my heels dig in—a deep, robust, familiar laugh that rolls like thunder.

  I take off at a run through the labyrinth of botanical pathways with Baze cursing after me, something that only serves to accelerate my search.

  Rounding a lush, perfumed bend, I slam to a stop.

  There, standing amongst the roses—my roses—is the most striking woman I’ve ever seen.

  She’s tall and statuesque, her ocher cloak doing nothing to conceal her shape. Its split yawns from neck to foot, creating a window for long legs accentuated by brown pants that could pass as body paint, and a sandy top tailored to move with her curves.

  If her clothes are anything to go by, this woman is comfortable in her beautiful, creamy skin.

  Her hair is a tumble of strawberry wine, the fall of it tucked behind an ear lined with little rust-colored gems. Her pouty lips are pink, cheeks dusted with freckles. Long, thick lashes brush her well-defined brows as she looks up at him.

  Rhordyn. Roughly hewn perfection. The man who wrapped himself around me last night and lulled me to sleep as if it meant something.

  He offers her a smile that almost looks tired, but it’s still a smile.

  His smile.

  Something inside me goes white-hot and deadly still.

  Baze’s hand lands on my shoulder, fingers digging in like hooks. I send my foot flying back and kick him in the kneecap, earning a guttural groan that has Rhordyn’s attention whipping our way.

  That smile falls, leaving nothing but a stone slate.

  No smile for me.

  Today, they all belong to her.

  I shrug Baze off and stalk forward, bunched hands swinging at my sides.

  “Laith,” Rhordyn says, pebbling my skin as if he just tucked his lips against my ear and whispered it.

  My next breath is nowhere near as sharp as the previous.

  He never calls me Laith.

  Even so, I plant myself in front of him—a tree with roots that bore into the soil like claws.

  A bud of anger sparks inside me, and rather than tamp the erratic flame, I want to blow on it. To cradle and grow it until he and I are nothing but piles of ash. Let the wind sweep us up and tangle us together. Let our demise finally put some reason to this endless fucking riddle.

  Because I’m tired. So, so tired, and I’m not
okay with this—with that female standing amongst my roses, luring smiles from a man usually as apathetic as a gravestone.

  His brow lifts.

  A long, stiff moment hangs, our gazes locked as if we’ve just crossed swords. It’s a battle, yes. A war even.

  I’m just not sure what’s at stake.

  Overhead, the sky rumbles, but I refuse to blink. Refuse to break away. It’s as if something deep inside—that still, silent part that’s painfully aware—knows I’m standing on the edge of a different sort of chasm than the one that haunts my nightmares.

  One that has the potential to ruin me.

  The pushy ocean breeze assaults my back, shoving loose tendrils forward.

  Reaching.

  Rhordyn’s nostrils flare, stare darting to my neck and a low, silky rumble eases out of him.

  The sound infuses me like a dose of Exothryl, hurtling my heart against too-brittle ribs, pumping blood that’s honey thick—heating my cheeks, plumping my lips, making my breasts feel hot and heavy.

  Around us, the world seems to still ... or perhaps its significance simply falls away.

  I let out a short breath and, despite my anger, find myself leaning forward like a flower stretching into a shaft of sunlight.

  From somewhere behind me, Baze coughs.

  The ball in Rhordyn’s throat rolls, and he slides back a step, shattering the tension. It feels like some of the shards ricochet and slice into my fervid, vulnerable flesh.

  Part of me wishes those wounds were physical—that my blood was spilling, making him react the way he did when Dolcie pierced my flesh. Reminding him of my value and fortifying that crumbling bridge between us.

  My sight veers, catching on a bare bush that’s always failed to yield anything but moss-green leaves.

  Rhordyn clears his throat as if to dislodge the last of our tension. Or perhaps he’s trying to dislodge me.

  Either way, it hurts.

  “Orlaith.”

  The sound of my full name lands like a slap to the face, almost buckling my knees.

  “Yes, Rhordyn?”

  By the way the muscle along his jaw ticks, I’d say he doesn’t appreciate my challenging tone. But I refuse to be wounded game in front of this woman that exudes such feminine poise. Especially when I’m standing here looking like that bare rose bush.

  “This is Zali”—he gestures sideways with a brusque sweep of his hand—”High Mistress of the East.”

  I stare at him for another long beat before I finally sway my attention toward the woman hanging from his personal space.

  I notice her hand is notched inside the cloak that’s falling off her like a dune, her head canted to the side. She has this look on her face—as if she’s listening to the unspoken words between us, perhaps waiting for me to detonate.

  “My apologies. I didn’t see you standing there,” I say, shoving my hand in her direction.

  The corner of her mouth kicks up, something akin to shock igniting her eyes, and she pulls her hand free.

  Her grip is firm, palm surprisingly calloused—

  She knows how to fight, then.

  She’s a strong, composed woman who can obviously look after herself—a woman who wouldn’t suckle off Rhordyn’s hospitality like a newborn lamb.

  Will he let her into his Den?

  ... Will she bleed for him?

  Acid fires up my throat like a torch, all the air slipping through my fishnet lungs.

  “Laith. I’ve heard so much about you.” Her friendly voice is silky smooth, umber eyes veiling the wariness I don’t miss. “I’m hoping we’ll become well acquainted.”

  “I highly doubt that,” I reply, dropping her hand. “And it’s Orlaith to you.”

  Behind me, Baze chokes.

  Rhordyn snatches my upper arm, and I’m dragged away, bag thumping against my thigh as I struggle to keep pace with his long, powerful strides.

  “Ouch!” I gripe, being pulled past Baze who simply stands there, arms knotted over his chest, shaking his head.

  He’s either embarrassed by me or he pities me. Neither option is ideal.

  Rhordyn lugs me behind a tall hedge and spins, stepping right up into my personal space, eyes a silver storm that devastates my skin. “That was rude, immature, and so very—”

  He stops mid-sentence.

  Just ... stops.

  “So very what, Rhordyn?”

  His eyes harden.

  “Pathetic,” he says with cold, steady precision. “It was just a hug. Nothing more. Don’t get caught up on it.”

  My heart drops, a breath puffing out of me as if he stuck me through the lungs with a pointy stick.

  Of course. How silly of me.

  He folds his arms and my gaze darts to the inky cupla caught around his wrist—two bands that click together but can split to form separate cuffs.

  He never usually bothers to wear the thing unless he’s at the Tribunal.

  A heaviness settles in my stomach.

  “Are ... are you courting her?” My voice is a harsh whisper.

  His shoulders drop an inch, and my heart mimics the motion. It’s the smallest dent in his armor, but such a telling one.

  He cares, but only because he feels a sense of responsibility.

  No wonder he’s always trying to get me to step outside my boundaries. He wants to move on with his life without this lovesick stray shadowing the insides of his castle.

  He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Laith ...”

  My name sounds so tired when he says it like that. Even so, it makes my stupid heart gallop, and I hate him for it.

  “Just answer the question, Rhordyn.”

  I pay my way, one droplet at a time, so I deserve to know if there’s going to be someone else living here, walking the halls that have become my crutch. I deserve to know if a woman will be sharing his den, muddying it with her scent. Or if I’ll be seeing her lure him to the dining table, sharing food with him ... something he’s never shared with me.

  It’s that final thought that snaps me like a twig.

  “Answer me!”

  Rhordyn doesn’t even blink at my poignant display of discomfort. He simply studies me for a long moment, like he’s considering how, exactly, he wants to slice me up. Which part he’ll toss to the crows first.

  After a small eternity, he takes a smooth step back, cleaving us apart with an ocean of chill.

  I don’t like the way he’s distancing himself. It makes the ground beneath my feet feel unsteady, as though it could split apart and devour me.

  “I’m considering giving her my cupla,” he says, voice monotone, words matter-of-fact.

  My lungs flatten.

  No.

  Fuck, no.

  I stagger back into dense foliage, vision blurring, heart in my throat.

  Something inside me rears up, wild and ugly, urging me to stalk around this hedge, grip Zali by her strawberry hair, and tear out her jugular with my teeth.

  The aftertaste of that errant thought is bitter.

  But he laughed with her. Smiled at her. Not just a small, mocking smile ...

  An unguarded one.

  The only male who’s ever smiled at me like that is Kai, so whatever Rhordyn shares with this female must be special ... But his cupla?

  In the stories I’ve read, a male only offers a female the other half of his cupla if she’s his mate. His true love. His destined.

  For a moment, I think I might collapse.

  “Is she—is she your mate?”

  His eyes widen before he tips his head and laughs, the breadth of his chest shaking with the roll of it, but it’s not a happy sound.

  It’s dark and brutal, like stones clanking against one another over and over again.

  The vicious sound tapers off, and he skewers me with his icy regard. “You do read some crap, don’t you?”

  “Gypsy and the Night King is not crap,” I counter, leading him to shake his head.

  “It is crap, Orlaith. Mate
s are a pretty lie that farmers tell their daughters so they won’t settle for the local bard.”

  “The local bard?” I scoff, wondering how the tables flipped so quickly. “Right.”

  “Yes,” he snarls, stepping closer, making my skin smart from the crush of his frosty aura. “A bard who may know how to sing a charming tale and lather you up with the promise of love, but in the end, will shred your virtue before staking your heart on a metaphorical spike.”

  I frown. “I thought we were talking about farmers’ daughters ...”

  “Mates,” he snarls with a flash of his teeth, “is the tale they spin so an adolescent female will wait for true love to come along. So she’ll accept a cupla before spreading her thighs and letting her maidenhood get torn apart.” He offers me a wicked smile that sculpts his face into something I don’t like.

  Not one bit.

  Well-trimmed branches jab me in the back with each labored breath, and I have nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide from that sharp smile that’s carving me up.

  “Mates, Orlaith, are a fairy tale. A tragedy painted with the pretty face of a happily ever after, but at its core, it’s still a fucking tragedy. If you believe everything you read, you’ll be disappointed when you finally step into the real world.”

  All the blood drains from my face.

  When you finally step into the real world ...

  I turn my head to the side, desperate to avoid facing the truth laid out before me. I dug into the soil, made myself a home, and now I’m one wrong move away from being ripped out at the roots.

  A hot tear slips free, carving a path down my cheek and smacking the air with the briny taint of my unrequited emotions.

  Firm fingers pinch my chin, forcing me to face him again.

  “You’re better than this.”

  The hollow statement guts me, and when paired with those tombstone eyes ... I’m six feet under, pushing daisies from my rotting corpse.

  Because I’m not better than this. Once again, he’s setting me a challenge, one I’d already failed the moment he led me to the starting line.

  His gaze darts down, and I can almost feel his featherlight perusal of my lips before he spins, whipping away like a sail snapping with a push of wind.