To Bleed a Crystal Bloom by Sarah A. Parker

Iwake drenched in sweat, hair plastered across my face. The fire is out, and it takes all my energy to peel the sheets back and roll out of bed.

Seems the hangover from a terrible night’s sleep is almost as bad as exo withdrawals.

The sky rumbles, loud and boisterous, making my mirror rattle against the wall. I rub sleep from my face and pace to the window, seeing shaded, high-hanging clouds preventing any light from filtering down.

Waking to a heavy sky that holds nothing but the promise of rain always leaves me feeling like an unoiled hinge.

I rinse the nightmares from my face, change into leather pants, a button-down, and a loose-fitting sweater, then weave my hair into a hurried braid while the bath tap fills my sprinkling can.

Fourteen seedlings nest on the windowsill above my painting station, drinking what they can of the low light. Their small clay pots are handmade, varnished with bold colors that pay tribute to the paint I’ll eventually make from some of their flowers.

I test the soil, dribble water where it’s needed, then step onto my balcony to tend the bigger ones camped against the wall beneath the overhanging roof on the western side.

“Look at you guys!” I splash their dirt, fawning over their bright green shoots and unfurling fronds. “You’re all doing so well! Except you,” I mutter, crouching, narrowing my eyes on the fig tree that seems to sag every time I take my eyes off her. “Having another down day, I see.”

I give her a healthy dose of water and peer up at the rumbling clouds again, scrunching my nose. We both miss the sunshine, and by the looks of things, I doubt that’ll change any time soon.

I may have to graduate her to Sprouts before she goes and dies on me.

“Hang in there, Limp Leaf.”

I work my way around the curved balcony, past my box of herbs and the lemon tree I’ve been raising for the past five years. Its branches are laden with vibrant yellow fruit that will eventually be juiced and used as a preserving agent for my paints.

Next is my wisteria—the only plant that’s been here longer than I. It’s so large, it weaves through the balcony and down the tower’s edge, and can be seen from almost anywhere on the castle grounds.

I tend the flock of rose bushes yet to show their first bursts of color, then pause by the willow sapling I grew from a seed. Not only is willow bark an excellent pain reliever, I also love the way they mature from gangly saplings to such proud, majestic trees.

I crouch and check his roots, seeing them peeking out through the holes in the bottom of the pot ...

A smile fills my cheeks.

This is exactly what I needed to pull me from my funk.

“It’s like you’ve grown up overnight,” I whisper, feeling a little less heavy for the first time in far too long.

Planting Days are my favorite days.

* * *

“It might just be me, but independence suits you,” I say, patting the soil around the base of my freshly planted willow, loving the feel of dirt on my hands. I push to my feet, glancing out across the rippling gray pond enclosed with a wreath of swaying reeds. A fallen tree slices its center—The Plank—its underbelly decorated with a carpet of dark green moss and curly white mushrooms.

Weepy should like it here. The soil is irrigated enough, and bonus points for being able to check his progress every time Baze makes me train on that death trap reaching across the insidious water.

I rummage through my bag for a jar and spoon, creeping toward the mucky fringe of the stagnant smelling pond. Kneeling in the black mud I use to make my mortar, I scoop big globs of it into a jar, then dart away from the reeds, putting ample space between myself and that body of water before bagging my plunder.

This place is frightening. I never know what’s going to leap out at me from the shrubbery.

Hands wiped on my top, I sigh and make for the castle.

A lump of dread sits heavy in my empty stomach as I weave through cold hallways and ascend vacant stairwells on my way to the breakfast hall.

Will he be at the dining table? Will Zali be there, too ... smiling up at him and luring him to laugh?

The poisonous thoughts propel my pulse into a hurried, resentful tempo.

Shoulders shoved back, I stalk into the room, my strong stance almost buckling the moment I feel Rhordyn’s frosty stare threatening to tack me in place.

Clearing my throat, I glance at Baze in his regular spot, hunched over the morning report.

His eyes roll up, and he frowns, face half lit by orange light spilling from the roaring hearth on the back wall. “Are you in a better mood this morning?”

I try to ignore the spike of fire that sizzles my veins, but then I remember the vision of Te Bruk o’ Avalanste almost colliding with his face and my mood improves dramatically.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Really,” is his lackluster response.

Tanith fails to stifle a giggle as I brush past her on my journey toward my seat, and I offer her a wink. She doesn’t have to attend my meals, but I think the ample entertainment keeps her coming back for more, and I don’t begrudge the moral support.

Sitting, I search the long table for an extra place setting.

There is none.

“Where’s Zali? I thought these family meal times were going to become a ... a thing?”

“She had to leave in the middle of the night,” Rhordyn rumbles, the tenor of his voice demanding my reluctant attention.

He’s going to ruin a perfectly good Planting Day, I just know it.

Slowly, I look his way, struck by his catastrophic masculinity. He’s all brooding composure wrapped in finely crafted garb—so at odds with his six-day-old stubble.

“Urgent mail-sprite. She’ll be back for the ball.”

That damn ball. I want to scrunch it up and throw it in the bin.

“Too bad,” I mutter, gaze momentarily dropping to his empty plate.

Alwaysempty.

His eyes narrow, and mine mirror the action.

“Do you have something you want to say, Orlaith?”

Yes.

A million words but I have no tongue to speak them.

I pluck a plump, purple grape off a gnarled stem. “Nope,” I reply, slipping the fruit into my mouth and biting down. Saccharine liquid explodes across my tongue, and I let out a soft, purposeful moan as I chew ... nice and slow.

His fingertips strum against the tabletop, eyes hardening a little more with each precise beat.

I wonder if he can see the challenge in my stare—wonder how it feels to have the shoe on the other foot for a change?

“Is that nice?” he asks, toying with the question.

“Positively delicious.” I pop another in my mouth and watch the muscle in his jaw feather. “Best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Lie.

I’m not even hungry, and this grape is threatening to turn my stomach inside out. Honestly, that bread roll was the best thing I’ve ever tasted, but I’m not about to tell him that. Not when he was the one who handed it to me in the first place.

“I’m so glad.” He tips to the side, reaches under his chair, and straightens before he lumps Te Bruk o’ Avalanste onto the table between us with a hefty thud.

I almost choke as icy shame slams into me and turns my muscles stiff.

Shit.

I should really stop snooping around his castle before he boots me out on my ass. Or perhaps that’s exactly what he’s about to do.

“I thought I’d return your ... weapon.”

Gaze lifting slower than a rising sun, I almost wither under the weight of his scrutiny.

A waiting calm sits between us—a breath held hostage while Rhordyn reclines in his chair, chin on the balled-up pedestal of his fist. That stare intensifies, sending a droplet of sweat rushing down the length of my spine.

“I-broke-into-a-storage-room-below-ground,” I blurt, the words a hot coal spat off my tongue.

“I’m aware. I had the window replaced yesterday.”

Crap.

“Oh,” I squeak, cheeks burning, though it might be from the fire blazing at my back, assaulting me with its sudden, relentless heat.

“And tell me,” he purrs, planting his elbows on the table. “Did you get a chance in your very busy schedule to have a read?”

Baze clears his throat.

“Just a little bit.” I instantly regret my understatement when that raven brow almost jumps off his perfectly rendered face. “Three times. I flicked through it three times with a fine-toothed comb before I took it down to Kai to decipher some of the language.”

I stamp a hand over my mouth.

Oops.

Rhordyn peers down the table for the briefest moment, pinning Baze with a guarded look that’s impossible to decipher.

He pushes to a stand, the movement akin to the draw of a sword. “And tell me,” he grits out, retrieving the book and prowling around the table, strong thighs tensing with each assaulting step.

Te Bruk o’ Avalanste thumps on the tabletop beside my plate, and I squirm as his hands connect with the back of my chair. “Do you believe anything in there, Orlaith? Do you believe sprites were made from fallen leaves?”

I release a shuddered breath, feeling like the room is too small, too hot. Although Rhordyn’s blocking the fire’s boisterous flames, it’s not enough.

I’m going to burn.

I spin, looking up into his eyes, searching for any hint of reprieve.

All that’s staring back is a cold disconnect.

It should chill me to the bone. On a normal day, it would. But my insides are throbbing with this hot, intimate pulse I can’t seem to douse.

“Rhor,” Baze warns but is silenced with a bat of Rhordyn’s hand.

“Answer me, Orlaith.”

I feel like this answer will determine my fate; whether I’ll be burned at the stake like some of the women in books I’ve read or if the flames licking at my feet are only temporary.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I was confused that my tutor never taught me religious studies or even spoke about these supposed Gods. I’ve never read anything about them in Spines.”

“That’s because it’s all bullshit,” he says, and I flinch at the slash of his tone. He reaches around me, and I almost choke on his deep, manly scent as he snatches the book off the table and waves it through the air. “Why do you think this ended up in a dusty old cellar?”

I daub my brow with my sweater sleeve. “I don’t know, Rhordyn.”

“Well,” he purrs, and although his voice is treacle, I get the sense of a snake preparing to strike. “Consider this your religious lesson for the day. Believe me when I tell you, any Gods worth worshiping would take more pride in their position, and they certainly wouldn’t leave it to someone else to clean up their mess.”

He flicks his wrist and the book goes fluttering over his shoulder.

I squeal, jolting as it lands in the belly of the mammoth fireplace atop a stack of blazing wood. Sparks explode, embers crackle, and I feel like it’s my heart he just lobbed into the raging inferno. Flames gobble up the rich tapestry of ancient culture and beliefs, and my eyes sting as I watch the pages blacken and curl—all those beautiful, telling pictures falling victim to a fiery demise.

“That was a beautiful book,” I whisper past the lump in my throat, feeling a tear dart down my cheek.

“And it made fantastic firewood,” Rhordyn snips before charging back to his seat.

I wait in patient stillness, watching the pages burn, listening for sounds of him filling his plate. It’s a hollow hope—the sort that’s aching for sustenance to fill its void and give it something to feed on.

The sort of hope that leaves me winded when those sounds never come.

Unable to watch any longer, I turn from the book, haunted by the hungry crackle behind me as I wipe the swells of my cheeks. I clear my throat, lift my chin, and try to focus on a platter of fruit, searching for any sense of appetite. Trying to ease my mind from the heartbreak flaming at my back and the internal smolder that’s threatening to offer me a similar fate.

“Eat, Orlaith.”

I very nearly scream the same thing back, but think better of it. He just burned a relic of ancient lore as if it were nothing but trash. Who’s to say he won’t toss me in the fire, too?

That’s a bit dramatic, but his extreme demonstration set the trend.

Hand trembling, I pluck a peach from the pile and rest its furry, sunset skin against my parted lips ...

Rhordyn’s stare is a cube of ice being dragged down the side of my face, a vast contrast to the fire blazing in my belly; shifting lower ... lower ... spreading across my belly button like the stretching wings of a bird.

Perhaps the Gods are punishing me for leading Te Bruk o’ Avalanste to a fiery demise?

Battling to keep my hands steady, I set the peach in the center of my otherwise empty plate and roll the sleeves of my sweater. When that doesn’t cool me down, I peel the entire thing off, seeking an ounce of relief from this small sun dawning in my abdomen, setting my skin alight.

“Laith. Are you feeling okay?”

I look to Baze watching me with narrowed eyes, a slice of meat pinched between his fingers that seems to be forgotten about. He’s dressed in a thick sweater while I’m considering whether it’s socially acceptable to strip down to my chest wrap and panties at the dinner table. Because this button-down, these pants ...

They’re suffocating my skin.

“It’s just a bit hot this morning. Can someone douse the fire? How are you bearing this heat wearing all those clothes?”

I wiggle in my seat, trying to temper some innate itch I can’t seem to pin down. The friction makes me quiver from the tips of my toes all the way to my fluttering lids, but does nothing to quell my smoldering skin.

If anything, it makes it worse ... although now I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop.

“I’m not hot,” Baze murmurs, frowning when I clear my plate and start using it as a fan.

Rhordyn makes this low, abrasive sound that arcs my spine, shoving my breasts forward. I glance at him, lungs compacting when I see his hands gripping the arms of his chair like they’re the only things binding him to this world.

His nostrils flare, eyes full-bellied moons, and there is no color in his cheeks. No light in his features. Nothing but cold, astute awareness.

Something in those depthless eyes reminds me of Shay; of the way he perches in a slab of shadow, waiting for me to toss his fleshy feast so he can pounce.

“What’s your problem?” I ask, working my plate-fan to a frenzy.

Baze makes this high-pitched choking sound. “Oh ... fuck.”

“Out,” Rhordyn snaps, but Baze just sits there, watching him with wary eyes.

“Do you think that’s wise?”

“I said out.”

His brutal command vandalizes the air, and Baze curses, eyes to the ground as he stands and pursues the door.

I pause my fanning. “Why are you—”

“And clear the north wing of all males!” Rhordyn bellows, his voice a clap of thunder.

“Was already on it,” is Baze’s nasally response before he disappears.

I frown, glancing at Rhordyn. “What the hell is going on?”

Ignoring my question, he waves a hand at Tanith. She peels off the wall and sways toward him, her movements a dance I usually admire—

I don’t realize I’m snarling until Rhordyn growls, long and menacing, and I pry my gaze off the approaching female.

“No,” he berates, eyes skewering me in place.

He seems bigger—broader—his pressing essence commanding me to yield.

I’m just about to stand when he rises like a mountain shoving out of the ocean. “I said no.”

The words power out of him and snip the flame off a candlestick in the middle of the table.

Though my chin is jutted, something inside me curls.

“Tanith,” he grates, keeping me impaled with his emphatic regard. “Cast your eyes to the floor. Now.”

I study the pretty female who is staring at the ground, paused a respectable distance from the table. The sight has my shoulders softening, upper lip no longer peeled back from bared teeth that were ready to chew.

“A cold bath needs to be drawn in Orlaith’s tower,” Rhordyn flings at her, attention aimed at me. “Notify Cook that she’ll be taking meals in her room for the next week; simple, palatable food. And she’ll need some rags prepared and brought up, seeing as she won’t be able to retrieve them herself when the time comes.”

Hang on ... “What?”

Tanith curtsies, then hurries from the room.

“But I don’t want to take meals in Stony Stem for the next week,” I plead as Rhordyn sinks into his chair. “Whatever this is, my answer is no.”

Silence stretches. The man’s not even breathing. So, I take the chance to validate my point while rocking back and forth against my seat.

“Look, I know you think I don’t have much of a life, but I do. And I have things that need tending. There’s just no way I can spend an entire week trapped in my tower. Much as I like it there,” I quickly tack on. “Wonderful view. Fantastic housekeeping service. The stairs are a bit much after a long day, but who am I to complain?”

His eyes drift shut, lips stamp together. Even his shoulders look heavier ... but I disregard that in light of my own barreling emotions.

“I’m sorry. As thankful as I am for Stony Stem, it’s just not possible for me to cloister myself up there. I mean, I’m not sure how you were expecting Baze and I to find the space to train.” I fan myself with the plate again, matching the beat of my jerking hips. “We’d be right on top of each other.”

Rhordyn’s eyes open, and I suck a breath.

His face looks sharpened by a whetting rock, his eyes flat like twin sheets of slate.

Suddenly, I feel like a fat, overfed kitchen mouse hanging by its tail.

“There will be no training.”

My head kicks back as if he just slapped me. “Why the hell not? You’re the one that said—”

“Because you’re going into heat.”

My heart stills.

The breath in my lungs becomes heavy like mortar, and even the sensual fire boring deep into my groin seems to abate a few degrees.

I know what a female’s heat is, only because I stumbled on an anatomy book when I was thirteen.

But that’s about all I know.

Two paragraphs into the chapter, I skipped to the next, cheeks aflame. The medis who wrote about the experience made it all sound so ... so ...

Sexual.

I thought I’d avoided it. That perhaps the caspun had successfully warded it off—one of the side effects I’d noted while studying the herb in a medicine book I found in Spines. One of the only adverse side effects I was actually pleased about.

Suddenly, my chest wrap feels too tight. Too constricting. My body’s desire to mature despite the hurdles has cast light on the fact I’ve been punishing it for far too long, blind to the nail-biting pain that comes with having my budding breasts flattened.

“Can I ... can I stop it?”

Please say yes.

“No, Orlaith. You can’t.”

The words land like rocks in my stomach, certain to weigh me down for the rest of my life.

“I need you to walk out of this room, go straight to your tower, and stay there.”

Stay there ...

Not only is my body rebelling against my mind, but I’m also being shunned to my tower—being ordered to stay for the first time in my life.

I need something normal to cling to or I’m going to fall apart. Maybe not straight away, but eventually the noose of anxiety will slither in and steal my breath, just like it always does when I feel like I’ve lost control.

“Surely exceptions can be made? I’m not asking for much. Just an hour a day for me to ...” hell, I don’t know, feed Shay ... collect flowers ... visit Kai ... “wander?”

The wooden arms of his chair groan.

“Now, Orlaith!”

Guess that’s a no.

My hands fall to my lap, bunching into fists as I glance at the door, lips pursed.

What if Tanith comes back?

“I’ll be in my room. Alone,” Rhordyn grates out, and I slide my gaze back to him, weighing the value of his words. “With the door locked,” he swiftly tacks on.

I try not to over analyze the fact that his statement seems to tame my volatile nerves. The last thing the mural of our relationship needs is another layer of paint. It’s messy enough as it is.

“Fine,” I snip, knowing exactly how stubborn that lock is.

Nothing is getting through that thing without a key.

I stand, making to walk around his side of the table when a low warning sound rumbles out of him.

My feet cement in place.

He jerks his chin in the other direction, and I sigh, diverting my path, heading toward the exit while fanning myself with a silver plate that doubles as an unrewarding mirror for my flushed face.

“Your handmaiden will be up to tend to your needs and collect your nightly offering,” he says when I’m halfway across the room.

His words peck at me, though I try not to let my discomfort show.

Likely fail.

Half my enjoyment comes from listening to him ascend those stairs, open The Safe, remove the goblet, and collect that little part of me. I use his sounds as a stencil to create a physical picture in my mind, and now he’s taking them away, too.

I quicken my pace.

“Orlaith.”

My name is bitten out like it’s some sort of curse, and I spin, seeing an ocean of unsaid words in his catacomb eyes.

“Yes?”

“Do not, under any circumstance, leave your room. Do you understand me?”

Swallowing, I nod.

“Say it.”

“I understand, Rhordyn.”

“Good.” I note a softening of his tone—detect an easing of the tension in his features. “Go.”

I don’t wait for him to tell me again.