To Bleed a Crystal Bloom by Sarah A. Parker

The lilting tune of a distant fiddle accompanies a riot of bodies flowing in and out of the grand ballroom.

Some are maids carrying those silver trays laden with champagne flutes; some are poised women dolled up in dresses cinched at the waist, their skirts flowing behind them like liquid. Their painted smiles and beaded hairstyles make them look untouchable.

Two are dressed in gray gowns that cover every inch of skin aside from their pinched faces—hair pulled back in tight hairstyles that showcase upside down v-shaped scars in the center of their foreheads.

Those people ... I make extra effort to avoid looking at their eyes.

Men are clad in tailored suits that square shoulders and taper hips. Suede suits. Velvet suits. Silk suits as polished as their slicked-back hair.

You can usually tell a person’s territory simply by their garb, but this ball is a colorful, eclectic expression of personality.

Looking down at the ruby dress that’s tailored to the dunes of my curves, I almost lose my nerve. Almost hightail it back to Cook so I can beg for the key to Stony Stem. It’s only the sight of a raven-haired child notched on her mother’s hip that convinces me otherwise; her big, round eyes anchoring me in place.

She appears to be the only one who can see me standing in the shadows, and she’s looking at me like she knows—like she can see into the chasm of my soul.

If I skitter back to my tower, her breaths are numbered, and I can’t bear the thought of the light bleeding from her eyes.

My hand whips up to the treasures hidden beneath a layer of red; a jewel that reminds me to strengthen my spine and a shell that shields my heart.

The lute changes tempo—becomes dense and beaty—and it jerks me into action. I peel from the slice of shadow clinging to the wall, my tormented toes bearing the weight of every step.

Heads turn and eyes widen, whispers dole out from between lips that barely move as I walk toward the grand entrance.

Admittedly, I didn’t consider how much this dress would make me stand out when Hovard came up with the sketch. I was pissed, off-kilter, and desperate to rattle Rhordyn in any way I could. But now that I’m here, dressed in nothing but a yard of silk that coats my skin like a lick of blood, I’m drowning in regret.

Everyone’swatching. Taking me in. And aside from the rouge and the powder and the kohl, there’s nothing for me to hide behind.

I’m not wearing a bodice like all the other women. My back is entirely bare. There’s a split in my dress that’s inviting peeks of flesh from hip to toe every time my right foot kicks forward a step.

The crowd parts like a split book, as if I’m emerging from the gutter. Though it makes my cheeks scald, it does allow me a clear view of the elegant ballroom cast in a pearly glow. A straight shot to the man leaning against the far wall near a raised podium, arms knotted over his chest that seems to have paused in its labors.

The music stops as the crowd drinks me in, assuaging their curiosity while cool, steely eyes regard me.

Needle me in the heart.

My skin may be blazing with the collective focus of a room full of inquisitive eyes, but it’s his that leaves a frosty scar. His I’m hanging off, despite it being barbed.

I take a moment perched on the threshold of my inevitable demise, certain I won’t survive his wrath for what I’m about to do. Not when he’s staring daggers at me simply for escaping my cage.

But he asked for effort. I’m simply following orders.

I watch his eyes flare as I lift my chin and push my shoulders back. Because right now, wearing this dress that clings to my curves and exposes a shape that’s never been seen, I’m not damaged. I’m not the girl who’s afraid to step foot outside the castle grounds, and I’m certainly not the girl who’s uncomfortable in the sheath of her own skin.

I’m strong, composed, resilient ...

Rhordyn gestures to the musicians, and the music starts again, dissolving the spell of silence. The crowd slowly swirls into action, still pecking me with peeps while filling the empty space and cutting me off from Rhordyn’s prying eyes.

Releasing a jagged sigh, I plunge into the breath-stealing scene thick with cloying, exotic smells, barely five steps in when Baze spears through a gap in the crowd, clad in a black suit that accentuates the strong lines of his formidable form.

“What do we have here?” he grits out, stealing my arm, his face split with a smile that shows too much teeth.

He’s leading me with a hold so tight my arm loses circulation from the elbow down, so I dig my fingers into his side and pinch.

Hard.

“Ow,” he mutters without moving his lips.

I feign a diplomatic smile. “Sorry I’m late. I had a slight wardrobe malfunction.”

“I can see that,” Baze says, steering me through the crowd, weaving between round tables embellished with floral centerpieces and platters of food. “And here I was thinking we were going to make it through the night without a hitch.”

I snag a flute off of a server’s tray and guzzle the contents in one thirsty drag, face pinching as the bubbly liquid wrestles its way down my throat. “Buckle up, buttercup.”

He snatches the glass out of my hand and waves it at my face. “This stuff is not for you.”

“And why the hell not?”

“Because you don’t know how to regulate yourself.”

I frown.

He’s treating me like I’m a child again, and it’s dampening my certitude. I’m just about to tell him exactly that when my other wrist is snatched up and tucked into the crook of Rhordyn’s arm. I’m peeled away from Baze, who flashes me an unapologetic wink before disappearing into the crowd.

Traitor.

“Are you not wearing any undergarments?” Rhordyn asks, the pulse of his icy voice hitting the shell of my ear.

“You’ll never know,” I purr, pretending I’m not affected by the strike of his words. By his manly musk twisting around me like greedy fingers, or by the way he’s holding me against the strong pillar of his body.

He grunts, and I become all too aware of his black suede pants brushing the exposed slice of my leg ...

He’s weaving me through the crowd, holding me like he doesn’t want to lose grip, and it’s messing with my head.

I don’t appreciate this ... effect he has over me.

Especially not now.

A waitress buzzes close and offers us bite-sized slices of bread capped with roe and a creamy spread. I take one despite my churning stomach, my heart suffering the expected pinch of disappointment when Rhordyn waves her off, scowling as if the very sight of it repulses him.

Something inside me snaps.

Perhaps it’s the fact that I’m wearing a roomful of curious stares I’m convinced are studying my mask for flaws. Perhaps it’s that I’m treading the thin line between composure and another embarrassing public breakdown should something set me off. Perhaps it’s simply that he’s here, screwing with my head, but I shove the canapé at his face and glare into twin wells of scarcely veiled composure.

Wide. Unblinking.

Right now, this tiny, pre-dinner nibble is equally as threatening as a weapon poised at his throat. He knows it. I can see in his eyes that he recognizes the challenge I’ve staked in the ground between us.

The question is, what’s he going to do?

A moment hangs, the silence between us roars, and it feels like we’re the only two people in the room. Us ... and this little piece of bread.

His head banks to the side, and he regards me with the intensity of an artist’s chisel, like he’s looking for something to chip away.

I make sure he sees nothing but the icy resolve I wish I hadn’t learned from him.

A line forms between his brows, gaze passing to my offering.

I lift my chin, hand mimicking the motion, thrusting the food closer to his face.

Rhordyn clears his throat and snatches the canapé, shoving it in his mouth. I swear he barely chews before he swallows, and something sparks in his eyes that sends a chill shooting down my spine ...

Something akin to hate.

“Happy?” he bites out, and I release a captive breath, unaware I’d been holding it this entire time.

He just ate in front of me ...

It should be insignificant, but for me ... it’s everything.

I nod.

“Good. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, how the fuck did you get out of your tower?”

It’s hard not to wilt at the growl in his voice, his eyes churning with unsaid threats.

I break away from his scrutiny, feigning disinterest. “I have my ways.”

He grips hold of my arm again, steering me in a wide arc around a waitress bearing a tray of flutes. “I’ll be investigating.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” I say, trying to wriggle out of his strict hold so I can steal another glass. That champagne was tasty, and I like the way it’s warming my belly.

“Why not, Orlaith?”

His words cut into me, and I cringe, thinking back to my little trip across the beam ...

He’ll work it out, and then I’ll probably wish I’d fallen off the damn thing and plummeted to my death.

I glance over to see him staring at me with wide eyes. “Well, now I’m very intrigued,” he bites out, steering me toward a corner fringed with large urns that are spilling potted night lilies, turning our backs to the wall so that we’re looking out on the busy crowd.

Though his proximity chills me to the bone, it also sets fire to my skin. “Just remember, you’re the one who wanted me to come.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t very clear,” he mumbles, the baritone of his voice only serving to weaken my knees. “But me telling you not to come, trying to secure your dress, then locking you in your tower was my way of uninviting you.”

Praying my cheeks aren’t as flushed as they feel, I compose my features into what I picture is a vision of regal poise. “You took me to that meeting because you wanted to nudge me over my line. If you think I’m ready to face the world, why stop me?”

His eyes harden. “What I want, what I need, and what is right are three entirely different things.”

I almost laugh, stabbing my gaze at the crowd giving us a healthy crescent of space. “How very cryptic of you.”

Can he hear the hammer of my heart? Because I can. It’s roaring in my ears, rattling me to the core.

It’s telling me to push him further—to hack and hack until I break him apart so I can inspect his insides. See if he’s just as stony beneath the hard surface.

I don’t realize his grip on my arm has loosened until cold fingertips graze across the bare skin at the small of my back ...

I jerk from the contact.

“Despite how murderous I am,” he mumbles, and there’s a roundness to his words, like they had to veer their course to get here. “You do look ravishing in that color.”

My breath hitches, head whipping to the side, blood rushing to my cheeks as he begins to trace little circles over my sizzling skin.

They’re tight, taunting, and more delicate than the tapered tip of a paintbrush. They’re stirring my insides, twisting a coil of nerves in my lower stomach like a living, breathing, hot-blooded serpent.

A dampness forms between my legs, and I tighten the press of my thighs, feeling that flush shift from my cheeks, down my neck, where it pinches my nipples into hard peaks.

I’m a stone statue, tentative to move lest I scare him away. Worried that if I shift, he’ll smell my body’s reaction to the small dose of attention he’s gifting me.

“Thank you,” I whisper, barely loud enough to stir the air.

“Though I’m not sure how I feel about everyone being privy to all ... this,” he grinds out, drawing his circles lower, lower, until they’re dancing around one of the twin dimples stamped above my bum.

I clear my throat and try not to squirm.

He’s never touched me this way—open and exploring. Like he’s painting little secrets on my skin.

“It’s just a back ...”

“It’s not just any back, Orlaith.”

I swallow the tart taste of indecision, questioning everything I’m about to do.

With a few stirs of Rhordyn’s finger, he’s unwoven my resolve and turned me into a pathetic puddle of need. I’m a slave to these sips of attention he feeds me—I need them like I need the breath in my lungs—and I can’t afford it.

The cost is far too steep.

Strong, composed, resilient ...

“Why did you lock my door?” I ask, biting the words from my slate of hardened resolve.

For a moment, I think a line forms between his brows, but when I blink, it’s gone.

“A kindness.”

It’s probably a bad time to tell him that while I appreciate the thought, his execution needs work.

“That’s it?”

“Yes. But you’re here now,” he says, studying the crowd. He turns those eyes back on me, and I realize exactly why there’s so much space separating us from anyone else—like there’s a barrier physically stopping them from stepping too close.

There’s a lethal dexterity in those silver-spun eyes that’s gutting.

“Why are you here, Orlaith?”

I swallow, looking away before my insides spill. “Sucker for punishment, I guess.”

His fingers pause.

The silence stretches while he carves my cheek with his icy blade of perusal, before he grunts and looks away, allowing me to finally draw a half satisfying breath as he begins painting those circles again.

“And what did you do with the bluebells?” I stab my stare at the side of his face, though he continues to survey the crowd. “Toss them over the balcony or hang them up to dry?”

“Neither,” I bite out. “You’re not as smart as you think you are.”

“They’re on your pillow, aren’t they?” He meets my stare and steals my breath for a haunting moment.

How does he know?

“I don’t miss much, Orlaith. Certainly not when it comes to you.”

A gasp slices into me ...

“I know every glimmer in your eye, every rapture that makes your soul sing. I know that right now, your spine is locked not by your own accord, but because my fingers have you wound like a puppet on a string,” he says, tightening their delicious swirl and making me throb in places that ought not to throb.

Not for this man.

He leans closer, his breath an icy assault on my ear, and I find myself arching like a flower—reaching as if he’s the sun and not a bitter frost that’ll likely leave me ruined.

And I’m angry. So angry at myself, because I’d probably enjoy it. Being ruined by Rhordyn would be better than never drinking the sips of his affection again.

“I know that your cheeks are flushed because you’re embarrassed by the dull ache between your legs. By the wetness you can feel smeared between your thighs. You’re worried I can smell it. I can.”

My heart slams against my ribs, his stare flaying me, then picking at my insides.

“I know you’re fighting some internal battle, because although I can smell your arousal ... I can feel your anger licking at my skin like a flame.”

A beat passes—sweet, innocent limbo. A peaceful, stolen moment that’s doomed to die a grisly death.

I know it. Can feel it in the air, like the ocean drawing a watery breath.

When his beautifully carved mouth opens, I almost reach up and slam it closed.

“Let the anger win, Orlaith.” His fingers stop their circles, that door slamming shut between us again. “Let the anger win.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me alone at the wall, crushed against it by his parting words.

A terse reminder that I may be his, but he’ll never be mine.