To Bleed a Crystal Bloom by Sarah A. Parker

Bare feet planted on the top step of Stony Stem, I peek down at my hand clutching a fiery torch. At the cupla secured around my wrist like a dark blue shackle.

The only color I ever pictured wearing was black.

My heart’s lost its rhythm, composure nowhere to be seen. I can feel my strong, resilient mask smearing a little more with each droplet expelling from my eyes.

I’m not okay.

My tears may be silent but inside I’m screaming.

Staring at the door that usually separates Rhordyn and I during our nightly ritual, I drop my shoes, listening to them tumble down the steps behind me. The key to Stony Stem swiftly follows—the one I begged Cook for after I fled the ball.

My tongue sweeps across my bottom lip to find it’s still smacked with the taste of Cainon—

I kissed Cainon.

I stab the torch into a wrought holster protruding from the wall and draw a quaking breath, choking on the smell of citrus and salt, realizing my dress is drenched in the unfamiliar scent. A whimper bubbles in the back of my throat, the silky, figure-hugging sheath suddenly suffocating me.

This gown was its own sort of mask ... and deep, deep down in the shameful corner of my mind, I’d hoped Rhordyn would see through it.

Peel it back.

That he’d take one look at me and see the dress for what it really was; a pretty tourniquet to hold me together while I fell apart on the inside.

But he didn’t, and the dress worked too well.

Too fucking well.

Off. It needs to come off.

I battle the fastenings at the back of my neck, but my fingers are jittery, frustration bleeding out in ravaged sobs that betray everything I’m feeling inside.

A groan rents the air as my hands fly to the front, gripping tight. I rip the bodice, gasping at how easily it tears down the middle and bares my naked breasts.

I rip again, feeding off the sound of splitting seams, wishing my hands and wrath belonged to somebody else.

Somebody cold and brutal and—

Not mine.

He’s not mine.

I take my ire, confusion, sadness out on the masterpiece I never wanted in the first place, the dress shrieking while I force it to release me in increments.

What I want, what I need, and what is right are three entirely different things ...

A twisted sound wrings out of me as the last scrap of material falls, the shredded ribbons decorating the ground like a bloody puddle. Heaving and raw, I stand on the steps with nothing to warm me but the roaring flame of my own self-hatred, my hatred toward him, and that stack of psychological kindling between us that finally caught light.

I pause, sheathed in uncertainty, staring down at the pile of ruin. I may have led myself to this moment, but the whiplash has left me spinning without direction.

I’m now tethered to an expiration date. My net will dissolve, and I’ll no longer be welcome here in my carefully curated normal because I’m promised to another male.

The High Master of another territory.

By stepping into that dress tonight, I tore down the walls I’ve come to rely on.

I’m not okay.

I grip hold of the rusty handle and jerk my door wide, greeted by the sight of my room exactly as I’d left it. Nothing has changed.

Except me.

Shooting steel into my spine, I make for the crystal goblet sitting atop my side table, snatching it around the neck. I carry it to my workstation where I lay it sideways, using one of my unpainted rocks to hammer the rim.

Small, sharp bits of crystal crack free.

Spin, smash. Spin, smash. Spin, smash.

I keep going until every inch of drinking surface is sharp enough to slice. I hurt every damn night for that man—an act that now feels hollow—it’s about time he bled for me, too.

Leaving a mess of shattered glass, I retrieve my needle and hold it in the bud of a candle flame.

The tip turns red, but still I leave it there, letting the heat leach up to the pinch of my fingers where it scalds my flesh like a branding iron. I close my eyes, holding, holding ... until the tears darting down my cheeks are from equal parts pain and heartbreak.

Let the anger win, Orlaith. Let the anger win.

“Fuck. You.”

My finger and thumb are throbbing with bolts of fiery pain by the time I whip my hand back and blow on the needle, the smell of fried flesh tormenting me—trying to pull memories forth.

Dark ones. Painful ones I dash away.

I stare at the needle ...

My gluttonous curiosity has never been a deal breaker when it comes to giving Rhordyn my blood. Though desperate to know why he needs it, the simple fact that he does kept me pricking my finger night after night for years.

I built my life around the act. Clung to it with every bit of my being.

Hungered over it. Fed off it. Relied on it. Convinced myself it somehow made us special ...

But Rhordyn slaughtered that theory the moment he fastened his cupla around Zali’s wrist.

I stab the needle into the tip of my pinkie, hissing when it almost digs all the way to the bone, but it’s nothing compared to the painful pinch of my heart.

A bulb of blood swells, and I let it drip into the otherwise empty goblet, wishing I could drain my emotions just as easily. Turn the tap and let my undiluted anger, sadness, and heartbreak drip until there’s nothing left of him inside me.

But he’s still there, sitting heavy in my heart. Making my stomach twist and twist and twi—

I stab again, this time into my thumb, gouging deeper than I ever have before. The flow of blood is instant, but still that weight lingers.

So I stab again and again and again, only stopping once all ten of my trembling fingers have given to the goblet, adding to the little red puddle of undiluted me.

I hate that color—the color of secrets. The color of my past, my present, but no longer my future.

But I also love it.

In that heavy pool of blood, I can almost see Rhordyn’s reflection—see the way he looked at me from the edge of the dancing square.

In his eyes, I saw betrayal. And if I peel back the layers of heartbreak I fed into by convincing myself we were so much more, I can see the sense in that ...

I’ve been safe in this tower for the past nineteen years. Been fed, clothed, and tutored. I’ve been trained—been allowed to freely roam a castle that belongs to someone who seems to value privacy above most other things.

Nothing has harmed me. Nobody has forced me to leave my comfort zone.

Yes, Rhordyn hurt me first, but I retaliated, and not just for the greater good. A smidgeon of my actions fed from that vindictive well inside—a bubbling desire to hurt Rhordyn just as much as he hurt me.

This ... this thing between us is turning me into a monster.

I walk to the stairwell and bundle an armful of my shredded gown, closing the door on the rest of the carnage. Kneeling, I open the hatch on The Safe to reveal the hollow, wooden tomb.

You do look ravishing in that color ...

My face twists.

I shove the dress inside the compartment, tuck the vandalized goblet amongst the shredded material, and slam the door shut.

Turning, I slide down the unforgiving grain, arms wrapped around my knees as if they could hold me together.

Part of me hopes Rhordyn will dash up Stony Stem straight away. That he’ll somehow sense I’ve dished up an ample, undiluted offering and come running.

The rest of me expects to be punished by his tardiness.

Minutes tick by and my churning well of emotions have me counting every second.

Is he even coming?

The thought of that tiny pool of me sitting in a goblet unwanted, unused ... It hurts. The thought of never again giving him a taste of myself hurts.

Despite everything, part of me enjoys the thought that my blood ends up inside him. That droplet by droplet, I find a way into his system.

Invadehim.

But that’s not proper thinking for a coupled lady; even I know that. I’ve read enough books to have a certain grasp on the veil of etiquette a female dons the moment she accepts a cupla.

I hear the faint sound of footfalls ascending Stony Stem, and my heart leaps with relief, then plunges as I realize this will be one of the final times I hunger over that sound.

Thump ... thump ... thump …

Each step seems to land slower than the last, his footfalls far softer than they usually are.

Where has all his noise gone?

With a slight squeak of its unoiled hinges, the tiny door opens, and I draw a ragged breath, picturing my dress gushing out like the innards of a slaughtered beast to reveal my sharp and bloody offering.

Is he looking at the goblet, seeing all the pain I poured into its hollow? The edges honed as a silent plea for him to show me his own hurt?

With another squeak, the wooden door presses shut, then silence. Nothing but an encroaching stillness that drags on for so long it feels like the room begins to sway.

Knock on my door. Bust in here. Scream at me. Tell me how disappointed you are.

Tell me you’ll never forgive me for as long as you live ...

But he doesn’t do any of that. Which means I’m forced to swallow my own venom rather than lash it at him, too.

He descends Stony Stem, and I release a sawtooth breath, still dressed in nothing but my too-tight skin and the shackle of my actions.

That, and a thick lacquer of disappointment.

I threw down, and he didn’t even fight.

That fire in my belly sputters out like a spent wick when I hear his footsteps fade to nothing.

Gone.

He’s gone.

I open The Safe to see a calico-wrapped package placed in the center of the wooden shelf. When I unravel the layers, I find an already ground-down lump of caspun I want to dump all over the ground.

I don’t want this. It works, but he works better.

Not mine.

I stand on unsteady legs and pad toward my workstation, then mix my tonic in preparation for the nighttime horrors I can already feel clawing at my consciousness. Stepping onto the balcony, I look out to a velvet-clad night, imagining Rhordyn stalking across the castle grounds—doing his sweep around the perimeter before disappearing into the deluge of trees.

It doesn’t take long for my teeth to chatter, sending me racing indoors where I pull a top from my drawer and drag it on.

Staring into the hungry hearth that offers no reprieve, I begin up-rooting all thirty-three hairpins, freeing my hair before piling it on top of my head and securing it with a band for sleeping. I wash my face, retrieve my candlestick off the mantle, then make for the bedside.

Dropping low, I peel the rug back, revealing my hidden compartment.

I may be broken, confused, and painfully disappointed by the man who’s given me everything but the one thing I truly want, but none of that stops me from lifting the rock, pulling Rhordyn’s pillow slip out, and digging my nose into the silky pleats ...

None of it stops me from holding it close as I climb into bed and blow out the candle, submerging myself into a pall of black.

Knotted in a heap, I reach behind my neck.

The silver latch is unfamiliar to my scorned and throbbing fingers because I’ve never removed this necklace before.

Never wanted to.

The metallic teeth finally give way, and the chain falls in a heavy heap amongst my sheets.

A sob bubbles out as my fingers trace the vacant path ...

My skin feels bare without it pressed against me—like a tightness just peeled off and left me raw.

It’s strange. Unnatural.

But Rhordyn gave me the necklace, and I can’t wear it anymore. Not with Cainon’s cupla fettering my wrist.

Not with Rhordyn’s cupla fettering Zali’s.

My life is changing. The more I fight it, the more it’s going to tear at my seams.

I set the crystal pendant and baby conch atop my side table and take cover beneath the sheet, nuzzling a pillowcase that harbors the scent of a man who’s promised to another woman. Because tomorrow, I’ll be lighting the fire and feeding it to the embers.

I’ll be releasing him, something I have to do before I can release myself from this cage of my own creation.

Rhordyn was right ...

I’m better than this. Stronger than this.

It’s time I grew up.