To Bleed a Crystal Bloom by Sarah A. Parker

“These honey buns are the best.” I lick buttery filling from my fingers, the creamy explosion making the muscles under my tongue tingle.

Baze lifts a brow, drawing a sip of water and placing his glass back on the table next to a plate of scrambled eggs. “Cook is far too fond of you. After this morning’s workout, you should be fueling yourself with protein. Not”—he scrunches his face, nostrils flaring—”that crap.”

Ignoring the rest of the colorful spread, I reach for the pile of buns near the base of a silver candelabra, stuff two in my mouth, and throw him a winning smile.

Baze shakes his head and sighs. “Rhordyn doesn’t pay me enough.”

The big doors swing open, spewing light and a tall, robust male now stalking toward the long, obsidian table we’re dining at.

I have to squint to battle the morning glare, but I don’t need to see his features to know who it is. I know by the way he walks—like a fearless beast tracking through his den, reinstating his dominance. I know by the way all the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end from air now charged with a chilling tension I hate to love.

Twin thuds echo through the spacious room, and the doors ricochet closed again, barricading the sun.

I swallow my mouthful, watch every smooth, powerful stride, feel the blood drain from my cheeks when I realize he’s headed toward the setting at the table’s head.

An empty silver plate set to accept his presence. His meal.

Always.

Not that he ever dines with us. Which makes it all the more shocking when he lowers into the seat and drops his face into my line of sight ...

I’m too stunned to do anything but stare.

He’s all hard lines and chilling resolve—square jawline dusted with two-day-old growth almost hiding his chin dimple.

The dimple I’m trying so very hard to focus on rather than ... anything else. Certainly not those broad shoulders. Nor the strong line of his neck or the peek of light olive skin visible through his unbuttoned collar.

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.