To Bleed a Crystal Bloom by Sarah A. Parker

Ipurposely drum my footfalls down the hallway while wringing out my hair, mulling over all the creative ways I can spike an apple with enough senna to leave a fourteen-foot Ocean Drake shitting undigested seaweed for a week.

Rounding a corner, I almost charge into Rhordyn planted like a boulder in my path, and I squeal, stumbling back.

His swift hand weaves around me before I lose my footing, and I peep up through the wet mess of my unbridled hair, instantly flayed by argent eyes.

My thoughts turn to smoke.

And just when I thought this day couldn’t kick my ass anymore.

I pull a breath, almost choking on air heavy with the smell of leather and a frosty morning. It sifts through my lungs and infuses my bloodstream, kicking my pulse into a churning rhythm that can’t be healthy.

He’s chillingly beautiful, otherworldly in stature. Just the sight of him has a crippling effect on my ability to function properly, and I hate it.

I hate it so damn much.

Rhordyn’s head cants to the side, and a midnight brow lifts, but his hand stays firmly locked between my shoulder blades while he punishes me with his silence.

Something deep inside screams for me to run.

Not that I ever listen.

A breath puffs out of me, and his chest inflates as I glide back a step—that hand falling away and leaving a chilled stamp of skin in its place.

Despite the height he lords over me, I hold his austere gaze, refusing to drop my chin or show even the slightest hint of submission. He may be well over six feet of sculpted, virile poise, but my rioting nerves can go to hell.

“Orlaith.” His voice is a velvet purr that blows up my heart rate.

I dip into a slight curtsy and slide to the side, intent on shifting around him like water averting a river rock, but he moves with me.

My eyes narrow.

The entry to Stony Stem is just behind him, and I’m dripping the ocean all over the floor.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, taking another sideways step. Again, he mimics the movement, causing me to shoulder the stone door that’s always locked—the one Rhordyn uses some nights before he leaves the castle grounds.

Next to The Keep and The Den, this door annoys me the most.

Intrigues me the most.

I’ve twisted many hairpins trying to break into the damn thing. It’s probably a glorified broom closet, but not knowing ... it’s a certain sort of torture I don’t particularly enjoy.

I sigh, leaning against it, arching a brow and pointing my thumb at its stony face. “Are you finally taking me on a tour?”

Hands sliding deep into his pockets, he fixes me with an icy stare. “Your cut.”

“What about it?”

There’s the seed of challenge in his eyes. “It’s been healed.”

I feel the blood drain from my face.

Can he ... can he smell that? Was he watching?

Hell ...

“Kai’s tongue is multi-talented,” I blurt, suffering a sudden wave of verbal diarrhea that’s sure to earn me a prompt eviction.

“Is that so?” He steps forward, voice drilling beneath my skin and gripping hold of my heart.

Squeezingit.

I retreat a larger step, struggling to find even an ounce of air to nourish my suffocating lungs. “Don’t you, ahh ... have to visit one of the local villages this afternoon?” I ask, my voice somewhat raspier than usual.

Both brows lift this time. “Barth. Yes. Why? Do you want to come?”

I blink at him.

Hasn’t he pecked at me enough for one day? I’ve already agreed to attend his ball.

“No, thank you.”

I swear I hear the words thump on the ground between us.

There’s the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth, something that almost softens one of his many hard edges.

Almost.

“You know,” he starts, rolling his sleeves, exposing powerful forearms and a wealth of tawny skin branded with a tease of silver scripture I wish I could see more of. “There is a bakery there that supplies the best honey buns in all the territories.”

I frown.

“Can’t you just bring some back for me?” I almost suggest he stash them in The Safe in exchange for my offering, but we don’t talk about that.

Ever.

He shrugs, the smooth movement somehow lethal enough to crush a man’s spirit.

Crush my spirit, if used in the correct setting.

“Their ... rules don’t allow for the exportation of honey buns.”

I’m no expert on things that reside outside the castle grounds, but I’m sure that’s a crock of shit.

“So?” he pushes, pinning me with his full, undivided attention, making me feel like I’m standing trial, awaiting punishment for something horrific.

I thieve another backward step and find a small amount of air to soothe my staggered breathing into something more rhythmic, yet he continues to ruin me with cunning eyes that make my skin feel translucent. Like he’s seeing straight through me, watching my cogs whirl.

Does he see how they rely on the circles they spin? How one delicate shift could break me apart and scatter my bits all over the floor?

“I’ll stay here,” I whisper, and a shadow shutters his eyes, the muscle along his jaw feathering.

“Live, Orlaith. All I’m asking is that you live.”

“I am living,” is my lackluster answer, one that’s met with a sigh that pushes out of him as if it’s been bottled up for a while.

Perhaps he’s growing tired of this game. Well, that makes two of us.

He jerks his chin at me. “Aren’t you supposed to be wrapped in measuring tape right now?”

Fuck.

Dropping my stare to his chin dimple, I go back to wringing out my hair like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “Oh, damn. Must have slipped my mind.”

He does that beckoning gesture with his finger again—making it bounce like a lure.

Just like a stupid fish, I snatch the bait, only to see that he’s still looking at me like my skin’s transparent.

I return the favor, though Rhordyn’s waters are so muddy I doubt their sediment will ever settle enough for me to truly garner his depth.

“Slipped your mind, Orlaith? I didn’t realize it was slippery.”

I shrug and make a small grunting sound, staring forlornly at the entrance of Stony Stem ...

“Lucky for you,” he rumbles, gesturing in the opposite direction of my refuge, “I’m heading there now. I can escort you.”

Of course he can.

For a fleeting moment, I consider making a dash for my tower. He never goes up there unless I’m behind the door that separates us and a droplet of my blood is flushing the water in my crystal goblet.

I think better of it when his head tilts to the side, as if he knows.

A shudder rakes through me at the predatory gesture—one I try to hide by lifting my chin, tossing sodden hair over my shoulder, and stalking off in the direction he’s motioning.

I know when to pick my battles, and this one ...

It already has me beat.

* * *

Ihate this place with its rolls of fabric stuffed into corners and mannequins crowded around in various stages of undress. I have no appreciation for fine things and exotic fabrics—no interest in parading around with my feathers fluffed like some of the men and women who attend the monthly Tribunal.

I behold my daily attire pegged on a wire strung between two walls, dripping water all over the ground.

That’s all I need. Movability without the frills. Clothing that helps me blend in.

I sigh, towel-drying my hair, ass perched on a seat and jammed in the corner of the room like some inanimate object. Beside me stands a mannequin with similar features to a doll I used to have ... before I tossed it over my balustrade because its wide-open eyes kept staring.

Unseeing.

There was something satisfying about watching it shatter on the stone at the base of my tower.

The robe I’m swimming in slips off my bare shoulder, and I pull it back up, attention diving between the three-inch gap in the doorway again.

Rhordyn is in the next room, standing on the stage while Hovard’s pretty assistant flutters around him in a swish of silky, black material, stretching the measuring tape along his arms, across his chest, down the inside of his leg ...

I glimpse those silvery tattoos that wind around his side—a fine scripture sketched across his skin, tapered around muscles like the shading on a painting. Words I don’t recognize, understand, or even know how to pronounce.

I arch my neck, seeking a clearer view, cheeks heating. My gaze drifts up, only to catch on one quicksilver eye pinned to me through the gap like a perfectly shot arrow.

Sucking a sharp breath, I look away.

“Are we done here?” Rhordyn asks, tone so hard I flinch.

“Yes, Master,” Dolcie blurts, her voice gentle as a summer breeze.

I envy her that.

“And you’re after the black cashmere imported from the alps?”

“Yes,” Rhordyn answers. “But it’s a neutral ball, so Orlaith isn’t bound to Ocruth colors. She’s welcome to pick something different.”

Frowning, I glance up as the door creaks open.

Dolcie’s oval face pushes through, blue eyes stark against her frothy curls the color of soil. “Your turn,” she says with a sweet smile that looks forced.

“Lovely.”

I follow her through to the other room that’s steeped in sunshine spilling through large, square windows, instantly struck by the robust, earthen scent of him.

It’s a tight-lipped battle to maintain my composure.

Fiddling with the robe belt knotted around my waist, I step onto the fitting platform, trying to ignore Rhordyn weaving buttons through their holes, chin pressed against his chest.

Hovard sweeps in like a blow of autumn leaves, his fiery hair standing up in all directions. He has the creamy complexion of someone from the East, though he boasts the black garb of a Western resident, plus a few add-ons like frills around his sleeves and the swarthy lace appliquéd over his waistcoat. Small spectacles sit halfway down his nose, their shape matching his beady eyes that flick over my form.

He flaps a hand in my direction, attention turning to the rolls of fabric stacked in the corner. “Robe. Off.”

Rhordyn clears his throat and turns, staring out the window while finishing with his buttons, but making no move to leave the room.

Right.

I draw a shaky breath and loosen the bow around my middle, chewing my bottom lip. Silky fabric slithers down my shoulders, exposing the corset that’s barely containing me.

I have no idea how I’m supposed to move in this thing—or breathe properly—but this ... torturous article of clothing that shows far too much of my too-tight skin is apparently fashionable.

Dolcie scowled the entire time she was stuffing me into the awful contraption, likely because it wasted half an hour of both our lives. And now here I am, standing on a platform, feeling like a tree without leaves to smudge its shape.

Hovard rests his hands atop his swollen belly, eyeing me the same way I assess a rock before I slick paint across it. “You’ve gotten slimmer through the waist, my dear. If you’re not careful, you’ll snap in two.”

I open my mouth—

“Tut-tut! It wasn’t a question.” He flutters his hand about, retrieving a roll of lush, green fabric. It’s held against me, swiftly replaced with one the color of my wisteria, his gaze hopping from my eyes, my damp hair, the exposed parts of my skin, finally landing on the necklace draped around my neck.

He taps the stone with the tip of a pencil previously caught behind his ear. “You will be wearing these, yes?”

My hand shields the round, inky gem and baby conch in the next heartbeat.

“Yes,” Rhordyn says, spinning, and I meet the chilling intensity of his all-pervading stare.

I don’t take this necklace off. Ever. Rhordyn gifted it to me when I first came to this castle, and I’ve worn it ever since.

Some of my earliest memories are from when I was so small that climbing Stony Stem felt like scaling a mountain, even with Baze or Cook holding my hand, easing me up each step, my necklace a comforting weight around my neck.

Though it felt heavy back then, this stone taught me to walk with a stronger stance. To keep my head up and move.

I’ll be wearing it in the ground one day.

Rhordyn rests his back against the wall beside the window, looking very much at home with his feet crossed at the ankle. I almost roll my eyes when Dolcie bends over to retrieve some pins off the floor, peeking back to check if he’s watching.

“Very well. We can work around it. Now, I like the green.” Hovard pulls a long slice of fabric close to my eyes. “This tone compliments the shade of your hair. Or there’s the rose gold; a gentler approach,” he muses, replacing the sample. “More innocent, too.”

How can he say that when my breasts are practically jumping out of this torture suit? I miss my chest wrap.

“Then there’s the red, which would look stunning, but it’s likely to draw ...” he tips his head from side to side, “mature attention.”

He continues stuffing information in Rhordyn’s direction while holding different swatches near my face. As he speaks, Dolcie drapes a stiff, creamy fabric across my skin. Piece by piece, it’s pinned against my body, forming a pattern that exhibits me in a way that leaves very little to the imagination.

The garment begins to take shape, and my stomach twists a little more with each panel of fabric she fits into place, my gaze dropping every few seconds to see just how much skin she’s not hiding.

When she drops her pincushion, she again shoves her voluptuous curves in Rhordyn’s direction, and I jump on the opportunity to maneuver some of the fabric so it’s not so revealing.

She’s quick to set it back the moment she stands up again.

“Can’t you make the neckline a little higher?” I whisper, quiet enough that only she can hear.

“Oh, honey, no.” She drops her voice low, stealing a glance at my hands wrung together. “There’s nothing endearing about a woman who dresses like a little boy and constantly has dirt beneath her nails. That’s no way to become a promised lady.”

My cheeks heat. “Excuse me?”

She shrugs, tucks a twirl of hair behind her ear, and throws me a coy smile. “Everyone parades their breasts at fancy gatherings these days. If you don’t, you’ll have no hope in standing out amongst the masses, and you’ll be stuck in this castle until you’re an old crone.” I grit my teeth as she threads another pin through the thick fabric. “I’m doing you a favor. Trust me.”

I’m about to tell her to shove her favor up her ass, along with her pincushion, when Rhordyn’s voice rents the air.

“Less cleavage.”

Hovard’s ramblings are severed mid-sentence, and my gaze darts to Rhordyn’s face, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at Dolcie, giving her cherry cheeks and bedroom eyes his full, undivided attention.

“Master?” she asks, tone light and innocent, hands still against my breasts that are rising with every sharp pull of breath.

He pushes away from the wall and strides forward, head tilted to the side. “Do you need me to say it clearer?”

Dolcie looks up at him through her lashes. “But I thought—”

“You thought what?” The last word snaps out of him, and Dolcie pales, her mouth falling open but failing to shape words.

“That you’d be p-pleased. That you’d want her to look appealing for any potential suitors.”

He stares at her, unblinking, the tense moment lasting long enough that Dolcie withers. Beads of sweat collect on Hovard’s temples, and his eyes dart between the two.

“It’s fi—”

Rhordyn cuts me off. “Orlaith told you exactly what she wants, and you blatantly ignored her request. Unless you want to find yourself out of a job and lose your residence within this castle, I suggest you fix the pattern. Now.”

Dolcie drops into a curtsey so fast you’d think her knees had given way. “Yes, Master. S-sorry, Master.”

She gets back to work, rearranging the fabric across my bust with trembling hands, and I hiss when a sharp sting has me staggering back, shielding my left breast. “Ouch!”

“Out!”

Rhordyn’s destructive tone causes a riot of movement, and Hovard ushers a pale-faced Dolcie through the exit—hand to her lips, pincushion discarded on the floor.

Rhordyn holds my gaze until the door snicks shut behind them both, and I’m acutely aware of his chest rising and falling to the same rhythm as my own. He makes a small clicking sound with his tongue before charging toward a table stacked with a jug and crystal glasses. He pours one half full, then peers at it, silent and still while my heart sits in my throat.

I know what this moment could grow into. Can feel the weight of potential pushing on my chest, stifling my breaths.

That inner voice, again, is screaming for me to run.

He clears his throat and spins, stalking toward me.

Perhaps I’m a fool ... but I’m a curious fool. And this has never been done in person. There’s always a door separating us, slapping a mask over the act.

He stops only when we’re sharing breath, eye to eye, on the verge of something transcending.

For the very first time, there is no door separating us. Nothing but thin air that’s a blend of both our scents.

“May I?”

Please do.

I nod, refusing to blink as he pinches the edge of the mock-up dress, peeling it down like the corner of a book page.

Every inhale brings my breasts closer to his chill, every exhale pulls them away again, much like the internal tug-of-war I wage with myself daily.

Part of me wants to be closer, the rest of me knows I need to stay the hell away—that Rhordyn’s an ocean that would plunge into my lungs and drown me if I fell into him.

He looks down, his icy trail of scrutiny landing on the freckle of pain on the swell of my breast that’s acute enough to draw a bead of blood.

I should know.

My chin tips, nipples pebbling, flesh anticipating his touch so much it’s almost uncomfortable.

His ragged exhale agitates my skin.

I blink, and the air shifts.

Suddenly his back is turned, and I’m listening to him stir the water ...

Looking down, I see nothing but a red prickle of damaged skin.

No blood. No smear.

Gone.

And I felt nothing. Not a single brush of contact. As if he did everything he could to make sure his touch didn’t linger.

This heavy rock in my stomach feels a lot like disappointment.

He walks toward the door, not giving me a single look at his face. Is there pleasure in his eyes? Dissatisfaction?

Disgust?

Would it be so bad to let me see?

“I won’t be needing your offering tonight.”

My heart is thrown like a snowball, the swelling lump in my throat hard to draw a steady breath past.

Those words ...

They’re acid to my bones.

He’s stealing that sadistic thrill from my nightly ritual, replacing it with this—something equally refined, as if the door were still separating us as he took my offering.

He pauses with his hand wrapped around the handle. “Lilac.”

I shake my head, glazed attention lifting to the back of his head. “What?”

“To match your eyes,” he murmurs before tugging the door open, and then he’s gone.

My lids flutter closed, shuttering me away.

I was bleeding at the breakfast table this morning, and he certainly didn’t demand I dip my leg in a bucket of water.

Is this some sort of punishment? His way of forcing me to break my routine? Because that’s what it feels like.

He dealt his blow and left.

There’s a soft knock, and I look up to see Hovard bowed around the doorframe, assessing the space with his marble eyes. “He’s gone?”

“He is.” I clear my throat, watching him inch back in like the ground is littered with hot coals. “And he liked the red.”

Hovard pushes his glasses further down his nose and studies me over the rim of them. “Oh?”

I nod. “And I want the dress cut low in the back and more fitting around the hips.”

His brow pinches, eyes going wide, cheeks sponged red. “But ... but Orlaith, my dear ... you wouldn’t be able to wear your underbones. That would be considered very informal for such an occasion!”

“That’s the point,” I bite, unpinning the rest of Dolcie’s monstrosity from my frame.

If I must attend this ball, I refuse to be stuffed into something impossible to breathe in.

“So long as the neckline sits around my throat, I’m giving you artistic license, Hovard. You’ve always said you’d love to dress me like a doll. Well ... have at it.”

He stares at me for a long moment before he bursts into a foray of movement and chatter and expressive hand gestures that make me smile.

Rhordyn wants to punish me? Well.

Two can play that game.