I haven’t seen Asher or Valerian since they were poisoned.
“Ruby,” I say in my most authoritative voice, “please don’t do that. He will kill you and then I’ll have to murder him and then we’ll all die, rather horribly I might add.”
I think I’ve made my point rather clear until she looks me straight in the face, claps her chest, and shouts, “It’s all for nothing if you don’t have freedom.”
Note to self: Don’t let Ruby watch Braveheart ever again.
A firm rap sounds from my bedroom door. My mother. Somehow I already know her knock, which should be a new form of familiarity that makes me happy, but—
“Hyacinth,” my mother says as she enters, using my old name. Her red Manolo Blahnik four-inch heels are as silent as the dragonfly wings as she strides into my bedroom, her wide-legged cream pants swishing softly. Her vibrant red hair is twisted into a sleek bun. The bright color matches her shoes and her Christian Louboutin matte rouge lipstick.
“I guess the brownies have already told you about the invitation?”
Her eyes narrow slightly at my tone. “Darling, I have already told you—nothing happens in this city that I don’t know about immediately. Why would that not extend to my home?”
“It feels invasive. And I told you I preferred the name Summer, not the other name.”
I can’t say my old name, and for some reason that makes me feel weak.
“Everything I do is for your safety. We’ve gone over this. You just aren’t used to being cared for properly by a real mother.”
Her words feel like an attack on Zinnia, and I can feel my armor hardening. Perhaps that’s the way it is with true mothers and daughters.
And yet . . . Zinnia never made me feel this way. Less than. Nothing about me ever quite up to standard.
The Summer Queen eyes Ruby before turning her razor-sharp attention to my walk-in closet. “What are you wearing? The Dior gown I bought you? No, no, it should be Valentino for your first event.”
I swallow, my mind struggling to jump from talk of murdering Fae princes to designer dresses. This might feel like a death sentence to me, but to her, it’s finally happening.
My entrance into true Faerie society.
It doesn’t matter that I’m a mortal, or a prisoner controlled by my loathsome soon-to-be-husband. Those are all trivialities in her mind. Obstacles to overcome.
“I thought I might wear that cover-up Mack let me borrow last week for the rooftop pool,” I say, refusing to let her dictate everything.
The party will be at the Spring Court Queen’s Florida waterfront mansion, after all. How fancy can the attire be?
Her nostrils flare, her lips curling at the edges, the only hint of her disappointment. In some ways, she reminds me so much of Aunt Vi. Except whereas Aunt Vi doesn’t hide her feelings, my mother is a master diplomat, masking her emotions in a subtler—but no less masterful—form of manipulation.
“You may wear whatever you like, my dear. Just remember: Everything you wear, everything you do and say, will be judged. If you refuse the statement dresses I carefully curated for these events, at least honor me by wearing the bracelet I had made for you.”
Her words come out almost brittle at the end, a not-so-gentle reminder that I haven’t worn the half-a-million-dollar statement piece since I spied it nestled inside a simple ebony box. In contrast, the diamond and ruby earrings adorning her slender, pointed ears are understated. Simple yet elegant.
Why couldn’t she gift me something like that?
Her earrings glint as she crosses my bedroom to leave.
“Wait. What about the list of clinics? The one I left on your desk?”
With the help of Mack, I’ve hunted down every single women’s clinic that services mortals impregnated by Fae in the country. There are surprisingly few who will take on Fae-fathered pregnancies, and fewer still who will admit as much. They’re secretive. Exclusive. Expensive. Most cater only to the wealthy, and the few charitable organizations are masked behind even more secrecy.
Desperation made me go to my mother for help. Shimmer knows what that favor will cost me. But if it opens the right doors to the guarded shelters, I might be one step closer to finding something—anything—that helps stop Hellebore.
When my mother halts, she doesn’t seem to stop so much as hover in place—almost as if she floats a little over the floor. Her head tilts, just enough to expose the sharp edge of her tawny jaw. “Still working on it. But perhaps if you are a success this weekend, our luck will change and one of the clinics will agree to our request.”
My payment for the favor—shine at my first Fae event.
I must make everyone forget I’m mortal. That I hail from a poor unconventional family of orphans and farmers in the Tainted Zone.
My throat doesn’t unclench until the door clicks shut behind her, leaving behind the potent scent of her exquisite perfume. The constant bargaining the Fae use for every interaction, no matter how small, is exhausting.
Exhaling, I pad to my mirrored nightstand where the bracelet hides, nestled beneath underwear and still inside its box.
Tension fills me as soon as the box opens. I swear the thing resents its imprisonment.
The iron infused chain is surprisingly delicate, made from interlocking vines. A dark violet musgravite jewel glows softly from the center. The size of an olive, the large trillion cut stone drips magic and wealth, spraying purple fragments of light over my face and ceiling.
Undoubtedly gorgeous, breathtaking, even . . . the back-to-school gift should make me ooh and aah like everyone else who sees it. Not take a hammer and pulverize the jewel into dust.
I think it’s the golden butterfly in the center that unsettles me. Something about a creature so beautiful, so alive, trapped for others’ pleasure, hits too close to home.
I’m the butterfly right now. Suspended and trapped for Hellebore’s pleasure. A trinket he’ll discard eventually, after I’ve served my purpose.
Goose bumps shiver over my arm as the cold jewel settles in the center of my wrist. Against my will, my attention slides to the metallic swirls and runes etched into my upper arm all the way to my shoulder.
Are the lines fainter than last week? My breath catches as I spot a new Bloodstar flower tangled in the markings. The pointed, star-shaped petals curl outward, already half-bloomed.
I try to ignore the prickle of dread pinching my chest, but it becomes a dull, nagging ache. That makes twelve so far. Each flower of Hellebore’s that sprouts from the tattooed runes seems to make Valerian’s mark lose its power. I can feel our bond weakening. Can feel it fraying slowly, methodically.
Unraveling every breath I take without him, every agonizing beat of my broken heart.
I tear my gaze from my tattoos and square my shoulders. “Ruby, can you find me Mack’s cover-up while I shower?”
Ruby salutes before darting away, and I get to work. First a shower then makeup and my hair—which admittedly has been dry shampooed into a lifeless heap.
My mother thinks I need to impress with designer gowns, but there’s a strategy to my choice. Right now I’m Hellebore’s favorite toy, and he wants me to look mortal.
To shine—but only for his enjoyment and not too much.
I appraise the seven-carat jewel at my wrist, the only kink in my plan. The butterfly suspended inside the stone is a Golden Wisp, one of the rarest and most beautiful creatures in existence. This will most certainly turn heads.