Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
RHEA
Rhea stares at her reflection in the mirror a moment longer before glancing back at the small gilded table near her bed, where her Ever-Know Quill rests perched on the side, fresh magical ink sizzling into the parchment, sending the cursive scripts of her handwriting.
She’s received her instructions from Tynan regarding what she is expected to do this evening.
She’s also sent all the information she’s gathered over the past two weeks to him, hopefully giving him what he wanted.
She sure as shit didn’t know what to make of all the old texts she transcribed—she didn’t understand the language, only copied its characters.
Still, she has this gnawing feeling that whatever knowledge she just stole for him will not be used for the greater good nor some neat parlor trick.
Truthfully, she feels gods-damn awful about it.
It leaves a sour churning in her stomach, clawing at her from the pits of all she’s had to swallow to survive.
But this is it. Will be it. She just has to get through tonight, following through with Tynan’s final request of her. Then, Draven will finally be free of his twisted father, and she will continue on at Bathara without a shadowy threat looming over her at every turn.
She glances back in the mirror, assessing her reflection once more.
Her hair is half-drawn, numerous small winding braids twisting at each side.
The silver pieces line her face with a delicate curl framing her makeup-coated features, a blood-red stain punctuating her lips.
The dress Tynan sent her for tonight is multicolored, saturated mainly in midnight black with silver glimmers trailing through and dripping in fine jewels, cinched at the waist and featuring a plunging neckline that would have made her father send her to her room years and years ago.
Rhea imagines her late older sister, Suzumi, nagging their father in place of her.
“Rhea’s grown now,” she would have argued on her behalf. “This is the sort of thing women wear to these types of balls.”
“Women,” her father would have countered. “Not my baby girl.”
Rhea would have pretended to roll her eyes and groan while Suzumi would have laughed at the two of them.
Gods, she misses them. There are days where it’s harder than others, and today…
Today feels like an exceptionally hard day.
Probably in part because she feels her mind slipping—feels the claws of her very own monster digging into her.
It roars at her as her eyes scan her own reflection, snagging on all the exposed skin.
Highlighting all the imperfect places. Noticing bulges where Tynan and her former ladies would have pointed at and said should be flat; where her skin is flawed and how to make it better.
Nights like these, she was always groomed to be perfect, in both appearance and manner.
So she was scrutinized inch by every inch, and now she is trained to see herself through those very lenses.
To always spot the imperfections. To identify the places where her skin spills over the gown.
To be aware of her posture, and the way it affects the visible size of her body.
It’s what sent her spiraling into such a bad, harmful place the first time. The core reason she had to fight tooth and nail to pull herself out of a venomous, never-ending pit of terrible thoughts and harmful words to herself.
Yet still, like some sick form of conditioning, her brain wonders those same volatile thoughts.
Do I look small enough right now?
She doesn’t think so…
Rhea hisses, squeezing her eyes closed and attempting to shake all those thoughts away. Because fuck that. Fuck that. She’s not going to let it win. Not tonight.
She reopens her eyes and looks in the mirror again.
She hates that disgust is the first emotion to fill her body at what she sees. She hates that she hates herself despite knowing she is the only person in this world who could ever truly validate her to the point of feeling like she’s enough. She hates how much she fucking hates and hates and hates.
Despite the waves of nausea now roiling in her gut, she stares at the image looking back at her. She inhales deeply, trying to steady herself. “You are enough,” she says plainly to the reflection. “You are enough,” she says again.
Yet for each time she says it, the opposite feels more and more true. It makes her feel all the more broken. As if her wires are crossed, and she is nothing more than a defective doll. Cracked, not up to the standards of her creators. Of those who wish to use her. Play with her.
She tries again.
“I am enough.” Her voice quivers now. “I am enough. I am pretty. My body is beautiful, and I am worthy of feeling as such.” Tears roll down her cheeks.
Liar. Liar. Liar.
She pinches her teeth into her trembling bottom lip, defiantly holding her stare in the mirror, her eyes scanning the image that reflects three times the weight of what she actually is. “You are beautiful,” she whispers. “Your body is fine, Rhea. It’s all in your head.”
She continues looking at herself, and her lip curls at the image.
In this moment, in this gown and with all this makeup that is supposed to make her feel her prettiest, she has never felt so disgusting.
It makes her hate what she sees all the more.
So she loses the battle against her own reflection, ripping her eyes away from the mirror, on the verge of vomiting as the meal she ate earlier suddenly sits heavy as lead in her stomach.
“Fuck,” she hisses under her breath, tears slipping steadily from her eyes now.
She swipes at them in anger. “Fuck,” she says again, her voice sounding even more pathetic to her ears.
“Just be okay,” she pleads with herself, the mirror now to her back.
“Just get your shit together. You are fine. Your body is fine. It’s fine. ”
The voices pelt her.
Rhea, you look like you’ve put on some weight. What have you been eating?
Rhea, you’re looking a bit thin lately. Are you not eating? Is everything okay?
Ah, my sweet Rhea… I hate I must be the one to relay this to you, but Tynan noticed fat spilling out near your hips in your dress last night, and per his orders, I must now add more cardio to your training, both in the mornings and the evenings.
With hot, blurry tears clouding her vision and a fist squeezing her chest, Rhea looks across the room to her bed. She marches over and jerks the pillow off the thin mattress, clapping it over her mouth and burying her head into it.
She screams until she makes her vocal cords ache as painfully as she does in her heart.
She screams until her throat feels like it’s bleeding.
She screams until she feels like she has adequately vocalized the noises in her head.
She buries herself into the pillow, hoping to suffocate herself of all the volatile thoughts hissing at her that she isn’t enough—that her body isn’t enough. That she isn’t pretty enough. Talented enough. Smart enough. Skinny enough. She—
A knock sounds at the door.
Rhea stiffens, dropping the pillow onto the bed and whirling toward the sound. Fuck. Of course he arrives now.
She hurries back to the mirror, more tears spilling over her eyes.
Hurriedly, her fingertips swipe them all away, and she reaches for a small linen rag, rushing back over to the table beside her bed and dipping it into the water pitcher resting atop it.
Then she scurries back and swipes the dark smudges from beneath her eyes and makes quick work of reapplying the powder underneath them, relining her blue gaze after.
“Rhea?” he calls from the other side of the door, his voice sharp and filled with irritation.
She grits her teeth, too many emotions clamoring through her right now to focus on a measly one. “Just a minute,” she calls back, a quiver to her voice that makes her scowl at her own inability to pull her shit together.
She finishes with the last of her reapplications—doing the best she can given she has no remaining time—and huffs a breath that puffs out her cheek.
She smooths her hair, readjusts her mother’s hairpin wedged neatly into the center of her small bun, and she strides for the door.
She counts to three silently for good measure, then pulls on the knob—revealing Finlay fucking Fjolla.
He is dressed as lavishly as she expected.
A finely crafted arctic-blue, silky brocade jacket lined by silver threads and adorned with fine silver cuffs accentuates his already broad shoulders.
The deep-aqua brocade waistcoat highlights his eyes, making them appear brighter and somehow even more lightened in their shade of blue—something Rhea didn’t even know was possible.
The House Fjolla sigil—an artistic snowflake wearing a crown—is stitched into the breast of his jacket, and his white hair is slicked back, his signature three small braids still tugging at one side of his head, tracing the slope of his ear—a particularly annoying detail, considering Rhea also chose to ornament her hair with small braids this evening.
Frankly, he looks positively handsome, and it annoys her down to the marrow of her bones.
He looks ready to snap at her, his eyes hard and mouth already slightly parted, as if he has been waiting for her with preloaded words on his tongue.
Yet within a second of her opening the door, his features slacken, melting away at their roughened seams. His eyes trail over her, and something shifts in his expression—softening, even.
“Have you been crying?” he asks, his voice surprisingly gentle.
She curls her lip at the question, making her displeasure at the inquiry clear. “What?” she scoffs. “No. Why? Did I mess up my makeup or something? Is this your twisted way of getting your shots in early?”