Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
W hen I return to the castle, the Strategos common area is buzzing with pre-ball excitement. The air is thick with perfume and anticipation. My fellow Rawbonds dart back and forth between rooms in various states of undress, as usual unashamed to show a little skin, helping each other with hair and makeup and complicated clothing.
I’m still dreading the ball, but I find myself warmed by the air of cheerful chaos. It’s quite a contrast to yesterday’s grief—and to the usual military precision of our daily lives.
“Meryn! There you are!”
Izabel and Venna erupt from the dorm room and corner me with identical conspiratorial grins. The eagerness in their expressions fills me with half affection and half dread.
“Hey,” I say cautiously.
“Don’t ‘hey’ us like this is just any old day!” Izabel exclaims, grabbing my arm. “We have a royal ball to prepare for! Come see the dress we brought for you!”
Venna takes my other arm and they tug me forcefully into the dorm.
Embarrassment and gratitude keep me silent as they present the dress to me. It has an off-the shoulder silver lace bodice and a black satin skirt with a large slit up the side. The cut of the bodice is low and revealing.
I can’t say I’m surprised by the style; after all, the goal of tonight for the Bonded is to look as sexy as possible in front of all the nobles there to ogle them.
“Now, we know it’s a bit dated,” Izabel says apologetically, as if I have any clue what up-to-date Bonded fashions look like, or would be offended by the relevancy of a dress. “It was the most modest thing we had, though. It’s only been worn once—to our cousin’s sixteenth nameday celebration a few years ago. You have fantastic legs, so we thought the slit would suit you.”
I blink at her. No one has ever told me I have fantastic legs before.
It’s amusing that either of them find this dress modest, though.
“What do you think?” Venna asks. “Do you like it?” They both gaze hopefully at me.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, taking the dress. “Thank you. Really.”
Izabel frowns. “You’re sure? You seem a little upset.”
“No. Shit. I’m sorry,” I mutter. “It’s not the dress.” I pause, thinking about my trip to the city—about Mom and Igor and leaving my home behind. “I just have a lot on my mind.”
Izabel nods in understanding. “You’re nervous about the ball. I totally understand. But don’t worry, okay? Like I told you before Presentation, you don’t need to hook up with any nobles if you don’t want to, it’s not required of us.”
I muster a smile and another thank you. I’m not sure I could even explain what I’m feeling—or that they would understand if I could.
“Go try it on!” Venna says. “We’ll help you with your hair and makeup after we’re done getting ready.”
I nod and head for my room, relieved to have a moment alone. I need to get my head screwed on straight. The ball might be a party, but it’s not just for fun. This, like everything here, is another Trial. We’ve survived our individual packs’ culling, but now we’re going to be thrown into a social competition.
Everyone tonight will be trying to impress King Cyril and the hundreds of nobles visiting from the seven fiefdoms in Nocturna. They’ll all be watching, judging. I need to be clear and alert. Ready for anything.
We’re all still jockeying for rank within our own packs, too. After my survival in the Purge, the competitive side of me is coming alive again. I’m not just trying to avoid death anymore, I’d like to actually earn the respect of the other Rawbonds.
Anassa growls an agreement.
Hopefully this dress will be enough to help me look the part of the role I’m ready to claim.
I take a steadying breath as I push open my bedroom door—and then freeze on the threshold.
What the…
A dress lies waiting on my bed—a masterpiece of emerald silk and delicate black lace. Not the kind I described to Mom and Igor.
This dress could feed our whole neighborhood for a year.
I approach it slowly, Izabel and Venna’s gift forgotten in my arms.
The layered emerald skirts cascade like a waterfall, each tier trimmed with exquisitely beaded black lace that glitters in the light. The fitted bodice boasts more of the same beaded lace, emphasizing the heart-shaped neckline and capping the sleeveless shoulders in delicate, feathery veils.
It’s stunning, more akin to the extravagant gowns that the nobles wear to watch us fight than the lewd pieces of tied together fabric that the Bonded like to pretend are dresses.
Beside this miraculous confection lies matching black satin gloves and a pair of elegant heels.
I run a finger along the dress and gasp when I realize it’s decorated not in beads, but in actual jewels . Tiny sprays of emerald and obsidian in delicate swirls.
Only one person could be responsible for this.
There’s no note—no indication whatsoever of who left the dress here for me. But of course, I know. There’s only one person in this world who would give me such a gift.
Oh, Killian …
My thoughts drift yet again to his words when we were together the other night. Even if I wasn’t ready to call him mine in public, this dress says it all. It lays claim to me in a way that words never could. It will tell every person in attendance tonight that I am someone important, someone to be admired.
I set Izabel and Venna’s dress aside, hoping they won’t be hurt by it. I’m certain they’d want me to wear this one instead.
Suddenly, I want very much to go to this ball, if only to be seen in this dress, this gesture of love.
I wiggle out of my clothes and then slowly and reverently don the dress, careful not to dislodge any of the delicate jewels. It fits perfectly, like it was made for my body alone. Every detail has been considered, every element chosen with care.
This is what it means to be loved by a prince.
The heels are perfect, too. Just the right height, and much more comfortable than heels ought to be. I pull my mother’s opal necklace out from underneath the dress. Even though it looks worn and aged compared to the glittering jewels of the dress, it will compliment the outfit perfectly.
For the first time, I wonder if I might dance. It is a ball, after all.
Igor made me take lessons from a neighbor as part of my fight training.
Fighting is a lot like dancing , he said. You need to move fluidly, every motion precise and controlled. Learning to dance will help you anticipate your opponent’s movements and respond in time.
I laugh softly to myself. Who would have predicted I’d ever need to do actual dancing?
With the dress on, I head for the small mirror in my room. It’s not enough to see the whole picture, but I’m floored by the woman looking back at me. I saw a warrior seductress after Izabel and Venna’s initial make-over—and that was revelation enough.
But now…
The gown transforms me from a fighter into something… ethereal. I barely recognize the elegant woman my reflection presents. Between the dress and my mother’s opal, I look like one of the Bonded for the first time. Like I truly belong in this world.
The feeling is foreign and not entirely unpleasant.
When I emerge into the Strategos anteroom, heart pounding, the excited chatter dies. The twins are seated on the couches by the fireplace, Nevah and Tomison beside them. I’m glad to see Nevah hanging out with everyone tonight. They all look up as the room falls quiet and a dozen other heads turn my way.
Wordless shock vibrates the air for a moment before Izabel’s delighted squeal shatters the silence.
“Meryn! What in all of Nocturna!”
The twins rush forward to encircle me. Tomison gives an appreciative whistle. Nevah shakes her head in amazement, lips curving into a rueful smile. Across the room, somebody calls, “Damn, Cooper! Looking good!”
The twins pepper me with questions as they draw me back to the couch and start fixing my hair and makeup. Where did I get the dress? Is this a gift from my secret lover? Who is he? He must be one of the Bonded—one of the richest ones, too.
I put them off as best I can. “I don’t know for sure who it’s from. It just appeared in my room.”
Izabel gives me a knowing look. “One of these days you’re going to have to tell us!”
Thankfully, she leaves it at that.
When my hair and make-up are done, there are more exclamations.
“The contrast between your hair and the emerald is just perfect,” Izabel says. “You look more like a goddess than ever.”
“Otherworldly,” Venna interjects.
“Yes!” Izabel says. “You’re a mythical being, Meryn. No one will be able to take their eyes off of you.”
“I don’t know why you’re so happy about it,” Nevah drawls. “I’m not keen on the competition, myself.” She looks at me, mouth twisting into a wry smile. “Nothing personal, Meryn, but I’ll be keeping my distance.”
“Er… thanks, I guess?” I say, burning with embarrassment.
Tomison chuckles. “It’s kinda cute how the big bad street fighter gets all flustered when people tell her she’s pretty.”
I shoot him a glare and so does Izabel. He just grins.
“You guys look amazing, too, by the way,” I say.
The twins are wearing matching backless gowns, but in different colors—Izabel in silver, Venna in black. They’re incredibly skimpy, with plunging necklines and clinging, translucent skirts. Nevah’s blood-red gown has a wide v-shaped opening in the front that exposes her long, slender legs clear to the upper thigh, and a neckline that goes so low it exposes her belly button. Tomison’s suit is perfectly fitted to accentuate his lean frame, the jacket embroidered heavily with silver.
“We do look amazing, don’t we?” he says, gaze lingering on Izabel’s naked back as she turns to make a last-minute adjustment to my hair.
“I should head back to Kryptos so I can go with my pack,” Venna says.
“Yeah, I believe it’s time to get moving,” says Nevah, nodding to the exit. The other Strategos are already gathering near the door.
When all of us are ready, we join with the other packs in the lounge and make our way through the castle to the royal wing in a long procession. Most of the other Rawbonds haven’t been to this part of the castle before. They ooh and ahhh over the elaborate tapestries and gilded statues that line the wide corridors.
I haven’t seen much of the royal wing outside Killian’s chambers, either—and always at night, in the dark—but still, it’s not exactly new to me. I have to make an effort to appear surprised by the ostentatiousness of it all.
It gets easier as we near the famous central ballroom where the king holds all his most important parties.
I hear orchestral music first, then the corridors swell into a cavernous entryway bracketed by enormous marble staircases with gilded railings. The ballroom doors at the far end are open, towering golden direwolf statues standing sentry on either side.
There are people everywhere, dressed in outrageous finery, some dancing, some milling around with glasses of champagne, talking and toasting. Yet more sit at the many tables arranged around the room. The nobles around the room are clearly marked by their extravagant outfits, which are more modest and more expensive-looking than what the Bonded wear.
The contrast between their clothes and ours has always been noticeable but I’m so much more aware of it now that they’re here in front of us and not up in the stands of the arena. I glance around at the other Rawbonds in their barely there clothing and wonder if any of them have the same queasiness about this.
The Bonded are just beautiful, violent dolls for the actual elites.
The music swells as we reach the door.
My gaze is drawn upward to the glitter of a thousand crystals hanging above—a massive chandelier poised over the center of the sprawling dancefloor. Beyond it, the panels of the domed ceiling are painted with elaborate frescoes depicting ancient battles between humans and Siphons—direwolves and their riders frozen in elegant poses of attack.
We pause at the threshold, lined up to wait for our cue. Each Rawbond pack enters in formation, the herald announcing their individual names one by one.
My gaze sweeps the ballroom, taking in the soaring marble columns and automatically noting the various exits. There are wide glass doors at either side of the room leading to spacious balconies. Tall windows look out onto the moonlit royal courtyards below.
Stark is at the edge of the dance floor, dressed in a suit so black it stands out amongst all the glittering dresses. The suit is perfectly tailored, lending a cutting elegance to his warrior’s body, emphasizing the broad shoulders and narrow hips, hugging his long, muscular legs like a second skin.
No gold or silver embroidery for him. No gaudy jewelry, either. Just that deep black suit sucking up the light in the room—like a deliberate defiance against the glamor and pageantry that surround him.
A beautifully cut suit can’t hide the wildness that seeps from him like an aura of aggression. It’s in the neck tattoos peeking above his perfectly knotted cravat, the dark symbols covering the large hands that hold a glass of champagne.
The signature predatory intensity with which he watches the party, too.
I have to admit, he looks unnervingly good.
But I’m not here for Stark. My eyes veer away from him, searching the crowd until they find Killian.
He’s sitting on the dais with his father near the back of the room, dressed in gold and royal purple—looking every bit the crown prince. The cut of his jacket emphasizes his muscular frame, and his burnished-gold hair shines in the light of the thousands of candles and lanterns in this cavernous space. If Stark is a black hole, Killian is a luminous sun. The whole party tilts toward his warmth. Our eyes meet and my heart stutters.
Then the herald cries, “Strategos Rawbonds!”
The air is thick with excitement and nerves as our names are announced one by one.
“Rawbond Izabel Brooks… Rawbond Tomison Thorne….Rawbond Nevah Rivenson…”
Then finally, “Rawbond Meryn Cooper!”
I step into the ballroom, my heart loud in my ears. The weight of countless nobles’ gazes presses down on me—the common-born girl who survived the Trials. The outsider in the emerald dress.
Anassa’s presence ripples along our bond, carrying her amusement. She finds this human pageantry silly—but there’s something else under that. A thread of warning.
Immediately, I start to question her. Does she expect an attack? This isn’t going to turn into another bloodbath like the Presentation, is it? Or is she warning me about the lecherous nobles?
“Watch your back,” is all she says.
Helpful.
Perturbed, I join the other Rawbonds at our table where we wait for the rest to make their entrance. Audelie, the king’s chosen companion, gets both claps and smirks from the nobles when she enters with the Phylax pack.
That roil of disgust is back; they demand we’re on display for them, then dare to ridicule us for it?
Audelie’s in a white dress that goes up to her neck, with long sleeves and a skirt that hits her ankles… but it’s entirely translucent and she’s wearing nothing underneath. I realize with muted horror that her full breasts and nipples, and even the curl of hair between her legs, are exposed to the entire ballroom. She keeps her head high as she slinks over to the king’s side and arranges herself artfully on his lap.
Monster .
Finally, a few minutes later, everyone is here. The king shoves Audelie off him and rises, voice booming over the ballroom.
“Welcome, everyone, to the Forging Ball,” he says with pomp and grandiosity. “I am so pleased to have you all here to celebrate the successful completion of this year’s Purge Trial. Please, eat, dance, and enjoy your evening.”
With that, he gestures to the orchestra, and the music strikes up again. I catch Killian’s deep blue gaze, aching to go to him—but he’s already surrounded by a group of young nobles vying for his attention. An uncomfortable spark pings through me.
Jealousy, I realize. We’ve never been in a position before where I’ve had to watch him around other women.
Turns out, I fucking hate it.
Almost everyone at our table gets up to join the party. Izabel and Venna are talking beside me, gossiping about the nobles in attendance, their hands fluidly in motion as the clamor of the ballroom starts to make it hard for Venna to hear. I catch something about an affair and a bastard child, but I’m only half listening and watching, trying not to be too obvious as I track Killian’s movement through the crowd.
Eventually I lose him in the sea of suits and dresses, though I find myself fielding a lot of curious looks from the other nobles.
Dammit . Where did he go?
I can’t help myself—I need to have him in my sights. Standing, I make my excuses to the twins, and start moving purposefully toward the crowd.
Unfortunately, I don’t get far before a short, middle-aged man with a bushy mustache and a leer steps into my path. There’s a thin, horse-faced woman at his side—his wife, perhaps. She leers at me, too, her lips pulling back from her gummy teeth in what might be an impression of a smile.
“Look at this one, Dinah,” says the man—talking about me I realize, and not to me. “What an unusual hair color.”
The wife reaches out and pokes me in the upper thigh. “Wider hips than the others, though,” she says, as if she’s appraising cattle. “A bit shorter, too. Common-born, maybe?”
The whole thing shakes me so much that it’s thrown off my instincts. I try to step back, my stomach churning, and the man grabs me by the wrist, yanking me toward him.
“Come now, girl,” he says, chastising. “We’re all here for fun, right? Dinah and I are curious what’s underneath that overly demure dress of yours. A bit ill-mannered of you to cover up so much, no?”
Don’t punch the nobles, don’t punch the nobles , I chant to myself, even though I really, really want to slam my fist in this man’s face.
But thankfully, I don’t have to. I feel a presence behind me just before a warm, masculine hand touches my back.
Killian .
The nobleman’s face pales a little as he looks up in fear behind me. He bows, and then yanks his wife, confused, also into a bow, before dragging her back toward the crowd.
Turning with a smile, I look up into glowering dark eyes.
The smile withers on my lips.
It’s Stark. His glare could raise the shadows from the corners of the room and snuff out all the light.
I edge backwards, away from him, even as his hand is still on my back. He’s livid, and I’ve seen what this man can do when he’s pissed. I’d like to put as much distance between me and his bad mood as possible.
“What were you doing?” he growls, loudly enough that a couple of people around us shoot him worried looks.
“Considering homicide,” I mutter. He doesn’t respond so I say, “None of your business, actually. Thanks for the save, but it’s a ball and you’re making a scene, so…”
“You’re right. We need to keep talking and we’re drawing attention.” Stark’s hand closes around my wrist like an iron vise. “Dance with me.”
My thoughts stutter to a stop. I look at his hand, then back into his eyes.
Surely, I didn’t hear that right .
I find my voice. “No, thank y?—”
He yanks me onto the crowded dance floor. “Wasn’t a request, princess.”
I have no choice but to fall in line—the blaze of command in his eyes says he’s not going to let me go.
My heart is in my throat as he pulls me into his arms. His broad chest fills my vision and his musky, amber cologne tickles my nose.
We fall into step with disconcerting ease, moving together like we’ve been dance partners for years. He leads like he teaches—with immense force and precision. Even rusty as I am, I have no trouble following. The press of Stark’s hand on my waist guides me unerringly, though it feels more like combat than dancing.
When that hand spreads possessively across my back and pulls me closer, I look up at him in shock.
What the fuck is happening right now?
His gaze is narrowed, and drops to my neck.
“Interesting necklace,” he says, voice pitched low, oddly intimate and antagonistic at once. “Something so opulent on a commoner might draw the wrong kind of attention. Where’d you get it?”
I brittle instantly. “I’m not a thief, if that’s what you’re implying.”
Stark’s lips pull into a cruel smile as he leans down to put his mouth next to my ear, hot breath gusting against my skin. “Well then, you might want to read up on the history of that kind of opal before you start parading it around.”
The fuck does that mean?
Before I can demand an explanation, a low, familiar voice interrupts.
“Pardon me. I’d like to cut in.”
I turn in surprise as our dance comes to an abrupt halt.
Killian stands an arm’s length away, his face a polite mask. But I know him all too well. When he’s angry, it comes out in a terrifying calm like this—just like it did when we were with the Nabber in the dungeon. I can see it in the clench of his fists, the tight pull of his smile, the way his eyes are currently skewering Stark.
He’s enraged that Stark is touching me like this.
“The lady is spoken for,” Stark says sharply, his hand tightening on my waist.
I’m what?!
That’s it.
I’ve been trying all night to act like one of these genteel weirdos. To play by the rules that the nobles and the king have set for us, to bend my manners to my own will like one of the Bonded.
But I’m not a polite woman. I’m hard edges and impulse and self-destruction. I don’t care if this world hates me for it; I wouldn’t have myself any other way.
“I am,” I tell Stark, putting my hands on his hard chest and pushing him away forcefully. He falls back on his heel but doesn’t stumble; the man’s entirely incapable of being taken off-guard. “I’m claimed by Crown Prince Killian.”
The room quiets around the three of us, people turning to stare openly now. I shift toward Killian until he’s at my back. He snakes a warm arm around my hips and I breathe in pine, letting it calm me.
Then, loudly so everyone can hear, I say, “I’m his, and his alone.”