Chapter 19
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Surely this isn’t a trauma symptom…
Darkness crawls over the expansive fields beyond Cael’s palace, and I still haven’t changed out of my magic clothes.
I don’t know why. Maybe I’m afraid what Castor will do if he finds out I discarded something he wove out of his power specifically for me.
Maybe I’m waiting for Cael to return with his wife, Alana, and outline their expectations before I decide I’m staying here and it’s a good idea to listen to them.
Maybe I just don’t want to.
At this exact moment, I don’t think I trust anyone.
Even Frelsi hasn’t found her way back to me yet, leaving me in an unfamiliar place alone and pacing.
In a fit of mild rebellion, I slip out of my magic slippers to march across this plush pink carpet barefoot—and try not to hope Castor feels the rejection, appears out of thin air, and shoves them back onto my feet before carrying me home.
I keep telling myself all of this isn’t a big deal.
So what if I’m alone in another castle with limited explanation?
If this happens a third time, I might just get used to it.
What’s killing me is how much it feels like I’m at a crossroad with no one to tell me which path to take.
I was not raised to be confident in my own decisions, so I’m second guessing myself in circles.
Cael seems intent on liberating me from Castor. Castor seems intent on worshiping the ground I walk on. While I’m here—surrounded by people, guards, and creatures loyal to Cael—I don’t think Castor has a chance of getting me back if I don’t want him to. He would need my cooperation.
The choice should be simple.
Stay.
Stay with the benevolent prince who lives in a bright land filled with happy, laughing subjects. Stay with the kind prince who expresses palpable concern for a stranger. Stay in this place without bars, in this land that is safe, with the prince who says I’m free to wander.
I should stay.
At the very least, I should stay until Tuesday when Zahra and I plan to get sushi so I can ask her what she thinks since she seems to know both Castor and Cael better than I do.
However, if I assume that she’s friends with both of them because either option is safe… If I assume it all depends on what I want…
Heaving a sigh, I scowl at the softness beneath my feet.
I’m already trying to push the responsibility of this decision off on someone else.
I need to learn to trust myself, and I need to discover what I want.
When I left home, the only pipe dream I had in my head was to be free.
Free from my mother and her demands. Free from the chain of marrying Rodrick. Free from being sold to the world every day, ridiculed constantly, and controlled completely.
I had, and still have, no ambitions beyond this fragile concept of freedom…when I’m not even sure I really want it. Freedom comes with decisions, all the time. Responsibility. Big choices. Small choices. Choices like the one I’m facing right now that is making my head hurt.
I was on the streets for two horrible weeks, spending every moment afraid, then Castor caught me and caged me. Near immediately, I gave up—and I’ve found peace in it. It’s been days since I succumbed to him, falling right back into old habits of helplessness and submission.
Staying with Cael means liberation from a literal cage, friends like Willow and Zahra in reach at all times, and a world with a clear sky to watch the sun set in.
It’s such an absolute no brainer what I should do.
“So what is wrong with me?” I whisper.
Why am I even thinking about Castor?
Why am I still gripping his clothes and finding something akin to odd comfort in the way that I can focus on his magic and feel him like a heartbeat in my chest…?
It’s been barely a week.
I cannot be such a people pleaser that I’m feeling guilty about ripping myself away from the lonely faerie who cooks for me…and murmurs sweet words to his flowers…and begs me just to talk to him.
Ugh…
Don’t tell me…
I know I’ve been living in a basic Stockholm situation my entire life, but I’m supposed to be smarter than to fall into another one.
Succumbing to Stockholm syndrome was supposed to be a coping joke, not an actual thing that has happened.
It’s been ten days. Ten pathetic days. It can not have taken me merely a pathetic ten days to sympathize with a dangerous, volatile, jealous, insecure man.
Stuffing a hand into my hair, I grip the roots, ground myself in the pull. “I’m staying. And that’s final. It’s the smart thing to do.”
I’ll talk with the righteous and good prince as soon as he gets back from his egregiously long meeting and see if there are any programs in his kingdom for people like me.
I’ll find work, somehow, somewhere. I’ll find a place to live and take care of myself, making my own decisions every day. Forever.
First decision on the list is getting therapy. I will work very, very hard until I can afford therapy.
I’ll build up the rest of my perfectly mundane and correct and healthy life from there.
The end.
That…
That actually sounds pretty horrible.
Is all I want out of life to get an entry-level job since my skills cap out at smile and look pretty?
Am I actually so eager to decide what I want to eat, every day, for the rest of my life?
If my clothes stop being Castor’s magic, I might have to do laundry.
And, assuming I can afford a place with a nice enough tub, I’ll have to draw my own baths.
Castor has an entire multi-floor library he showed me on my tour of his palace, and I haven’t even asked to look at it since then because I’ve been on my usual stint of not taking up space.
He’s got a pool.
A whole pool.
A huge pool.
With water features and crystal blue water.
It’s surrounded by gardens that he tends himself, and when night comes, the sky clears of clouds, and the moon casts a silver sand dollar across the surface.
Who knows what the economy is even like here?
I may never be able to afford a pool.
Whimpering, I bite my cheek because I’m only about sixty percent sure I’m opting to romanticize the familiar. Simply because that’s what it is. Familiar.
I’ve been classified as an adult for five long years, and I’ve been physically able to walk out on my mother for most of them.
Before she had the backing of Rodrick’s interests in me and all his money and security, there would have been ways for me to counter her power with my own.
After all, I was the one with the social presence and the skill and the following.
I could have angled myself as a victim in the public eye and rallied an army against her abuse.
Yet, I stayed.
Because everything was terrible and terribly familiar—and, also, I didn’t want to be terrible like her.
The fight seeps out of my body.
I look at the feather soft bed on the other side of the room. A curtain of sheer down embraces silk. It reminds me of how Castor’s bed is covered in thick black drapes, which leave everything to the imagination once he tucks beyond them each night.
I…
I think…
My attention shifts, toward the balcony window, toward the pearl railing covered with crawling ivy and doused in pink petals. A breeze rustles them, and they skitter across the white paint. Drifting toward the glass, I unlatch the door and step out into the balmy night.
I think…I want Castor.
A moment passes with the warmth of that idea settling inside me.
I want Castor.
My thoughts clear, allowing me brief reprieve.
Then, a dark shadow vaults from the ground.
I jerk back as Castor’s cloth shoes settle on the rail. Delicate as the landing petals all around, he steps to the balcony floor in front of me.
“Love,” he whispers into the space between us; those frail inches shiver.
My heartbeat tumbles as my mouth dries.
A thousand things race through my brain all at once—go to him, don’t, scream, don’t, apologize, don’t, cry, don’t—but I’m left stuck in between every action, frozen, eyes fixed on him. My past crawls to the surface, like a cadaver scratching at its casket in a shallow grave.
Is he mad?
I can’t tell if he’s mad.
I don’t know if I can scream for help.
I don’t know if I want the help that’s here when he’s here for me.
Should I play the victim? Should I make sure I act grateful that he’s come to save me?
Will he buy it?
Is it the truth? Or just another lie I throw my entire body into in an effort to keep surviving?
Castor takes a step toward me, and I remain perfectly still. His hand lifts, grazing my cheek.
Peace hits me, hard, muddling my senses, suggesting that Castor hasn’t just come for me—he’s brought home with him. Not the home I’ve known with its rules and constraints, the one he offers, with love and adoration.
“If you want to stay here,” he whispers, voice cracking, “just tell me.” His fingers coast against my hair before his arm falls back to his side.
“If you want nothing to do with me already, I understand. All I ask before you turn me away forever is that you might pretend to hate me. At least then I may be allowed to pretend you think of me, every so often. The hope might grant me a few months more. I would like that, I think. Just…a few months more to yearn for you.”
He’s…giving me the choice?
Is it a test?
How can it be when he can’t lie to me?
Is this choice really all up to me and what I want? Without pressure?
I can’t spend my life sympathizing and sacrificing. I can’t spend my life people pleasing. I can’t let someone else make this decision for me.
I can’t.
It hurts to swallow as I take a miniscule step forward, toward him.
My dress made of his magic whips in a sudden breeze.
Somehow, my hand finds his cheek, and I watch as every part of him succumbs to me. His flesh welcomes my touch with all the desperation of something starved.
For reasons my scrambled brain cannot concoct, I say, “Frel abandoned me. I’ve been pacing for hours. All by myself.”