Chapter 44
Forty-Four
E verinne was officially trapped within the Mystic Obscura.
After her ballet performance with Jarek, she’d taken off those godsforsaken pointe shoes and sprinted through the menagerie down to the lower level of the parlor, hoping to find the secret entrance to the Marzena.
She’d been willing to take her chances in the eccentric market, but she’d been unable to find the exit.
The only room she found was the shoddy dressing room where Jarek had bound her to a chair.
It didn’t matter how many halls she explored, how many corners she turned, she was simply running in circles.
Every path, every direction, led her right back to that same damning room.
She would never get out.
There would be no escaping him.
Exhaustion left her weary as she approached the door to the forgotten dressing room.
Her toes were throbbing, sore from having been pinched into those horrible pointe shoes, and her muscles felt as though they’d been ripped from her bones, shredded and useless.
She ached everywhere . Her skin was too heavy, her hair felt like a crown had been speared into her skull, and the tutu hung from her like the limbs of a dying tree.
And she was so tired. The hour must have been late, but there was no way to determine the time of day since the Mystic Obscura lacked windows or any other glimpse into the outside world.
She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands, smearing iridescent powder and kohl all over her skin.
Giving in to defeat, Everinne slumped against the door of the dressing room and pushed it open.
She knew Jarek was waiting for her before she even stepped inside.
His penetrating gaze haunted every fiber of her being, unraveling all of her layers, peeling back her flesh to the vulnerability of her soul.
He lurked in the corner, the malicious gold of his eyes watching her, tracking her like a predator to prey.
Again, he donned all black. The creepy skull was gone, but the memory of it was seared into her mind.
Stalking into the dimly lit room, she intentionally left the door open, hopeful someone might stumble upon them. But Jarek flicked his wrist, and it slammed shut behind her.
She jolted and glared up at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of having startled her. “What do you want, Skulls?”
He cocked his head to the side, a swath of smooth brown hair falling in front of his face. “Ah, back to the adorable nicknames now, are we?”
“No.” A rod of spite skewered itself between her shoulders and she locked her spine in place. “I just hate saying your name.”
“Just wait, milaszk.” Jarek sauntered forward with a bundle of black lace tossed over one arm. “Soon you’ll be screaming it.”
Everinne gritted her teeth until her temples started to throb.
His threats filled her with unease, mostly because she was quite certain they were promises not yet kept.
Her magic hummed and simmered, straining to lash out, until the anticipation of the pain she could cause him gave her pause.
She could do it, she could unleash the might of her power on him, make him writhe and beg for mercy.
He would crumple and contort in heinous pain, the fearsome demon summoner fallen at the feet of a lowly fae.
And if she was feeling particularly vindictive, she could shatter his mind.
Another blood rose would mark her arm, but the price of the tattoo would be well worth it.
Suddenly, Jarek’s hand shot out and he grabbed her wrist, lifting her hand.
Wisps of shadowy black and violet seeped from her fingertips, and he flashed her an evil smile.
She stepped back, away from him, but he matched her.
Crowded her. Pressed against her until the back of her thighs met the edge of the vanity and she could no longer put any kind of space between them.
Jarek brought her hand close to his face, and she watched in horror as his tongue darted out, licking the air, tasting her magic.
“So beautifully violent,” he murmured, then inhaled deeply and groaned. “Your magic is a summons to my soul. An aphrodisiac to the senses. Go ahead and give me your worst. Watch what happens when the touch of death is met with the chaos of the demonic.”
“Get away from me.” Everinne jerked, yanking her arm free from his grasp. “You unhinged bastard.”
Jarek just laughed, cold and calculating. He shoved the bundle of black lace into her arms. “It’s time for your next performance.”
“I already performed.” She crumpled the fine fabric in her hands. “I’m not going out onto another stage again.”
He leaned back then and ran his tongue along his teeth. Folding his arms over his broad chest, he arched a singular brow. “Who said anything about a stage?”
“I…” She glanced down at the lace. “What are you talking about?”
Jarek rummaged through a polished cupboard next to the vanity and produced a decanter of honeyfire and a single glass.
The amber liquid gleamed with a sheen of gold, and when he gave the bottle a swirl, the alcohol burned even brighter.
He spun to face her, uncorked the crystal decanter, and the scent of honey, warm spice, and something else permeated the air.
“Change into the lace, Everinne.”
“I will do no such thing.” Fury swelled inside of her.
She would not be manipulated. Not again.
Kralv Oldrich already controlled a piece of her life, she would not give up all she had left.
“You don’t own me. I’m not your fucking property.
I might be stuck at the Mystic Obscura, but I work for Reine. Not for you.”
“Is that what you think?” A bemused expression softened the hard lines of his face. “I’d have thought you would’ve figured it all out by now. No matter.”
He waved away the thought with a dismissive hand, and Everinne’s stomach clenched in apprehension, sweat slicking her palms. She already knew Jarek was the one hunting the immortals, but what else was missing? What had she overlooked?
“The lace, Everinne,” he commanded, a harsh edge roughing his tone. “If you cannot change of your own accord, then I shall do it for you.”
He reached for her, and she lurched from his grasp.
“Fine!” she snapped, slapping his arm away from her. “I’ll change. But don’t fucking touch me.”
“Suit yourself.” Jarek poured himself a glass of the honeyfire, then pulled out the chair in front of the vanity and dropped into it. He extended his legs, crossing one ankle over the other, then took a slow sip of his drink. He raised the glass. “Carry on.”
“Are you going to watch me?”
“You’re most entertaining.” His shrug was careless. “Yet if you insist, there’s a partition behind you, in the corner.”
If she had a dagger, she would plunge it into his heart.
Everinne whipped around toward the darkened corner, throwing the black lace over her shoulder. She carefully unfolded the partition, ensuring she was safely hidden behind the panels of silver mesh. It wasn’t exactly thick enough to keep her completely from his view, but at least it wasn’t sheer.
She glanced down at her poor feet. They were red, swollen and blistered, but she was grateful they weren’t bleeding.
She yanked the wretched tutu off next. It landed in a crumpled heap around her ankles, and she kicked it away.
The silk ribbons binding the bodice were a struggle, and she eventually just tore at the soft fabric with her nails in an effort to free herself from its confines.
The facade of a ballerina was suffocating.
Strangling. By the time she ripped the bodice off, she was panting, each breath labored and painful.
“Are you sure you don’t need any assistance?” Jarek drawled, and Everinne’s hands coiled into fists at her sides.
She whipped around, a stream of vile curses ready to spill from her lips, when she caught sight of him through the partition.
He was seated in the chair, but the absolute stillness of his body caused her pulse to jump.
Needles of fright pricked her spine. His head was dipped low, his brown hair swept over half of his face, and the light gold of his eyes was focused directly on her.
Like he could see through the partition.
Like every inch of her was visible to him, despite the layers of thread and mesh.
He gripped the arm of the chair with one hand, his knuckles white, and in the other he held the glass of whiskey. Except now it was empty.
Everinne froze, icy fear consuming her veins.
Naked behind the partition, she felt entirely too exposed. Even though she knew, she knew , there was no way he could see her. Not fully. Maybe a vague outline, but not the entirety of her body.
Jarek sucked his teeth, his gaze sliding to the empty glass before refocusing on the flimsy partition dividing them. “You’re taking too long.”
“I’m not!” she yelped, snatching the black lace off the ground. “I’m almost done.”
She held up the outfit and scowled.
It was a bodysuit of sorts, and though it would cover every inch of her, it left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
She pulled it on, her lip curling at the way black lace roses were strategically placed, barely enough to cover her most sensitive areas, showcasing her curves for everyone to see.
The soft fabric melded to her skin, so it resembled glittering paint instead of lace, and Everinne’s lip curled in disgust. Even the tattoo marking her forearm looked as though it was part of the costume.
She slipped into a pair of spiky black heels, wincing as her toes were pinched yet again, then turned only to find the partition had vanished.
And so had Jarek.
“What the…” Everinne glanced around the dressing room, but there was no sign of the demon summoner anywhere. His stench had evaporated, and she could no longer sense the tormenting pressure of his gaze.
Plucking a small towel from the vanity’s counter, she scrubbed away the excess makeup from her previous performance.
Jarek had smeared lipstick, powder, and paint all over her face earlier, and if she was expected to perform again, she certainly wasn’t going to do so looking like a sullen, morbid fae.
She stole a glance in the faintly illuminated mirror and bit back a strangled scream.
The makeup she wiped off was gone, but she didn’t recognize the female in the mirror staring back at her.
Her eyes were lined heavily with kohl, golden powder was dusted across her eyelids and the apples of her cheeks.
Shimmering crimson painted her lips and gilded dagger earrings dangled from the tips of her ears while diamond studs replaced the amethysts she usually wore.
She turned her head from side to side in a daze, unable to comprehend how it happened.
Even her hair had been pulled into a high ponytail, fastened in place by a golden ribbon.
Everinne looked at the towel in her hands, then back at her reflection.
Glamour.
It was the only possible excuse.
Suddenly, a distinctive tug pulled on her heartstrings, and she jumped upright. The bond warmed, a soothing familiarity.
Atlas.
Atlas was here.
He’d come for her.
Spinning around, she started for the door.
She was going to tumble right into his arms, and he would carry her out of this hellish nightmare.
Then she would be safe. They would find a way to break the chains the Mystic Obscura had wrapped around her.
They would cut the leash to the invisible collar the kralv had bound around her neck. Then she would finally be free .
Everinne yanked open the door, tears of elation clinging to her lashes, and was devoured by the wicked dark.