Chapter 74
SEVENTY-FOUR
The door creaks open without warning, a long, drawn-out groan like the house itself is reluctant to let them in.
I sit up, heart tripping against my ribs, only to find three of Zepharion’s servants gliding into the room like smoke—silent, robed in charcoal silk, their faces painted in faint shadows of glamour that make them look less like women and more like wraiths.
Two of them I recognize instantly. I’d seen their mouths open in screams of ecstasy in the throne room, their bodies bent for Zepharion while I was made to watch.
They move with a predator’s efficiency—ripping the sheets off the bed, stripping me bare, dragging me into the adjoining chamber where a steaming tub waits like an altar.
The water glistens with oil and crushed petals, though the sweetness of the air makes my stomach turn.
No words at first. Only hands. Cold, merciless hands that scrape and lather and pull, handling me like a doll they plan to crack at the joints.
Finally, one of them breaks the silence, her smile sharp as a blade. “You thought you had more time?” she purrs. “Oh, sweet thing. Zepharion doesn’t wait for what’s already his.”
The second yanks a comb through my wet hair with deliberate cruelty. I hiss as strands tear free, but she only smirks, tugging harder. “You’ll make such a pretty bride,” she says, her gaze crawling over me with hungry disdain. “Blood red suits you. Like a wound that won’t heal.”
The third leans close enough that her perfume chokes me, her fingers digging into my scalp as she parts my hair into cruelly tight coils. “You don’t even need a crown,” she whispers. “Your pain is already a coronet.”
They braid my hair until my eyes water, pulling until my scalp throbs.
Then they pour oil down my chest, their palms rubbing it in with rough, impersonal strokes that feel more like scrubbing a corpse than tending a bride.
I am polished and gleaming, an object, a sacrificial gem made ready for display.
And then they dress me.
The gown waits on its stand like a predator waiting for prey.
Crimson silk, heavy with gold thread. Too tight.
Too much. The moment the fabric slides over my skin, I feel the trap close.
When they lace it up, each tug of the strings feels like a rib snapping inward.
By the time they finish, I can barely breathe.
“She’s shaking,” one of them laughs, her voice a cruel chiming bell. “Poor little pet.”
“She should be honored,” another counters smoothly. “He’s never kept one this long. Never brought one to the altar.”
Their hands linger longer than necessary, adjusting the fabric, pressing into my waist and ribs until the seams creak with strain. Their touches are not caresses—they are reminders of how easily I could be torn apart.
“But don’t get comfortable,” the first whispers, her lips grazing my ear, her breath damp and warm. “You’re just the heir-maker. That’s all he needs from you.”
My breath catches. My jaw aches from clenching.
“Oh, he promised us more,” the second says, dragging her nails down my spine as if marking territory. “More fun. More torment. Said the throne room was only a taste.”
The third laughs, a hollow, honeyed sound. “After he’s done with you, he’ll come back to us. He always does. You’re a novelty. A prize to be displayed. But he’ll never stop needing others.”
“He’ll break you,” the first adds, her words like silk wrapped around a blade. “And then he’ll do it again. And again.”
“Isn’t that what you’re for?” the second taunts, circling in front of me, her eyes sharp with delight. “To be used?”
I bite the inside of my cheek until blood floods my tongue. The copper tang anchors me, stops me from lunging at her.
One of them tilts the mirror toward me, and I stare at the stranger reflected back. Not a girl. Not even a woman. A trophy. A thing lacquered in gold and red, fit only to be placed on a pedestal carved from ash and conquest.
My hands curl into fists. A dangerous spark flickers at the base of my spine, a thin hiss of heat threading my veins.
One of them notices. Her lips part in a bright, mocking laugh. “Careful,” she says sweetly. “Wouldn’t want the bride to burn her pretty gown.”
Something inside me cracks—not all the way, but enough to let the first breath of shadow seep through. I can feel it rising, hot and sharp, my instinct screaming to lash out, to scorch the smirks from their mouths.
I whisper his name before I even realize I’ve spoken. “Deimos.”
The choker answers instantly. A band of fire tightens around my throat, searing, choking, yanking me back from the brink. My knees buckle as air deserts me. Still, I rasp his name again. And again. Until I am gasping it like a prayer laced with blood.
They only laugh harder, their mirth filling the chamber like a choir of crows.
“Poor thing,” one croons, mock-sympathetic, tilting her head as if studying a broken toy. “Still clinging to fantasy. How romantic.”
“He’s not coming for you,” another says, her tone cutting and final. “Zepharion made sure of that. You’re his now. A vessel. A womb. A war prize.”
“You’re the main event,” the last one declares, brushing an invisible speck from my shoulder as if I’m nothing more than a garment. “And we’ll be there to watch.”
They gather their silks and oils, their baskets of thorns and gold thread, vanishing in eerie unison. At the threshold, one of them pauses, her smile cruel. “We’ll be back for you soon.”
“To walk you down the aisle,” another finishes, her voice gleeful. “Wouldn’t want the bride to trip.”
Their laughter trails behind them as they leave me alone.
Alone—but not silent. My pulse pounds in my ears. My lungs ache from holding back tears. The choker throbs like a second, merciless heartbeat.
I gasp. My vision burns with unshed tears. And still, I whisper it again. “Deimos.”
The magic coils tighter, strangling, trying to crush the sound from me. My knees slam to the floor, the world shuddering white at the edges. But I do not stop.
“Deimos.”
The pain comes sharp, punishing. But beneath it—something else. Not just fear. Not just helplessness. Power. Mine. Buried deep, but stirring. Rising.
I press my trembling palms to the mirror, staring at the girl reflected back. She is still a stranger, painted in red and gold. But her eyes—they are no longer empty.
There is something alive there now. Not rage. Not sorrow. Something sharper. A dangerous sliver of resolve.
My voice is hoarse, but I force the words anyway, lips brushing the glass. “You don’t belong to him,” I whisper. “You never did.”