16
Pandora
W hen I come downstairs for breakfast, I prepare to go about my day without mentioning my birthday. However, the unmistakable sight of the U. Herald in Andie’s grasp eradicates any of my previous intentions.
“Don’t say it,” I whisper, to which Andie drops her printed copy onto the table.
“Why didn’t you tell me—”
“Keep your voice down!” I hiss anxiously, ripping the edition off the table to get a better look at it. I don’t bother reading past the headline, which in and of itself makes me nearly retch:
Princess Pandora Turns 21 In Mosacian Captivity
Tossing the edition back onto the table, I add for good measure, “Don’t let Kit see that.”
Andie rises from her seat, eyeing me and then the kitchen. We both listen for footsteps, and when none are detected, her whole body slackens. “I thought you two had a good thing going there.”
“Kit never liked me, Andie. Mainly because he doesn’t like my family, which, to each their own. His contempt is warranted. But he’s really had it out for me ever since our night drinking and playing cards. Probably because he hates that he had fun with a Deragon .”
Bracing myself on the edge of the counter, I dare a glance at the U. Herald once more, rolling my eyes at the photograph Venus allowed the staff to publish of me. It’s from my Queen’s Feast performance, maybe an hour before Madman slipped into my room. Among other thoughts, the main one that overcomes me as I study the image is how old I look in that dress. I’m twenty- one today, but in that getup, I could be mistaken for twenty-eight.
“Look, I know the circumstances aren’t ideal, but I’m not trying to be a nuisance.” I exhale. “I’m here so that Kit can finally act out on his vendetta against my family. He wanted the queen, sure, but he settled for a princess when he couldn’t attain her. I’m the bait to draw Venus or even Jericho in. Until she caves, Kit is forced to shelter me, feed me, tolerate me, and cross paths with me in the halls of his own house. And it burns him.”
Andie’s eyes slightly flare at the notion. “I see.”
I wonder if she can hear it in my voice or see it in the reflection of my eyes—that I’m aching for any sentiments of longing and love from my mother after being apart for so long. We’ve never been separated like this. I should be tearing up over her handwritten birthday cards and eating cake on the terrace with her, not wondering whether she’s reached new lows in attempts to cope with my disappearance.
Andie finally breaks eye contact, and I only feel a morsel of relief. “You should at least read the letter your parents wrote you,” she says quietly, “before I toss the paper out.”
Right, because in this world, Venus and Jericho are my parents. Not Geneva Deragon.
Still, I dare to turn past the front cover and observe the second side where, plastered along the entire page, is a slew of words that I want so desperately to be real.
To our daughter,
From the moment you were born, we knew that the fate of our dynasty and the livelihood of our great nation would be in capable hands when the time came. You’ve grown into such a strong, noble, and graceful young lady, always willing to sacrifice your own wants for the betterment of Urovia. We just never thought your sacrifices would have to reach these extremes.
We are looking for you and longing for your safe return, Pandora. We assure you, if even one hair on your head has been harmed, we will make your captors pay in blood. Until we can hold you in our arms again, we ask the Saints to keep you safe and to steady our hearts amidst our sea of grief.
All our love,
Mother and Father
The signature is the last straw.
Internally fuming, I crumble up the paper and stuff it in the wastebin and storm out of the kitchen.
Their words weren’t even remotely sentimental. How dare they take up space in the paper to stir the pot rather than allow my real mother to communicate with me, to say something that would ease the ache in my chest and that wouldn’t make me boil over with rage. How dare they call themselves my parents when it benefits their movements as opposed to benefitting me , their “child.”
I almost wish that I had a staircase to stomp up just to make a scene, but without it, it takes great restraint to keep from shattering a vase in the main corridor. I don’t care if my temper makes me seem twelve as opposed to twenty-one. I can practically feel steam blowing out of my ears as I sail into my room—
And nearly crash into Kit, who stands at the foot of my bed with his arms braced across his chest.
I don’t know whether to apologize or throw him out—but the jaded look on his face tells me that I have no business speaking to him with any sort of entitlement.
“What are you doing in my room, Mr. Andromeda?” I say with an air of confusion, if only to keep from sneering at him.
“Mr. Andromeda?” he says in a way that should be humorous, but it comes out icy. “Why the sudden formalities, princess?”
Because I’m bait to you and nothing more. Because it’s my birthday and I don’t have a single loved one to share it with. Because I am Venus and Jericho’s pawn in your bitter standoff against them. But mainly, because I need you to feel somewhat respected despite the fact that I’ve been stealing books from your shelves these past two weeks and then replacing them before you have the chance to notice. In fact, there’s a copy of my latest abducted read that I have stashed away in my delicates drawer, and I’d give my all to make sure you don’t uncover it.
When I do not utter a response, Kit’s half-quirked smile further chills the air around me. “I came to inform you that your parents have yet to send word following the message we delivered to them,” he says casually. “It seems as though it may take more than a smear of your blood to get their attention.”
“Saints, what’s next?” I ask flatly. “A lock of my hair? A severed limb?”
“Spoken like a woman unafraid of pain.”
“I’m not the one who should fret,” I return, feigning confidence. “For all you know, the king and queen could be forming a mass ground assault, preparing to overpower the Isle and bring me home without adhering to any of your terms and conditions.”
To my surprise, Kit seems to consider the possibility. But his quiet second guessing dissipates as rapidly as it first appeared. “All that manpower for a girl they let slip through the cracks of Broadcove? I doubt it.”
“If you’re done trying to scare me first thing in the morning, you can go now,” I bite.
Kit’s responding grin turns positively wicked. “Not quite, Princess. I was also wondering if you were behind the disappearance of my collector’s copy of Mosacian Ideologies and Stories of Old .”
Before I have the chance to deny his implied accusations, he pulls that very book out from behind his back, his smile transforming into a full-blown scowl.
A shiver scales each vertebra down my back, but I force the sensation not to show on the surface, containing it beneath my skin. “Nobody likes a snoop.”
“Nobody likes a thief ,” he counters, shaking the book in his grasp.
“Au contraire.” I raise a finger at him. “You offered to let me borrow a book. Then again, perhaps you forgot, considering you were sloppily drunk and practically draped across my door frame that night.”
Kit’s searching for an insult, and I can see it in his eyes. He hates that he let his composure slip around me, but eventually, he lands on one that makes my insides splinter.
“Who are you wearing those for, by the way?” he whispers, pure venom coursing through the words. “You’re obviously not putting on a late-night lace show for me—”
I laugh in his face to keep from dying inside. “That’s your move? Insulting my choice of undergarments? Grow up, Kit. I borrowed a book. No need to throw a temper tantrum.”
“You don’t touch what’s mine,” he snarls.
“I’ll touch whatever the hell I want,” I bite back, yanking the book out of his hand before he can reinforce his grip on it. “That book, your alcohol, the sculptures in the hall. I am very well entitled to touch you if I want.”
It takes a minute for me to hear the words back, specifically after Kit’s voice drops an octave and says in a way that sounds pained, “Do you?”
Panic leads me to stupidly ask him, “Do I what?”
Kit Andromeda leans towards me at a torturously slow pace, a predator memorizing the scent of fear along its prey. His words are a breathy whisper that heats the skin beneath my ear. “Do you want to touch me?”
“You charm your way into a clearing. You picture the softer version of him as you do—the one the wine lured out. And then, no matter what, you don’t let your actions eat away at your soul afterwards.”
Madman’s ominous warning had felt like nonsense, absolute worst-case scenario. I barely let them sink into my conscience, believing I’d never have to heed his words.
But I’m cornered, not just physically. If I take a step backward, I fall onto the bed, and Saints know what Kit might assume considering the current topic of conversation. If I move forward, our bodies will collide, and any accidental movements may be mistaken for an invitation.
There’s only one way out of this—through it.
“I can’t touch you when you refuse to separate me from my family,” I say, abstaining from an outright denial or confession. “You’d see me as the enemy laying hands on you, not for what it really would be.”
I see a lump bob in Kit’s throat as he swallows. “And what’s that?”
“A woman trying to better understand a man who has shown her unexpected hospitality.”
Truth be told, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing while covertly exchanging books from his shelves and reading them cover to cover—trying to know him better. Trying to understand what makes Kit Andromeda tick, and, perhaps more perilously, what sets his jaded heart aflame.
Parched, his words pierce the air around us. “Try, then.”
And so, I dare to reach an unsteady hand towards Kit, my fingers delicately stroking the fabric of his shirt. He shuts his eyes, turning rigid and his body flinching at the initial contact. I go to retract my hand at the touch, but find his hand clamping around my wrist before I get the chance.
Kit pulls me flush against him, and I gasp from the sheer force of it, of the sensation of my torso memorizing the outline of his. I drop the book on the floor, my hands circling around his neck.
I know the hell I’ll have to pay for this, but I block it out—just for a moment. Long enough for the green of Kit Andromeda’s eyes to tear through my defenses. I allow my face to soften under his astute gaze, recalling the sound of his drunken laugh and the way his painted features made him appear comical as opposed to his usual coldness. I accept the heat his hands brand into the skin along my arms, and I stand firm and unrelenting as he allows himself to trace my body further.
My shoulders
My back.
My hips.
“I should have simply asked you for the book,” I choke out.
“I shouldn’t have combed through your drawers.”
Kit drags a gentle hand across the side of my face, and I shiver as he sweeps my curls away. His lingering touch cradles my jaw, and I’m inclined to nestle into it. “And I wish you didn’t have to be the pawn in all this. I may go through with it all, but you make it . . . difficult to do so.”
Silence looms over us, and just as my mind starts to wonder if kissing Kit wouldn’t be so terrible of an idea, he asks me in a feather-light whisper, “You looked upset when you first came in. Would you tell me what troubles you?”
Kit will destroy me in order to punish Venus and Jericho, won’t he?
But then, his hold on me slackens, as if to silently assure me that he doesn’t mean to corner me into an answer or trap me within his touch.
“I’m trying to convince myself that my family hasn’t given up on me,” I answer. “But I’m having a hard time holding out hope.”
Something about that final word lands an unintended blow, and he steps back. Then, he skirts around me, collecting the copy of Mosacian Ideologies and Stories of Old off the ground. Dusting it off, Kit says, “I think that page 213 will change your mind.”
He extends the book towards me once more, and as the weight of it shifts into my grasp, Kit dismisses himself without so much as a backwards glance. In efforts to dull the ache his absence leaves me with, I pick through the pages until I see the marker and splay the pages wide.
My eyes bulge at the title:
The Maiden Pandora and her Ill-Fated Box