Chapter 43
Secret Passage
MAX
Mirrors line the throne room from floor to ceiling, turning one chamber into a hundred. The round pillars, the curves of the staircases, the glass enclosure hanging overhead. Everything is the same as it was this afternoon.
My feet are so, so cold, and I look down.
A thin coat of frost peels off the marble as I circle the very scene I stumbled upon earlier, except this time, I’m no hidden voyeur on the mezzanine.
I’m on the raised pedestal, close enough to touch the throne, close enough to hear every moan and count the beauty marks on Iris’s neck.
My past self stares down from above with wide, horrified eyes, and I see the exact moment she realizes the King of Light was the man who flew into my mother’s bedroom, and why he looked so much like E.
Ethan and Iris are still…I’m not sure “making love” applies here, but they’re certainly having sex.
Iris is bent over the throne, her head thrown back, her dark hair spilling over the gilded armrest as the King of Light takes what he wants from her. His white wings stretch behind him, more for show than from any need to fly, his hands wrapped possessively around her hips.
I’m forced to witness their coupling again, the arch of Iris’s spine, the parting of her lips, the moment her face tightens in ecstasy.
Every mirror offers a new scandalous angle, another stolen glimpse. No matter where I turn, the dream wants me to witness it all again. Every breathless sound Iris makes ricochets off polished glass until it feels like I’m trapped inside the act with them.
I can’t even close my eyes.
The scene continues in a series of satisfied grunts and dirty praise from the King of Light until the mirrors begin to frost over.
Another Iris appears in the glass, and I freeze. This new Iris is bent over the throne, too, but she’s not merely a reflection. A completely different scene is playing out beyond the glass.
There, Iris is crying. Sobbing, really.
Her hair hangs in wild, tangled ropes around her face.
She flickers in and out of view, half-obscured by the motion created by the man ramming in and out of her.
Tears stream down her cheeks. Her mouth is swollen, bruised, black and blue, her lower lip split open. One side of her jaw darkens with the bloom of a fresh handprint.
Next to me, the first Iris cries out, her body shuddering toward climax.
In the mirrors, the broken one weeps.
The images begin to overlap, and the broken Iris suddenly appears over the throne, screaming in pain. Begging Ethan to stop.
A silent shout tears from my throat.
When I look back at the mirrors, the crying, disheveled Iris is reflected back at me. Different versions of her haunt the mirrors. In one, she stands at the far end of the chamber. In another, she’s only feet away. In another, she’s directly behind me.
She looks so vivid I can make out the shine of tears on her skin, the violent bruising around her mouth, the faint tremor in her breathing. She lifts one hand slowly, almost weakly, and presses it against the transparent pane of glass between us.
I don’t remember moving, but suddenly I’m there too, our palms nearly aligned, mine only slightly larger against the glass.
Her eyes lock onto mine, and her lips part. “Help me.”
I wake to a chilly wind raising goosebumps on my arms. For a moment, I lie still, caught between sleep and wakefulness.
Moonlight climbs the posts of the white four-poster bed. The pleasant evening breeze has become an icy gale, rattling the opened windows and carrying a bite of danger.
E didn’t visit me after I stormed off. Not in real life nor in my dreams, and I’m almost disappointed.
I wanted space, but I find myself wishing I’d let him sleep beside me.
Like that would have been enough, my inner self snickers.
My interlude with E left a giant hollow at the pit of my belly. I felt his anger and jealousy, yet neither affected me the way they should have.
I was scared of my own reaction and came this close to abandoning all rationality. Thankfully, the sight of the throne in the mirror as his hands slid over my hips poured some much-needed perspective on my body's insane urges.
The way it warped in the glass unsettled me. It looked as though someone was sitting upon it on the other side of the mirror, watching us through the reflection.
It sounds silly now, when I think about it. It’s probably my lifelong fear of mirrors playing tricks on me.
Still, an itch burns at the back of my throat. I'm incredibly tempted to wake up tomorrow and burn Willow's magic out of E—her imprint, her memory—just so I can have him for myself.
The thought is selfish.
Monstrous.
Another glacial burst of wind blows across my face, and I frown. The night air smells impossibly clean, touched by clouds and distant rain; a storm is brewing.
Shivering, I push back the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The cold floor bites my bare feet as I cross the room to the windows, pulling them shut and securing the small golden latches one by one.
A handful of snowflakes drifts past the last window before I’m done, the largest one swirling down to kiss my cleavage.
Before going to bed, I changed into an opal nightgown I found hanging in the wardrobe. The neckline plunges all the way to my navel, revealing far more skin than I’m comfortable with. The fabric is cool and light, yet somehow stimulates every erogenous zone on my body.
Despite shutting the windows, the freezing wind still toys with the hem of the skirt. I look down at my legs, at the shimmering fabric stirring around them.
The window is closed.
So why is my skirt still moving?
I cross the room to the solid wall there, and the tapestry…breathes. The sight of the moving wall sends my heart into a frenzy.
“Is someone there?” I call to the dark.
No answer.
I run a hand over the tapestry, investigating the place where it shifted. The fabric is smooth and luxurious beneath my touch, woven in gold and cream thread, depicting leaves climbing over bark, clearly inspired by the Sun Court’s sacred tree.
My fingers catch on a bump in the wall, then dip into a hollow. Another draft stirs my hair, definitely coming from behind it.
My fire flares to life, burning a hole straight through the fabric. The embroidered threads curl black at the edges as I hook a finger through the opening and pull.
Hidden behind the tapestry is a shallow alcove.
My serpent flames rise delicately to light the dark passage, drifting forward and illuminating a set of rusted hinges mounted directly into stone.
A door used to be here, and the realization sends a thrill through me.
I step into the alcove and find a narrow opening beyond it. The ceiling drops sharply, forcing me to crouch. Beyond, a spiral staircase disappears into darkness.
I’ve only descended a few meters when a voice echoes down from above.
“Max!” E says breathlessly, his voice muffled.
I stop and glance up.
“E?”
“Are you inside the wall? Wait up.”
I glance down at my nightgown again and grimace, folding my arms to cover myself up a bit, secretly relieved that I don't have to explore the underbelly of this castle alone.
I thought he might visit me tonight, against my warning and his better judgment. To be frank, I expected him to.
A small, ridiculous part of me didn't think he'd wait this long.
E grunts as he squeezes into the cramped passage. “Blessed Flame. Who were these stairs meant for?”
I think back to Mabel’s library.
“High Fae and royals frequently use sprites for domestic work. Given the way this staircase is condemned, though, I’d say no sprite has worked here in a very long time.”
“Mm. That’s probably true.”
He catches up to me, and the hint of blood staining the stone at his feet throws me for a loop.
My face wrinkles in alarm. “Why are you bleeding?”
He pauses, his bite of power a little wild. “Iris came to my room to…you know. I turned her down, but she attacked me.”
My stomach drops. “What?” I chew on that for a second before I manage to growl. “I really hate that woman.”
“That’s why I came to find you. I was hoping you could clean and bandage the wound,” he explains sheepishly.
I stare at the space he occupies, then plant both hands on his chest and shove. “Turn around.”
“Max—”
“Move.”
He stumbles back a step.
Without another word, I march back up the staircase, forcing him to retreat ahead of me. We emerge into the bedroom moments later, his broad shoulders tearing away another section of the tapestry as he squeezes through the opening.
“Where is the wound, exactly?” I ask.
E gathers my hands in his and guides me to the bed. My gaze drops to the duvet, where bandages and tape have been dumped in an untidy heap. On the bedside table, wet rags swim in a silvery water basin.
“Where did you find this?” I ask.
“I asked a servant.”
Then he guides one of my hands to the junction of his neck and shoulder. The moment my fingers brush the injury, I hiss.
“Och. This isn’t a scratch.” I probe the edges carefully. The skin is hot and swollen beneath my fingertips. “She fucking filleted your neck.”
He huffs out a tired laugh. “Tell me about it. After I said no, she mentioned that I’d killed her—well, almost killed her, I guess. She hates me, really.”
I sit him on the bed and apply a pack of gauze-like fabric to the wound, pressing hard on it. “Yet she sang the virtues of your cock to me and told me you were her favorite lover.”
His voice lowers. “She said that? When?”
There’s no pride or guile in his question, just disbelief.
“Right before dinner,” I say scathingly.
After your father fucked her in front of me, I almost add.
“I’m so sorry, Max. I had no idea.”
We wait in silence while I apply pressure to the wound, him sitting on the edge of the bed, me standing over him. Blood spatters stain the duvet beneath us, spreading across the empty patch of mattress between his invisible legs.
“This is going to need a healing poultice, or at the very least a proper cleaning and stitches if you don’t want it to leave a scar.”