Chapter 12 #3
I stepped out of the bath and followed them into the bedchamber, clutching the linen sheet to my damp skin.
The younger maid moved with me, gathering the heavy royal blue silks from the rack.
Together, we disappeared behind the heavy silk privacy screen in the corner of the room.
I dried myself with frantic hands and pulled on my silk undergarments, my skin still humming from the heat of the bath.
The maid worked in total, eerie silence, her fingers nimble as she began the arduous process of lacing me into the gown.
I was just smoothing the heavy skirts over my hips when a sharp, measured knock sounded on the main door.
“Lady Alistair,” Silas’s voice drifted through the wood, dutiful and respectful. “The time for your transformation is at hand.”
“One moment,” I called out. I stepped out from behind the screen, now decently dressed, the weight of the silk pooling around my feet. I took my seat at the vanity. “You may enter.”
The door hissed open. I watched Silas through the reflection of the mirror.
He entered with his chin tilted down, his gaze fixed strictly on the floorboards two paces ahead of him—the unwavering discipline of a high-ranking servant.
He gestured for the older maids to wait in the hall, then closed the door, remaining by the entrance like a sentinel.
I ignored his presence as the younger maid began the final process of the hair and jewels. She spoke only in clipped commands and confirmations. "Raise your hands, My Lady." "Is the bodice tight enough?”
“I thought you weren’t allowed to speak to me,” I snapped, the words slipping out with more venom than I intended.
I was baiting her, desperate for any reaction that wasn't performative efficiency. I still remembered Cain’s cold command from my first moments in this house: “My servants are shadows, Ophelia. They have no voice for you. Do not mistake their presence for company.”
The maid didn't even blink. She simply tightened the laces, ignoring my barb completely.
“Oh, I see how it is,” I scoffed, the silence fuelling my anger. “Selective silence. How very Alistair of you.”
She crowned my hair with a black diamond tiara that looked like sharp, twisted twigs and affixed long, wicked black diamond earrings that shone like captured stars. She then artfully gathered the long, heavy fire of my wavy red locks into a stunning, elaborate up-do.
Once the gown was fully fastened and the last jewel set, Silas finally looked up. Our eyes met in the silvered glass of the mirror. He did not move, but through my Empathy, I sensed a flicker of strange, quiet pride shining in his black eyes.
I sat motionless as the rich silk of the blue gown was pulled close.
I stared back into the massive mirror. The female reflected there—crimson, diamonds, fire-red hair—was a stranger.
I looked like a queen forged in a winter storm, a sacrifice who had decided to become a blade.
The beautiful, glittering shoes matched the diamond tiara perfectly.
I was almost out of breath staring at the powerful, dangerous image.
The maid stepped back. "It is time to descend, Lady Alistair."
"He chose this to brand you," Poppy grumbled. "He wants you to look like his possession, a dangerous, beautiful threat."
"He wants me to look like a sacrifice," I muttered back, sighing.
I sat still, allowing them to secure the final clasp of the black cloak, pulling the luxurious, heavy fabric close.
I then sent Poppy a low, focused mental command: "You and Rhana will remain secured at the estate.
This event is for Dyads only, and I need you safe. "
Finally prepared, I descended the grand staircase. My heart pounded a frantic rhythm against the rich silk of the gown, the train trailing behind me like a shadow.
Below, in the vast, empty foyer, Cain waited.
He wore his formal Cenite attire: a high-collared, tailored suit of shadow-weave silk and dark velvet that seemed to drink the light around him.
He was devastatingly handsome, a sinfully carved predator.
The obsidian buttons of his jacket and the small black diamond links at his cuffs flashed with a wicked shine that matched my earrings.
My eyes dragged immediately to his hands, big and dangerous. They were adorned with heavy, elaborate rings: a wide band of obsidian inlaid with raven skulls, another bearing a cold, eight-pointed North Star, and one, silver and smooth, carved with the symbol of infinity.
I hated him. I hated the perfection of his tailored clothes, the raw power of his frame, and the utter arrogance radiating from him. He was magnetic, lethal, and undeniably the most beautiful, dark thing I had ever seen.
He was observing me, and for a split-second, his mask faltered. His grey eyes widened, and I felt a pulse of pure, unadulterated physical shock ripple through our binding before his control slammed back into place.
He cleared his throat, a low, dry sound, and extended his hand. He offered no words, only the heavy, velvet weight of his silence, which spoke louder than any compliment.
Rage, hot and ugly, flooded my core. You cold, calculating brute! I screamed internally. Say the dress is adequate on me! Say something!
I took his waiting cold hand. The moment of contact sent a familiar, magnetic jolt through me. We walked in silence toward the waiting carriage, his arm a granite slab beneath my fingers.