Chapter Sixteen Lore #3
The woman swung those shrewd eyes to me; then she shoved her way between me and Sloth, holding up a swath of fabric she’d wrenched out of the dressmaker’s hands to shield his prying eyes from my nearly naked form.
“Cover yourself at once, my lady! What on earth will your fiancé think if he hears of this? And right before the betrothal ball tonight too! Lord have mercy, this is a scandal in the making.”
The other women all clucked their tongues in agreement.
I wrapped myself in the bolt of fabric. This felt like punishment from the Liber Noctem for passing the last test and denying Logan Blaze.
“I—”
Apparently, the woman wasn’t finished scolding me.
She wagged a finger in my face.
“Mark my words, if the marquess finds out, someone’s head will roll. To think you allowed that libertine to stare at you so thoroughly. One would even believe you enjoyed his attention like some common harlot.”
I took a deep breath to center myself.
I was feeling… strange after this story shift.
I wasn’t sure if it was because the magic that created the stories was becoming more powerful, even with the dark book twisting it, as evidenced by our change in clothing this time. Or if there was some other force at play.
Whatever the cause, the more the woman insulted me, the darker my thoughts became. The phoenix tear warmed in my hand, like it knew I might call upon it again and was letting me know it was ready.
Part of me wanted to lash out, to set my magic on anyone who dared to reprimand me or attempt to shame me. I did not like when women were called harlots for the simple fact that they had physical desire.
Darkness swelled up, eager to do my bidding. Shadows seeming to uncoil like a nest of vipers ready to strike.
I blinked as horrific images flashed across my mind.
Blood splattered across the fine silks. The bodies of the women in this room lying in unmoving heaps.
Their eyes unfocused and lifeless.
I could end them all, trap them in nightmares until their minds shattered, and go about my day. My hand tightened on the phoenix tear.
For some reason, I knew it would be so easy to direct those thoughts, to punish and seek vengeance right now.
My parents’ worried faces suddenly crossed my mind.
They would be horrified by my twisted thoughts.
And rightfully so. They’d raised me to be loving and kind.
Not… some callous murderess. That thought was enough to wrench me out of whatever had overtaken me.
The prince shot me a concerned look.
I offered a slight shake of my head; we’d discuss it when we weren’t surrounded by members of high society who loved to gossip.
I exhaled slowly, the sensation calming. That was… intense. I was starting to worry that I was teetering close to a nervous breakdown. My thoughts had never been so… twisted. I was a dreamer by nature, and wherever those images came from, they felt wrong.
Sloth had stepped down from the platform at the woman’s insistence, but he arched a brow in my direction.
His mood was getting downright stormy.
I didn’t need any psychic abilities to see he was close to reacting to the woman’s proximity to me and whatever dark feelings he likely sensed that she was stirring within me.
Being the supreme sociopath he was, I knew he wouldn’t hesitate to make my bloody thoughts reality.
I needed to figure out what this next test was before someone got hurt. Possibly by my own hand if I was playing the part of noblewoman who moonlighted as a killer.
Or, more likely, a dreamweaver being manipulated into some casual murder by a dark book of magic.
I scrambled to think of which historical romance this was, but it was difficult to do when I was standing in a few scraps of lace and had just daydreamed a massacre that felt like a memory more than simply the Liber Noctem’s newest interference. But that couldn’t be true.
Unless something else was slowly taking over me.
When faced with the possibility of losing my mind in public, I did what any main character would do.
I pasted on a bright smile and batted my lashes like everything was completely fine and I hadn’t been envisioning their murders in graphic detail.
“No one’s head will roll, my lady.” Unless, of course, the Liber Noctem came out to play. I shoved that thought aside.
I had no idea who she was, but that didn’t seem to land since I’d called her a lady and I assumed that was a sufficient honorific for the time period.
“You know Lord Winters enjoys chaos,” I guessed based on all the historical romances I read where a rake or rogue was often at its center, stirring up all sorts of fun drama.
These women seemed well acquainted with his debauched ways.
A ripple of irritation went through me that I promptly ignored. I wanted Dark Lore to stay locked away.
“You ought to have known better,” the chiding woman sniffed.
“You’re absolutely right. But we have a betrothal ball to prepare for. I’m sure we can keep this minor hiccup from my wonderful husband-to-be.” I turned my charm up a notch and faced the prince. “Isn’t that right, Lord Winters?”
Sloth leveled me with an icy glare.
He looked like we’d entered his own personal hell.
I’d already guessed that social gatherings were his least favorite things. Second only to playing nice with others.
“Your secret is safe with me, my lady.”
That sounded like a threat more than a promise, but my heart gave an extra pitter-patter all the same.
This time when I smiled, it was genuine.
As far as Trials went, how bad could attending one little ball with a grumpy prince be?