Chapter 4
FOUR
Crymson
I think it’s the gown that’s triggering me so hard. He ripped me away from the men I love and brought me to his home. Laid me in this bed . . .
And now I’m wearing a fine gown of his choosing.
“It’s a very fine color, ma’am,” the pretty fae girl, Raffillia, says.
My gaze flits down to the red lace that hugs my chest, flowing down to a boned corset that flares out with a high slit that feels entirely sexier than it should.
Flashes of memories of firm hands gripping pretty green fabric, pushing up my thighs until the feel of their touch against my skin shivers all through my body.
I swallow slowly.
“It is,” I agree stiffly.
I hate that it’s a fucking gorgeous designer dress that most girls would sob their eyes out to even own.
But it’s his. And therefore, I despise the way it gives me curves where I normally have none. I hate that it makes me look like a bad bitch in every single way.
It’s terrible. The worst.
I love it.
“Are you—” His rumbling words halt the moment his eyes lock on mine. He stands awkwardly in the doorway, and even the thought of him being speechless is too much for me to stand.
“What?” I wait for him to finish his never-ending thoughts.
His gaze flits away from me but comes right back. It’s the look in his eyes; it’s telling. I know he isn’t my dear sweet kin like he told Christian he was.
And the lie only grows more reckless when his gaze lingers on my body like it does now.
“What?” I bark again, my hands flinging up with impatience crawling through my body.
His throat clears harshly and that smooth arrogance slips back over his face like a mask he’ll never throw away. He smiles, only one side of his full lips pulling up at the corner.
“Seven. I wanted to take you to see your friend.”
I blink at that. It’s a kindness from the Thorn King. A murderer I remember them describing him as . . .
He’s still an asshole I’ll never trust. But he’s a kind asshole, apparently.
I nod quietly, unable to think of a rational response that wouldn’t end with me calling him petty names.
Even if I want to.
It’s unbearably peaceful in Seven’s room.
It’s a spacious space with a white pitcher of water waiting at his enormous bedside.
A woman sits at the window, the sunlight gleaming across her pale blonde hair.
The golden harp in her hands streams a soothing sound, her fingers plucking the strings carelessly but perfectly.
“Who is she?” I whisper like gossip.
“Entertainment,” Thorn murmurs.
My eyes narrow on the woman and the strangeness of it all. The soft sound sweeps through the room, calming me and filling me with warmth as I listen.
“Music mends the mind,” he adds, and I hate how much I like the idea of his words. His people take care of their wounded . . .
While the Blood Kingdom chases them down in dark ash-ridden forests until their screams are all you hear.
I peer down at the stillness of Seven’s features. Knots twist through my stomach just looking at him. He came here for me. And almost died because of me.
“Why hasn’t he woken up?” I ask, my voice barely allowing the rasping words to escape. I lower down, unable to stop my knees from sinking until I’m lightly sitting at his side, barely touching him like I’m afraid I’ll break the strongest man I’ve ever met.
“The aide has mentioned that the venom of the Dead is combating his healing,” Thorn explains. He points to an IV bag hanging from an intricately woven wooden pole that’s filled with some sort of dark liquid. “We’ve taken action to counter the venom.”
My eyes zero in on the dark substance that doesn’t quite look like blood. “And what is in that?”
Thorn doesn’t shift or give any indication that he’s nervous, but there’s something in the way his eyes meet mine that tells me he is. I don’t know how I know that. How I’m able to read a man so unreadable, but I feel the knowledge in my soul.
“It’s a mixture of vampire blood . . . and fae,” he finally explains.
I tense. “That won’t hurt him?”
I can’t begin to understand the mechanics of fae and vampires as a species. Hell, science was never my forte, but that seems counterproductive when Seven is a mystical fucking fae vampire from a realm that shouldn’t really exist . . .
“Hurt him?” Thorn shakes his head. “No. But . . . he may wake up . . . different.”
“Then why do it?” I growl, my hands clenching the side of the mattress. “Why risk that?”
“If we don’t, he dies,” Thorn replies with a shrug. “Your choice, Crymson. After all, he’s your vampire, as you say.”
This time, there’s a hint of jealousy in those words that gives me pause.
I know he’s lying about us being related in some way.
Christian seemed under the impression that Thorn could even be my father, but that’s clearly not the case.
It’s strange to think of this terrifying man as any sort of relation, even though I know that for the lie it is.
I have no doubt he’ll admit it at some point.
The way he looks at me, the way he seems jealous of Seven, no kin should be.
No, there are other things at play here.
“Leave it,” I finally mumble. “But if he dies, I’m coming for your pointy-eared head!”
The corner of his lips ticks up. “I’d expect nothing less.” He gestures for me to follow him toward the door. “Come.”
I hesitate to follow him, mainly because I’d like to sit with Seven more, but I reassure myself that I can come visit him anytime I’d like.
No one seems to be trying to cage me here, as much as it still feels like I’m a pawn in a game.
My hand lingers on his cold knuckles, but I stand, my eyes trailing over to the large window, where a hawk sits on a tree branch outside.
It’s a large hawk, its eyes peering through the window at us as it tilts its head to the side.
How strange. When I hesitate to follow Thorn again, the hawk takes off into the air, soaring away.
I shrug and follow after the Thorn King.
The halls are brightly torchlit, and open windows shed light across the shining floors.
Gold paint accents the high-arching ceilings.
Wealth clings to the details of the architecture of this place, and it’s like every single person inside the walls of this castle is oblivious to how well off they clearly are in comparison to their neighboring kingdom.
Thorn is silent as I follow him through the long and winding halls, my eyes glancing over to him every so often.
He carries himself like I’d expect a king would, all arrogance and power.
He clearly doesn’t like to wear shirts since he’s also shirtless now, but I assume his wings and the strange thorn protrusions on his skin would make it difficult to wear them.
My eyes trail down his body to where he wears pants, and I wonder if the thorns continue beneath the waistband.
Not that I should be worrying about what’s in his pants or anything.
We step out of the castle into what looks like a courtyard where all manner of fae soldiers seem to be doing a variety of exercises.
Sparring, working out, archery: the lot of them seem to be practicing whatever they can.
There’s even a few of them practicing what looks like magic over in the corner.
Most of them are shirtless, leaving me to a display of sweaty muscles that I might have dreamed of before I was kidnapped by a gorgeous gothic vampire with a terrible attitude.
Now, it just doesn’t do it for me the same. Not when my life is constantly in danger.
“Why are we here?” I ask, staring at the tall walls that enclose us.
“I just wanted you to see,” Thorn replies.
“See what?” I peer around at the soldiers, at all that they’re doing, and admittedly, they seem perfectly capable as warriors.
Thorn looks down at me, his eyes shining with some emotion I can’t place. “That you’re safe here,” he murmurs. “That if Boris should come searching for you, he’ll be met with resistance. Destruction. Death.”
The death and destruction sound a bit much, but it’s all a bit much. Everything about Thorn is.
I frown up at the Thorn King, his words confusing me more than anything else he could have said. “Am I not a prisoner here?”
After all, he took me from the Blood Court, and he hardly gave room for argument.
“You’re a guest,” he answers.
“So, I can leave?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
He tilts his head. “For your safety, it’s best you stay.”
I roll my eyes. “So, I am a prisoner. Good to know.” I scoff. “You know, I didn’t need to see this. It’s not necessary. I understand Boris won’t come find me here. Otherwise, your court would have been conquered long ago.”
He hums under his breath. “Still, I wanted you to know you’re safe, Crymson.”
I look up at him, study his devastatingly dangerous and handsome face, and shake my head. “I don’t know what safety feels like,” I admit. “But this feels just as unsafe as I’ve ever been.”
Sadness flickers in his eyes. “I hope to change that feeling.”
“Good luck.” I shrug, stubbornly focusing back on the sparring.
If the Fae King wants to try and prove me wrong, then who am I to stop him? There’s no point in telling him it’s useless.
There’s no point in telling him that safety is a myth told to children who didn’t grow up in homes like I did.