Chapter 8 Merrit
Merrit
Wood met stone with a hollow crack, the sound stealing through me. My heart picked it up, battering my ribs as if trying to escape the imprint of Kieran's hand. Every nerve sang, my throat burning with the ghost of his thumb.
I hated that I felt it. Hated the heat clawing through me more than I hated his threats. Because he’d read me—so easily. A heartbeat, a tremor, a blush, and he’d laid me bare. And he was right: every vampire in this gods-forsaken Court would do the same.
The room pressed close, heavy with the scent of amber and woodsmoke, the taste of him still lingering in the air. I needed to scrub it off me, burn it away before it rooted deeper.
The adjoining chamber gleamed like something stolen from a dream. Black marble underfoot, copper fixtures curved like serpents, a basin deep enough to drown in. Runes glowed faintly along the pipes, waiting.
At Lock & Key, I had a shower hacked together from charms and half-rotted plumbing, the pressure wheezing worse than an old drunk. Here, a brush of my fingers over the sigils stirred the wards awake, water humming through hidden veins in the stone until steam curled heavy in the air.
I stripped fast, dropping Divide-stained clothes in a heap. Horse, sweat, the scent of the road clung to them—proof of safety already lost. The heat rose, bright and scented with herbs I didn’t know. Luxury surrounded me, thick enough to choke.
But I slid into the basin, anyway. Because in the Divide, you didn’t waste what you were given. Comfort was rare, fleeting, meant to be taken when it appeared. If tomorrow brought ruin, then tonight I’d bank this moment against it.
The water hit like absolution. Hot enough to sting, hotter still as I sank beneath the surface.
It pulled the tightness from my muscles but not the memory of him.
I could still feel the press of his chest, the brush of his mouth on my throat.
A shiver broke over me, heat colliding with cold, shame with something I didn’t want to name.
I ducked under, scrubbing until my skin burned and every freckle felt raw.
Soap stung my eyes as I worked it through my hair, suds tangling with strands until the water foamed pale around me.
Glass vials lined the ledge, their contents shimmering faintly: herbal tonics, potions bottled in jewel tones.
I uncorked one. The scent burst bright and sweet, something like crushed roses over embers.
Another smelled of mint and rain, bright enough to sting my nose.
At home, I made do with rinses from witch brews traded for coin or favors, whatever kept my hair clean and manageable.
This—this was indulgence dressed in glass and silk ribbon.
I let the rose-smoke tonic spill over my scalp, fingers massaging until my hair grew heavy with silk instead of grit. For a moment, I let myself savor it—the way the strands slipped clean through my fingers, the way the steam carried unfamiliar scents into my lungs.
But the thought rose anyway, insistent as a bruise: tonight, I had to stand at his side and make the Court believe the lie. His consort. His lover. His prize.
And saints help me, I didn’t know if I feared failing him… or myself.
Steam blurred the edges of the room as I sank deeper into the water, until only my face broke the surface.
For a blessed moment, silence pressed in—no thoughts, no whispers—only the hollow beat of my own heart.
Heat stole the tightness from my muscles, the weight on my shoulders lifting until I felt almost human again. Almost free.
But silence was never mine to keep.
I surfaced, pushing hair from my eyes, and forced myself out of the basin before I grew too comfortable.
Plush towels waited, thick enough to consume me.
I buried myself in one, the fabric greedily drinking away water until my skin tingled.
Beside it hung a dressing gown—silk, rich and heavy, with a crest stitched into the breast. A raven clutching a serpent. His mark.
The robe smelled faintly of him—cedar, steel, and something darker underneath. I hated how easily it settled over my shoulders, how the fabric skimmed my skin as though it belonged there.
My satchel sat across the chamber where he’d dropped it, sagging against the carved table, ordinary as any pack—except for the weight inside.
I padded toward it, bare feet silent on stone. My fingers found the strap, then the glass edge beneath worn leather. The elixir. A mouthful of bitter herbs, enough to dull the roar of thoughts to a manageable hum. Enough to quiet the Court’s venom before they slid too deep.
One mouthful, and the edges would soften.
My breath steadied just thinking of it. But the memory rose sudden and sour—one night in the Divide, a tavern brimming with thoughts like hornets, my skull buzzing so loud I’d taken the elixir too fast. Sluggish, unbalanced, I hadn’t noticed the man at my back until his hand found my shoulder.
Jex had peeled him off me with the same calm efficiency he used to throw drunks into the street.
His silence had been its own warning: Next time, he might not be there.
Rhett always said I spoiled Jex, letting him skim coin from the tables and drink whatever he pleased.
But I knew his quick hands and quicker temper were the only reason I was still breathing.
I gripped the vial tighter, the cork biting my palm. The temptation was always the same: drink, breathe, survive. But surviving with my senses dulled was just another kind of risk. Here in Morathen, I couldn’t afford to stumble.
With a hiss, I shoved the satchel closed. The cork would stay sealed. Not drunk but not forgotten, either. I tucked the vial into an inner pocket, close enough to reach if the noise became unbearable. My throat ached with the wanting, but my spine straightened with refusal.
I cinched the robe tighter, pulling my hair into a knot. Tonight, I would face the Court unclouded. And if the silence broke me, I’d have my absolution close at hand.
The satchel shut with a hollow snap, the vial heavy against my ribs. I drew the robe tighter and turned—just as the door banged open.
“Finally,” Serenya announced, sweeping in like she owned the place, her fingers following her words in broad, theatrical signs. “If you’d soaked any longer, I’d have sent someone in after you with a net.”
Attendants hustled in behind her, staggering under the weight of trunks and velvet-wrapped bundles. The scent of cedar oil and lavender burst into the chamber as they set their burdens down, clasps snapping, lids creaking open to reveal a small mountain of silk, satin, and glittering jewels.
Serenya grinned wide enough to show a hint of fang, her hands flashing as fast as her tongue. “Don’t look so grim,” she teased. “This is the fun part. Clothes, jewels, paint—everything a girl needs to make a room full of bloodsuckers choke on their envy.”
I blinked at the pile of finery as though it might sprout teeth. “Fun” wasn’t the word I would’ve chosen.
She clucked her tongue at me, already striding over to paw through a heap of gowns with all the delicacy of a wolf in a henhouse.
“Kieran was right—you’re a disaster. But don’t worry, cousin Serenya’s here to fix you.
” She tossed a gown at one of the attendants without looking.
“Not that one. Though green will set off her eyes. And the silver combs. Gods, do we have time for braids?”
The attendants exchanged nervous glances, but Serenya was already elbow-deep in another trunk, muttering happily about hems and décolletage.
I stood rooted, robe heavy on my shoulders, while the tide of color and silk rose around me.
Divide pragmatism whispered that all this was excess.
But Serenya’s grin was infectious, the room brighter just for having her in it—and for the first time since stepping into Morathen, the weight pressing down on me eased, if only by a thread.
Serenya darted to the largest trunk, flung it open, and gave a triumphant, “Ha!” She held up a gown blacker than midnight, the fabric alive with embroidery that caught the light like scattered stars. She spun it once, sheer sleeves and high collar glinting wickedly.
“Perfect,” she declared, thrusting it at an attendant for safekeeping. “The Hunt is half-bloodsport, half-theater. This will make them wonder if she’s come to play or to kill.”
The attendants exchanged glances, just as she meant them to, before bustling me toward a chair. Hands descended—combs tugging through damp strands, brushes dusting powder across my skin.
Saints, her hair is thicker than it looks.
The prince’s taste, though…
We’ll never finish in time.
Their thoughts pressed in, a constant buzz beneath the tug of pins and the sweep of paint. I sat motionless, spine stiff, forcing my breath to slow.
Serenya lounged nearby, grinning like a cat with cream. “Eyes open, darling. Chin up. You’re about to be made lethal.” She signed as she spoke, exaggerated flourishes that drew giggles from the attendants.
One muttered as she painted salve across my lips, “Plaything or not, she’ll turn heads tonight.”
Another’s thought snagged—If the rumors are true, she won’t last long in his bed.
I slammed a wall tight, refusing to flinch. Pettiness wasn’t what I was hunting for. I needed whispers of treachery, of daggers aimed at Kieran’s back. So far—nothing.
At last, my hair was twisted into an elegant knot, silver combs catching the light. Powder gleamed across my cheeks, blurring my freckles to a suggestion beneath the shimmer. I hardly recognized the stranger in the mirror propped against the trunk.
Serenya clapped once, triumphant. “Now. The dress.”
The attendants brought the gown forward like an offering, black silk spilling between them in a shimmer of embroidery and heavy beadwork.