Chapter 8
Vivian’s Point of View
Rule eight: When in doubt, talk about poop.
You know how some people are hyper-motivated as they get closer to a deadline?
I am not one of those people. I am the antithesis of those people.
I hear the word deadline, and I get such a rush of anxiety that I can’t focus on anything else until the task is finished.
And while it was a phenomenal strategy for college, it isn’t translating particularly well to my current predicament.
Thirteen days. I have thirteen days to solve my growing list of mostly apocalyptic problems.
No pressure.
But guilt and fear are only going to get my loved ones killed, and I will not let them down. So, I’m compartmentalizing hard.
A good night’s sleep is exactly what I need to start thinking about solutions. Unfortunately, I only managed a few hours, so for now, I’ve settled on ‘take down the Council from within.’
That’s it. That’s the plan.
Totally doable.
It’s not like much wiser people have already tried to do just that for thousands of years. But if there’s anything romantasy novels have taught me, it’s that clearly, only twenty-something-year-olds are fit for the impossible.
It’s fine. I’m sure I’ll come up with the details later today. I probably just need to draw up a mind-map or something (delusion is my friend). But no amount of delusion is going to save me from having to enter Leon’s room.
I’ve already moved the wardrobe, but I haven’t been able to make myself open the door.
Can we bring back chamber pots?
Taking a deep inhale, I double-check that the mate bond connection between Sin and me is still firmly shut. I haven’t felt anything from it this morning, but I need to be sure.
Luckily, the curtains are still tightly shut, and I swallow nervously before knocking on the adjoining door.
Nothing happens. Maybe this is my lucky day, and Leon’s already left to go do something else.
Or maybe I need to stop having foolish inclinations like hope. Because of course, the moment I step into his room, I find him standing by a dresser, wearing nothing but a towel. He’s clearly just had a shower, as evidenced by the water droplets still clinging to his skin.
My gaze immediately drops to the floor, and I try to hide my annoyance. He definitely heard me knock. He wanted me to find him like this.
“Good morning, pet,” he croons as he strides over to me with the overconfidence only truly mastered by mediocre men.
“Morning,” I mutter, trying to sound groggy.
The bathroom is next to his bed. More of my hope deflates. I was hoping to dash inside and avoid him, but the last thing I need is for Leon to chase me, only a couple of feet from a bed.
Time for plan B (there is no plan B).
Time to wing it.
Leon lifts his hand like he’s about to stroke my face.
“BATHROOM!” I exclaim.
He stills, looking mildly confused.
“I need to use the bathroom. Really badly.” I bounce on my heels for added effect.
He frowns, reluctantly lowering his hand. “Go ahead, I’ll wait for you.”
Not needing to be told twice, I hustle to the bathroom but pause at the threshold to make sure I’m not being followed.
Dread curls in my stomach when I find Leon watching me with a heated stare.
I wouldn’t put it past him to waltz inside while I’m in a vulnerable position.
I need to get his mind out of the gutter.
“I need to poop,” I deadpan, hoping it’s enough of a turn-off.
He looks less than impressed with my oversharing, but doesn’t move. I turn it up a notch.
“It’s uhm, it’s not going to be pretty.” I pat my stomach. “I’d really rather you weren’t around to listen. I’m so embarrassed,” I finish, my cheeks flushing.
It takes a heroic effort on my part to keep a straight face at his answering look of shock and disgust.
He staggers back a step. “You will bathe when you are finished.” The command comes through the mental leash as he grabs his clothes and all but runs from the room.
The rest of the morning goes by in a panicked blur. There’s no lady’s maid sent to help me, and I’m grateful. I can’t be responsible for more deaths.
Kenzie’s lifeless eyes staring up at me from a pool of blood.
The flashback makes my blood run cold, and I shiver before shoving down the paralyzing guilt.
She will not die in vain. But if I want to bring down the Council, then I need them to lower their guard.
I tie off the ribbon at the base of my French braid. If Need wants me to look like a ball of fluff, then that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
By the time Leon strides back into the room (once again without knocking), I think I’ve done a decent job of looking the part.
Evidently, he disagrees. His eyes rake over me, scrutinizing every facet of my appearance, before settling on the ribbon. His nose wrinkles in obvious distaste.
He has a point. The ribbon would look much better if it were tied, very tightly, around his neck. The murderous thought grounds me as Leon yanks the offending bit of fabric. The ribbon falls to the ground, and my hair starts to come loose, effectively ruining my efforts at looking put together.
“I prefer your hair loose,” he notes, almost absentmindedly, as he starts winding the remains of my braid around his fist. “You will wear it as such.” He lifts my hair to his nose and takes a deep, shuddering inhale.
Goosebumps erupt down my spine.
No. Just no. Straight to jail.
I’d like to think things can’t get much worse, but of course, his focus shifts to my hand – the one that used to hold his engagement ring.
His jaw clenches, and it takes him less than two seconds to stride over to the wardrobe and retrieve the ring.
My stomach drops.
He can track it.
Still, Leon holds back his irritation as he pushes the ring onto my finger. “You cannot remove your ring. It’s for your protection. It’s a clear claim for all to see that you’re mine.”
He says it with that same condescending tone he seems to love, and the mental leash tugs.
I knew I should have flushed the damned ring.
Seemingly satisfied, Leon turns to the untouched tray of food on my bed and frowns.
“I’ve insisted that the slaves prepare meals that will be familiar to your stomach.
They have assured me that these are all staples from your realm and adhere to the highest nutrition guidelines. ” He looks at me expectantly.
“Uhm, thank you. I’m not very hungry, though,” I lie, since I have no intention of going anywhere near the bed while he’s in the room with me.
Leon’s eye twitches, and he takes another deep breath, as if it’s taking all of his effort to remain calm.
Do fantasy realms have anger management classes? I fear there may be a great need for them.
Finally, he manages to grind out, “Sit down, and eat. All of it.”
Immediately, the mental leash snaps, forcing me to take a seat beside the tray and start forcing food into my mouth.
“It is imperative that you keep up your nutrition, Vivian,” he instructs, and there’s an eerie gleam in his eyes as he watches me eat.
Something itches at the back of my mind, and I’m once again feeling paranoid over why he’s suddenly so invested in what I eat.
“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it? You will eat all meals given to you,” he notes with a dazzling smile when I finally clear my plate.
Again, the mental leash tugs. I guess we’re going to make force-feeding a habit. Still, I nod. I need to pick my battles. If Leon wants to watch me throw up from force-feeding, that’s a him problem. I’ll make sure my aim is on point.
Am I devolving as a person?
I haven’t even been conscious for a full day, and I’m already struggling to recognize who I’m becoming. Though I suppose if anything will strip you of your people-pleasing ways, it’s fighting for survival.
His chest puffs up when I don’t immediately fight him. “You are so unbelievably beautiful as a Creator. Your body is a temple, and I will see it cared for as such.”
I seem to remember there were a lot of temples where people were decapitated, and their heads were thrown down hundreds of steps.
If I’m going to be a temple, I would like to be the murder flavor.
Come to think of it, I think bathing in Leon’s blood would do fabulous things for my skin.
“I am adoring this quality time together and our conversations.” He looks genuinely pleased as he says it.
I’m pretty sure I’ve said all of ten words since he’s returned. It’s good to know exactly where the bar sits in terms of ‘good conversation.’
Six feet under.
The bar is six feet under.
“However,” Leon continues, interlacing his fingers with mine and pulling me to stand, “I cannot allow you to continue to distract me. We have important duties to attend to today. But do not despair, my love,” he adds, kissing my hand.
“We will still take every opportunity to work on us. I won’t be leaving your side. ”