Chapter 4
Iwake with the bitter taste of last night’s wine heavy on my tongue. My head throbs, and when I press my fingers to my temples, the memories of the evening surface sluggishly.
I roll to my side, my body stiff. And then I see it—a hand lying next to me. A hand attached to a shirtless man.
A man who isn’t Ryker.
I jerk upright, nearly tumbling off the bed. My pulse slams against my ribs, breath coming fast and shallow.
Mael stirs, groaning as he shifts. His dark hair is a tousled mess, his face still half-buried in the pillows, but the moment his bleary eyes land on me standing over the bed, my hair undone, the wrinkled bathrobe from last night slipping off one shoulder, they widen in horror.
He bolts upright with a sharp inhale, pressing a hand to his temple as though trying to steady himself.
“What—” His voice is hoarse, raw. His gaze flickers around the room until it lands on his crumpled shirt on the floor. His face twists in confusion, then alarm.
I just stand there, staring, frozen. My thoughts tangle, fraying at the edges, not a single one clear enough to form words.
Mael scrambles for his shirt, shoving his arms through the sleeves before running a shaky hand over his hair. His dark eyes meet mine, taking me in, lingering on the wildness of my hair. Then, a quick glance at my hands.
I finally follow his gaze to my fingers.
To my blackened fingers.
No.
No, no, no—
The breath in my lungs turns to stone.
My hands tremble, fingers rubbing against each other as if I can stop the curse before it spreads further. I shake them out violently, willing the darkness to recede, but it clings as if it’s always belonged there.
I stumble back, my legs weak beneath me, and rush to the mirror. When I see it, my world cracks in two.
A single red streak of hair among the snow-white waves.
It’s small. Barely noticeable. No more than a kiss’s worth of color. But it’s there.
The Crimson Tether.
The curse that has damned so many women before me.
I choke on my own breath, fingers digging into my arms as I wrap them around myself, holding on, as if I can stop my body from unraveling. I whirl to Mael, eyes wide, heart slamming against my ribs.
He says nothing. He doesn’t have to. I shake my head violently, answering the question he hasn’t even asked. This can’t be happening. It can’t.
His throat bobs as he swallows. “I’m so sorry, Ray.” His voice is quieter now. He takes a step toward me, but I flinch before I can stop myself.
Mael stills. He drags a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “We have to tell him.”
“Tell him what?” My voice barely makes it past my lips. This isn’t happening. It’s impossible.
Mael’s jaw clenches, his next words like a blade pressed to my throat. “Don’t touch anything living.”
Then he’s gone, slipping out the door before I can move, before I can stop him.
I stand there, breath locked in my chest, my body cold despite the heat seeping through the window. It all happens too fast, too suddenly, for my mind to catch up. But now that I’m alone, events from yesterday start clicking into place.
The lashing. The Archpriest. Mael in my room. The wine.
I remember him handing me the cup for a final toast, our glasses clinking and… I hadn’t planned to drink it all. But I had, hadn’t I? And now… now…
A sharp breath escapes me, and I slide to the floor.
I don’t feel different. My hands don’t tingle with power. But Mael’s warning rattles through me.
Don’t touch anything living.
I know I won’t. I can’t. Because if I did, it’d rot. A plant or a human, I’d take away its limb or more, depending on the length of contact. I can never again touch another person.
I can never again touch Ryker.
At any moment, the Chastity Wardens could burst through the doors, shove the gloves onto my arms, and drag me into Rust Hollow, never to step beyond its walls again. And if I so much as try to run…
They’ll do to me what they did to my mother.
But the second part of my mind, the louder one, screams that Ryker won’t allow it. He loves me. He’ll understand. I just have to wait for him.
We are supposed to change the kingdom together. A first big change. Surely, with the Archpriest gone and no Church leader to condemn me, Ryker could assert his influence. I just have to wait for him.
I close my eyes and surrender to the stillness around me, feeling the weight of sorrow collected over the centuries pressing down on me.
How many cursed girls have begged and cried in my place? Hoped for redemption? As far as I know, no one has ever been granted a second chance. And why would they?
Calista, the Goddess of Blood and Decay—the Witch Goddess, as people called her—cursed us out of spite for a mortal woman who stole her husband and hasn’t been worshiped for over a thousand years. Would she even hear a plea now? Would she even care?
Perhaps when a new Sovereign God or Goddess rises, things will change… but by then, it will already be too late.
Don’t touch anything living.
I don’t know how long I sit there, arms crossed tight, hands pressed under my elbows, refusing to move, when my gaze lands on the table, on the letter waiting there, mocking me with its neat, careful script.
With stiff movements, I walk toward it, grab it, and sink into the chair.
It is the recent letter my father sent me, avoiding the palace out of shame as usual. Or was he avoiding me? I read the last lines.
In becoming the king's wife, you embrace a destiny that has been long in the making. One that was almost stolen from us. But now, our family name will be cleansed of the disgrace your false-hearted mother brought upon it. I am proud of you, my daughter.
I can’t run. I can’t go to my family estate. My father barely tolerated me before, and that was when I was still his daughter. Now, I am a curse.
I press my fingers to the scar splitting my left eyebrow, a permanent reminder of how he felt about forgiveness. But I read the words again, slower this time, as if their meaning might shift if I held onto them long enough. I am proud of you.
A rare thing to see in his writing. Even rarer to hear from his lips.
My fingers tighten around the parchment, crinkling the edges. Pride.
Not for me, not for the girl who once sat at his feet, desperate for his approval. No, this pride was for his name, his redemption. For the daughter who had finally become useful.
With careful movements I light the candle on my desk, my father’s words resting between my stained fingers like a bitter joke.
The parchment crinkles as I hold it over the flame. A part of me hesitates, but only for a breath. Then the fire catches.
I watch the edges curl and blacken, the words vanishing in a slow, deliberate burn.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter and pretend that this small act of defiance means something, but I might as well be watching my own life burn.
Muffled voices jolt me back into awareness. My body protests as I uncoil from the cold stone floor, muscles stiff from hours spent curled in on myself. How long had I been here? The dim blue light filtering through the windows confuses me, too pale for night, too deep for dawn.
The thought feels distant, unimportant. My newly cursed body, wrung dry of exhaustion, must have simply given out, slipping into a restless slumber.
The candle on my table has burned out. Then I hear it, the voice behind the door, rising in sharp indignation.
Eva.
My breath catches. My heart lurches. The eyes I thought had no more tears left begin to burn once more.
“... you’re lucky Archer was sent away with his troops,” her voice rings through the air. Brisk, scolding, and more beautiful than any melody.
Then the sound that unmoors me completely— the turning knob.
“My husband would beat you senseless, Mael. Prince or not—”
The door swings open. Eva stands silhouetted against the warm glow of the fire in the antechamber, her deep brown eyes locking onto mine. Behind her, Mael lingers in the doorway, his head bowed in quiet shame. He must have gone to get her. A sliver of gratitude blooms in my chest.
“Ray,” she gasps.
In the next breath, she is on the floor beside me, arms outstretched. Panic claws through me. I half-slide, half-crawl away, curling my arms behind my back.
She freezes, shock flickering over her perfect, heart-shaped face.
“My hands,” I rasp. My voice is so raw, it scrapes against my ears. I force my fingers into the light. The dimness of my bedchamber shrouds them, but Eva already knows. She understands.
Without hesitation, she strips off her silk gloves, revealing the warm brown skin of her elegant hands. The ruby on her right ring finger glows even in the low light, a silent emblem of her status as a married woman. Her raven curls, adorned with braids and jeweled pins, gleam like polished onyx.
She tosses the gloves to me. I catch them, sliding them on with mechanical precision. Then, at last, I collapse into her arms.
She holds me so tightly I can scarcely breathe. But it isn’t enough. I cling to her with the ferocity of a drowning creature grasping the only anchor in a storm-tossed sea.
After a long moment, she clears her throat, her voice steady against my hair.
“I’d love to hear how this happened,” she murmurs.
I pull back, inhaling deeply, my lungs finally remembering how to expand. I am not alone. Eva is here. She comes from a family of power. Her husband is a celebrated army general. And she is the smartest person I know. She will know what to do. She will know how to fix this.
Eva turns to Mael, snapping her fingers. “Bring her water. Don’t just stand there like a fallen log.”
I nearly smile at her brazenness. If only my lips remembered how.
Mael hesitates, then obeys. But doesn’t dare hand it to me directly. Instead, he passes it to Eva, who huffs in disapproval.
I take it, my fingers unsteady as I drink. Once I finish, we move to the receiving room of my apartments. The soft couch beneath me is a cruel contrast to the hardness in my chest.