Chapter 31
A package arrived just as Maeve finished her breakfast the morning of Mal’s visit.
A long, rectangular, thick black box sat on the table between her and Reeve.
Maeve knew what it was at once. Something that should, and did once upon a time, thrill her.
But as she suspected, the gown that lay in the dress box was just a punishment wrapped up like a gift. She found no joy in a new garment.
She rolled a new crystal siphon, a larger one Reeve gave her to replace the first one she shattered, beneath her palm on the table, pushing and pulling a small amount of electricity through the smooth ball with her eyes locked on the dress box.
Reeve sat across the table from her, a table that somehow got smaller with each meal they shared, forcing them closer, with one foot propped in his chair, hiking his knee up as he finished an apple.
He watched Maeve reluctantly stand and glide her fingers beneath the lid. With a sigh, she pulled up, revealing just a part of the glittering green gown nestled on white satin. She closed the box at once, shielding it from view, and looked at Reeve.
“It’s a dress for this evening,” she said rigidly.
“I can see that,” was his casual reply.
Maeve rolled her neck. The crystal siphon, still gripped in her palm, shot a few small static bursts of lightning across her knuckles.
“I don’t want to wear green,” she whispered, stepping back from the box and retaking her seat. “I don’t want to wear anything.”
Reeve grinned. “Thank the heavens.”
She frowned at him. At his carefree position. Unconcerned and unworried that in just a few hours, Mal would be at the Celestian Palace. He’d have her cornered again. Would he torture her further? Or would he not even glance her way?
She wasn’t sure which was worse. His cruel attention or his apathy.
Mal’s Magic seeped from the box on the table, and her throat turned to ice. The message was clear. She would wear the dress he desired to see her in, or there would be consequences.
The sound of her bones snapping, then Zimsy’s bones snapping, popped in her ears.
Her disobedience. Her defiance.
Consequences.
Her arrogance released Shadow. It was her fault Mal had fallen.
She was the catalyst for all the horrible things that happened that night in the Throne Room. What if she had just given him the spell? Could she have spared Zimsy the torture she’d endured? Her life, which Maeve was still uncertain of—
Her heart kicked, no, shot into a race, as though she was suddenly being hunted for sport. Her palms turned slick, and her mouth dried. She shook her head. Then shook it harder, as though she could simply whip out the feeling of his lethal hands on her by squeezing her eyes shut.
They’d be back on her tonight, relishing in breaking more of her bones.
You think I’d stand by and let him hurt you?
Reeve’s voice didn’t sound out in the room.
He spoke directly into her mind, something he had not done since she arrived.
His words, the velvety smooth way they caressed her scattered mind, were like a dousing of warm water.
The thread of Magic connecting them swelled to life, calming her heart with flowing wafts of assurance, drowning out the snapping of bones.
I am weak. If he managed to break me before, when I had my Magic, imagine what he could do now.
Maeve opened her eyes, her gaze cast down at the table, as tears streaked her cheeks.
“Look at me.”
She raised her palm to wipe the proof of her weakness from her skin, but a second command from Reeve stopped her.
“Leave them, and look at me.”
She faced him and lifted her chin, clinging to the warmth the bond between them offered, allowing it to bloom in her chest. Reeve’s face was set in stone. Before her was the wartime High Lord she’d seen on rare occasions.
“I will ask you again,” he said. “Do you think I will stand by and allow him to hurt you?”
She shook her head, silent and swift tears falling across her cheeks.
“Words.”
The answer was so obvious. She knew he’d let the entire palace crumble before harm came to her. He answered the call every single time, despite the positions it put him in.
“No,” she choked out. “You wouldn’t.”
Reeve let out a shuddering breath. The scarring on his face writhed, as though it were in agony. Darkness swirled behind him, shadowing the entire room.
She’s seen it before, that beast he rarely became.
Reeve smiled, but it was laced with agony. “That’s the third time I’ve had to witness him break your arm,” said Reeve. “And it is truly a testament to my control.”
His eyes locked on hers, and his expression melted back into one of leisurely control as the giant shadow of a beast behind him shrank to nothing, bringing what little light the morning offered cascading back over the table.
“Cheer up, Maeve,” said Reeve, rolling out his shoulders. “We’re going to have a delightful time this evening. And no, you won’t be wearing emerald.”
The gown that hung in her room was certainly not emerald. Reeve sat on the edge of her bed, watching her expression. She frowned.
“So I just don’t get a say in my own attire for the evening?” she asked sharply, her attention fixed on the iridescent violet and amethyst dress.
She had to act insulted, but she’d never seen a gown so lovely.
It was exquisite, fit for not a queen, but the queen.
The sleeves were long and sheer, sparkling like a pale galaxy.
The train billowed to the floor like clouds.
Silver embellishments, not a single thread or bead out of place, defined the shape of the gown.
But the jewel that was set at the center of the breast was the true marvel. It danced in its own light, even though there were no beams or rays presently hitting it. Deep within its fiery core, it moved like a constant, spiraling, shooting star.
“I’ve never worn purple,” she said, still clinging to her pride despite the fact that in her mind she longed to feel the radiance she knew this garment would provide her.
Reeve chuckled, deep in his throat, allowing her the blow, as though he knew just how much she loved it. Maeve shook her head. Of course, he knew. He could feel it all.
She never let herself wonder why she couldn’t feel him the way he felt her.
“Quit stalling and try it on,” groaned Reeve.
Maeve turned towards him, pride festering further inside her. “What’s the point in going when I’m no longer the weapon I once was?” she asked.
Reeve shook his head. “A weapon? You’ve got plenty of those. And you only need one weapon tonight, and it’s buried so deep in your very existence, no one can take it from you.”
Maeve raised a brow. “That so?”
He hummed his agreement. Then said, “You do not need a weapon when you were born one. Do not forget there is Magic you possess that is inherently yours, the uncontrolled lightning aside. Though you seem to be doing much better in such a short time. Annoyingly adaptable.” His eyes praised her despite his words.
“Anyway, the Magic I speak of is in your smile. In your voice. In that cunning way you look up at a man through the corner of your eyes. The delicate and yet purposeful placement of your hand on a woman to trick her into thinking you pose no threat.”
Maeve grinned.
“I watched you play the game the summer before everything went to shit,” he answered her unspoken question.
Her smile faltered completely.
“And look where playing games has gotten me,” said Maeve, her voice dry.
Reeve watched her for a moment, and his eyes softened. “Wear the dress, show him that warrior’s smile, show him he has not broken you—”
She turned and made for the door.
“Stop,” he said coolly.
She obeyed, annoyed.
“Show them you are not broken, even if you think you are, show them you are not. Show him, with those pretty lips and the gown you are pretending to hate, that he should desire you above all. Remind him it is you he should bow to.”
Maeve’s chest moved up. And then down. Up and then down.
“Please,” he added with a mischievous grin.
“Fine,” was all she said, but she was already grabbing the hanger and heading into her dressing room.
Minutes later, when she reappeared, Reeve’s eyes widened, and an audible exhale slid from his nose. He bent forward, where he still lounged on the bed, crossing his arms and covering his mouth with one hand.
“Where’d you get this?” she asked, suspicion in her tone.
Nothing this luxurious had ever hugged her so flawlessly. Even the length was just right, no alterations needed. She crossed her chamber towards a large pointed mirror, Reeve’s eyes following her every step of the way. The train slid across the floor in a light hiss.
“I fucking hate this whole thing,” said Maeve, arms folded over her chest as she observed herself in the mirror.
“Yeah,” said Reeve with a controlled sigh behind her. “And you look hideous, too.”
Maeve’s eyes snapped to his in their reflection. He was already smirking. She fixed her face quickly, showing no sign of concern for his opinion, and rolled her eyes.
“Well, my hair isn’t done,” she muttered, absently touching the messy way it was clipped at the top of her head.
He stood and crossed towards the mirror, coming to a stop behind her.
His hands moved without hesitancy, his fingers connecting with her skin at the base of her scalp.
She froze, her fingers still on the sleek clip holding her hair, and her breath caught tightly in her chest. His fingers carded up her hair until they brushed over hers.
Electricity zapped between them, rolling Maeve’s head back. She released a tight breath, hating that he heard it. He bent, placing his mouth near her cheek as he observed her in the mirror.
“Will you wear it up?” he asked, his breath ghosting across her skin. His fingers tightened around hers fractionally, forcing the clip open. “Or will you wear it down?” he asked, his voice a soft hum, as her hair cascaded down her back. “Like this.”