Chapter 8 – Billie #2
"They didn't try to kill me," I protest, though even as I say it, I'm not sure it's true. "They just... left me."
"They left you in heat in Fae territory. Sure. Totally not attempted murder."
She's not wrong, but I'm not ready to examine that particular truth too closely. "So how long have you been here?"
"On and off for about six months. I keep escaping, they keep dragging me back.
It's like a really fucked up game of tag.
" She picks up one of the silk scarves from the destroyed nest, examining it.
"The longest I've made it is three days.
Would've been longer, but I had to stop to eat, and apparently, stealing food from a Fae market is frowned upon. "
"You made it to a market?"
"Oh yeah. The city's not that far if you know where to look. Problem is the collar." She taps her neck, where I can see the faint outline of something similar to mine beneath her high-necked shirt. "It malfunctioned so I took my shot and ran."
"Malfunctioned how?" I ask a bit too eagerly.
She shrugs. "Wish I could tell you. All I know is I tested it like I do every day, and I was actually able to make it out the window without getting zapped.
Of course, when it did finally kick in a few days later, it was like a nuke went off around my neck.
I woke up back in the hospital wing with the worst hangover of my life and some snooty Fae doctor lecturing me. "
She pauses, giving me a knowing smile. "You planning your escape already, hunter?"
"Just curious."
"Bullshit. You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The 'I'm definitely going to do something stupid and probably die trying' look.
I know it well. I see it in the mirror every morning.
" She leans forward, lowering her voice even though we're alone.
"Word of advice? Don't try it during your first month.
They watch the newbies like hawks. Wait until they think you're properly broken in. "
"Is that what you did?"
"Fuck no. I tried to run my first night. Pushed through the burn and made it about fifty feet before the collar zapped me unconscious. Woke up with Lori standing over me, glaring." She grins at the memory. "Worth it just to see the look on her face."
I'm about to ask more when the door opens. Madame Loriyne sweeps back in, taking one look at her destroyed nest and sighing like the weight of the world rests on her narrow shoulders.
"I see you've been busy," she says, voice arctic as usual.
"Just some light redecorating," Anastasia chirps. "Your nest was giving me hives. All that perfection. Very unsettling."
Madame Loriyne's eye definitely twitches.
"Well then," she says, voice dripping with false sweetness, "since you both seem to have so much energy, let's see you channel it productively. You'll each demonstrate proper nest-making technique. Now."
"I'm not a fucking omega," Anastasia protests. "Why do I need to make a nest?"
"Because you don't have anything better to do with your time," Loriyne responds without missing a beat.
She gestures to two piles of materials that definitely weren't there before. I hate when Fae use magic unnecessarily.
Although in their minds, it's probably always necessary.
Anastasia and I exchange a look. Her expression clearly says "this is bullshit," while mine probably says "I'd rather eat glass.
" But we move to our respective piles because what else are we going to do?
The collars make sure we can't run, and antagonizing Madame Loriyne too much might mean losing the only interesting thing that's happened since I got here.
"Remember," Madame Loriyne says, settling into a chair that materializes out of nowhere, just like the nesting supplies, "a nest should reflect your innermost desires for safety and comfort.
It should be a place where you can be truly vulnerable, where your alpha, or alphas, will know you trust them completely. "
I pick up a piece of silk and resist the urge to strangle myself with it. Vulnerable. Right. The day I'm voluntarily vulnerable in front of a Fae is the day Prince Corvinus spontaneously develops a conscience and throws himself off the nearest cliff.
Beside me, Anastasia starts building what can only be described as a fabric middle finger. Or maybe it's supposed to be a cock and balls. Either way, she's taking the materials and arranging them in increasingly precarious positions.
"Miss Volkova," Madame Loriyne says warningly.
"What? You said it should reflect my innermost desires. My innermost desire is cock."
I snort, then try to cover it with a cough when Madame Loriyne's gaze swings to me. Right. I'm supposed to be the good student. The one making remarkable progress despite my "improper" origins.
Fuck that.
I start building my own nest, but instead of the soft, rounded construction Madame Loriyne demonstrated, I create something that looks more like a fortress.
Pillows stacked like walls, blankets arranged in defensive positions.
If I have to build a nest, I'm building one that says "stay the fuck out unless you want to lose important body parts. "
"That's not—" Madame Loriyne starts, then stops.
Because technically, I am following her instructions.
I'm building a nest that reflects my innermost desires.
It's not my fault my innermost desires involve fortification and the ability to defend myself against anyone stupid enough to try to get close.
Anastasia catches sight of my construction and grins. "Nice. Very 'fuck off unless you've got snacks and a death wish.' I approve."
"Language," Madame Loriyne says, but her heart's not in it. She's staring at our nests, Anastasia's phallic sculpture and my defensive fortress, like they personally offend her.
"Now," she says, rallying with the determination of someone who's been teaching too long to give up now, "let's discuss what your nests reveal about your emotional states—"
And that's it. That's my limit. I'm trapped in a velvet prison, dressed like a doll, learning how to arrange pillows in a way that supposedly signals my readiness to be my mortal enemy's incubator.
This is my personal idea of hell.
But at least now I have company.