CAGED (#3, of Crows and Thorns)

Chapter 104

Perverse exhilaration electrified the humid air as the upper ranks gazed on, mesmerized by the appearance of Valarie Crowther. Hunger for my father's impending humiliation thickened the taut atmosphere—a thick, oily film, greasing my skin and raising the fine hair on the nape of my neck.

The silver threads in Valarie's black lamé dress sparkled in the dim light of the Emporium, and the faint glow from the fake sky above coated her shoulders in hazy lavender. There was strength in the cruelty of Valarie's challenging pose. Such beauty in her leashed violence. And for one brief, twisted moment, I admired the smile curving her lips, as graceful and shrewd as a death-dealer marking their opponent.

Valarie had locked her gaze with my father in silent combat.

But my father...

Astonishment swept through me to see his iron mask crack and deep hurt seep across his features, crumpling his steely expression as if it were parchment before he wiped it away and fortified himself with a grim glare.

Who the hells was she to him?

It was an elegant crossing of her ankles and a downward sweep of her upper body as she bowed. "Byron... Marissa."

"Valarie," my father acknowledged in a flinty tone.

My mother shrank her frail figure closer to my father, clutching tightly onto his arm. She gestured to her neck, a fluttering motion of bony fingers, speaking fast and low and full of pleading fervor. "You tied a rope around my daughter's throat."

Valarie's sharp features were softened by the candlelight dancing across the angles of her face when she half-turned my way, gazing up at me as if admiring a classical statue from the old world. "Pretty, isn't it?"

"Remove it," my father demanded brusquely.

Her nose wrinkled when she turned back to him and replied with a biting smile. "I'd rather not.

His lips thinned when he glanced briefly at the courtesans behind me. "What do I have to do to stop this, Valarie?"

The skirt flicked around her knees as she stepped closer, and the swanlike column of her neck arched sideways as she stared at him from beneath lowered lashes. She stretched a hand toward him, almost as if she were about to smooth his wayward tie back into place. An inch away, she stopped, her hand hovering briefly before she placed it on her hip instead. "You know what I want, Byron." Her voice was as soft and enticing as a lover's. "But first I want you on your knees. I want to see you bowing at my feet."

His eyes dimmed with confusion before they sharpened with understanding.

Shock punched into my ribcage.

I'd never, ever seen my father bow to anyone. All my ancestors, the Wychthorns that came before us, ruling the Great House, had bowed to none. Not even to Master Sirro. A ghastly sensation, bleak like winter sleet, chilled my soul when I saw in my father's eyes the moment he resigned himself to disgrace. I watched in horror as his knees softened and began to buckle.