The King's Cursed Bride

Hunting a Reaper

A crescent moon had ensconced itself in the corner of the ceiling. Its silver paint gleamed in the light. Though gray age spots speckles its pearlescent surface, the painting was beautiful. Opalescent stars clustered around the edges of the ceiling, winking down at her.

If the artist had intended to smother the room in eternal night, he'd succeeded.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been staring at the ceiling—long enough to count all 216 stars and the eighteen candles in the chandelier and the half dozen gray speckles on the moon. Long enough to know a man and wish herself dead all the while.

She breathed deeply and pain lanced through her side. He'd been none too gentle, and now she ached more fiercely than she ever had. Did she even have the strength to rise? Or perhaps a better question would be: did she want to?

Tears scalded her eyes and smeared the stars above. She gritted her teeth and forced them back, not allowing a single one to fall. During the past few hours, she'd shed far too many tears, often not realizing how they poured down her cheeks until his mockery made her aware of the fact.

Never again would she allow her tears to be the source of his triumph as they'd been last night.

She clasped the thin sheet to her chest, bunching it in one fist. Her clothes were scattered somewhere in the room. But with the force with which he'd removed them, they were likely shreds and tatters by now.

The door creaked open.

Her entire body stiffened—even muscles she hadn't known she'd possessed. Was it possible to open her wounds so that she bled out within minutes? Or to smother herself with a pillow? Or would her grip on the pillow slip, which would lead to her eventual awakening?

"Hello?"

The tension binding her body uncoiled, but her dread still lingered. It wasn't Akar.

A slight form tiptoed up to the bed.

Carissa didn't bother turning her gaze from the ceiling.

"I've brought you a change of clothes."

She didn't respond.

"This is his room. Should you remain here, he'll return."

Carissa forced herself to sit upright, a moan dribbling from her lips.

The girl's gaze darted downward. She seemed unaffected by the sight of bruises, but the cuts and burns on Carissa's arms caught her gaze. "Come now. We'll get you all cleaned up in time for tonight."

Tonight? That's right; she hadn't simply agreed to be a nightwoman for one night but for all the nights after. Though she tried to suppress it, her chest heaved. She barely managed to turn to the side of the bed before hot, sour bile poured into her mouth and splattered onto the floor.

The girl tucked a strand of Carissa's hair behind her ear. "There. That wasn't so bad, now was it?" She dabbed Carissa's mouth with a damp rag. "I'm Elisa, by the was."

In her exhaustion-fogged, pain-ridden mind, the name seemed familiar, so terribly, terribly familiar.

The girl draped a blanket over Carissa's shoulders and slipped her arm around Carissa and helped her to her feet, steadying Carissa when her legs buckled. "We'll just go a few more steps."

Though the girl's dulcet tones might be gentle on the ears, she was a liar. They took eighteen steps to the door, sixty-six down the stairs, and forty-seven to the room. Hardly a few.

Carissa reached the cot just as she was sure another step would be the death of her.

The girl hummed quietly as she helped bathe Carissa with a rag. Carissa should have been self-conscious or embarrassed by the lack of privacy, but after last night, she doubted anything would ever faze her again.