The King's Cursed Bride

Taking Risks: Part 2

Her temples throbbed, the pulse of blood through her veins pressing against her skull.

Carissa opened her eyes, blinking to clear them. She was lying on a bed, sinking into its thick maroon blanket. There was a wooden vanity against the wall, and two chairs situated next to the door. Carissa rose, the floorboards groaning beneath her bare feet, and tried the door. Locked.

Where was she?

Her last memory slowly trickled back to her. The Y'thapa. She'd chosen to take the Y'thapa. Now she was in the Reaper's fortress. She scrubbed her hand across her forehead. She remembered a few things: riding on a horse, dark forests, black tents, blurry silhouettes. The last few days felt like a dream, their details vague and wispy. The harder she tried to grasp them, the more quickly they slipped through her fingers.

Elon. She had to find Elon.

Carissa began to try the doorknob again. To her surprise, it twisted before her hand could reach it. She stepped back as the door swung inwards, and a woman entered. She was willowy and thin, hollows carved beneath her cheekbones.

Carissa studied her garb. A servant. But one she'd never seen before. "Why are you here?"

The servant had the most defined black eyebrows Carissa had ever seen. They rose, their jagged edges growing sharper. "To prepare you for the welcoming feast. Did they not tell you?"

The welcoming feast. The rebellion.

The fogginess in Carissa's mind dissipated. "Of course. Should I sit?"

The woman nodded.

Carissa seated herself in front of the wooden vanity, her reflection staring back at her. Grime, left from days of travel, lined the crevices in her skin. Her blue eyes were glaringly bright against the bloodshot whites of her eyes—possibly an aftereffect of the drug. At least it was wearing off.

The woman unlaced Carissa clothes, crinkled from sleep, before cleaning her with a damp rag and basin of water. Once Carissa and Elon escaped, she hoped they'd find time to bathe properly. The woman squeezed Carissa into an emerald green dress, its neckline steep and the sleeves nonexistent.

Carissa crossed her arms over her chest, cupping her bare shoulders with her hands. She hadn't worn garb this immodest since Iver. The woman began to powder her face, line her eyes, color her lips. She brushed out Carissa's hair and let it flow over her shoulders and down her back. When the woman stepped back, Carissa's breath stuttered.

She truly looked like a nightwoman.

Carissa strode close to the mirror. Was Zorelle trying to humiliate her? Or was she to be a nightwoman in more than appearance?

A wave of dizziness crested over her, and Carissa staggered before slapping her hands to the vanity. No. Not here, not now.

"Are–Are you alright?"

Her breaths came fast and hard, her vision narrowing as darkness crept up the edges. It was unlikely Zorelle would force her to be a nightwoman. After all, Zorelle was trying to sway Carissa to their side. It wouldn't make sense. Despite her rationale, her fingertips began to tingle, and the sensation crawled up her arms.

"Perhaps you should sit down."

Hands touched her bare skin, and Carissa flinched. And then she was sitting.

She just had to breathe—in and out. After a few moments, her vision cleared. That was more like it. She'd have to keep her panic under control or it would incapacitate her. Elon had trained her for this moment, and she wouldn't fail him.