Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 51407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 257(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 257(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
My brain feels strange in my skull. Even though I’ve constantly been in trouble for asking questions about the faith I was raised in, and have made the decision to divorce myself from it completely, it’s still shocking at times to realize how deeply the roots of belief go inside me. “Right. Of course. I’m sure that wasn’t a flattering comparison. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He waves it away. “You’re not the first with this flavor of scars to come to my realm, and I doubt you’ll be the last. Regardless, the contract is signed and I will fulfill my side of things. Your sister will be taken care of.” He’s got his expression locked down, so I can’t tell if I’ve insulted him or not.
The contract. I inhale slowly, then exhale just as slowly. That’s why I’m here. Not for my parents, who hate me despite their creed of forgiveness and love. For Ruth, who tries to love me as best she’s able. If her love hurts, well, so much in life hurts. With this choice, I’ve ensured her cancer treatments will be paid for, her college, her everything.
“There is clothing here for you.” He nods at the wardrobe that would be at home in Beauty and the Beast. Honestly, I’m half-surprised it doesn’t burst to life as I cross to it and pull the door open. Inside are what appear to be dozens of gowns in a full rainbow of colors. There’s a vanity next to the wardrobe with small containers that must be makeup or hair products, all pristine and perfect.
I take a quick step back. “It’s too much.” Too much luxury. Too much color. Too many fabrics that I am dying to run my hands over, which is a sure sign I shouldn’t do it.
“Belladonna.” There it is again—a tone I can’t quite define but I’m sure I should feel guilty for causing.
I take a deep breath and turn to face Azazel. “Yes?”
“You just signed away seven years of your life.” He says it almost gently, but as he studies my face, something akin to understanding lands on his. He shakes his head, and his tone goes hard. “You are representing my household in the upcoming event, and I expect you to dress as such. The house will summon you when it’s time.” He turns and walks to the door, which opens before him without anyone touching it.
I’m left staring in confusion. Which is the lie? The kindness or the cruelty? I honestly have no idea.
With a mixture of reluctance, excitement, and guilt, I turn back to the wardrobe. “Well, if it’s required, then I suppose I don’t have a choice.” I recognize that this reasoning is flawed and kind of sad, but twenty-five years of living under rules I had to backflip through created habits I don’t know how to shake. Even the desire to shake them inspires the kind of guilt I can’t quite combat.
I run my hands lovingly over the fabrics, pink and blue and green and black. I skip over the white—I’m no virginal bride, to my mother’s everlasting dismay since some worried member of the church called her to report that they’d seen me and my boyfriend at the time having sex in his car. It doesn’t matter that I thought it was love and that sex felt like a natural expression of my feelings, that he promised to marry me after we graduated high school, that he said we were already married in the eyes of God. According to my parents, I gave away the last innocence I had, and they never let me forget how damaged that now makes me. Imagine how they would rage if they knew I lust after women equally, even if I’ve never acted on it.
My gaze lands on a brilliant red tucked into the corner, brighter and more sensual than anything I’ve ever seen. My hands shake as I tug it off the hanger and hold it up to my body. Surely it’s too small—my supposed gluttony is written in my soft stomach, in my wide hips, in my inability to say no to the short-lived comfort that food brings.
But it’s not too small.
When I strip out of my faded clothing and pull it on, the dress doesn’t pinch or pull or squeeze. It fits perfectly.
My throat threatens to close as I move to stand in front of the large mirror I’ve been avoiding since arriving. I . . . look like a stranger. Someone bold and brazen and at home in her skin. The dress drapes sensually over my upper arms—leaving my shoulders and a good portion of cleavage bare—hugs my ribs and round stomach, and then falls in textured waves to the floor. I look like some kind of stylized Grecian courtesan, ready to be presented as a gift to nobility.