A pet.
Maybe this is what the Shroud was always intended for, separating us from society, from any men so when we are gifted to one, we’re so desperate, starved for affection we’ll gladly fall into the hands of whichever man we’re given to.
It’s not just me. He’sflirtingwith me. After making it abundantly clear that he has no interest in me. I’m supposed to be his punishment, so why? Maybe he flirts with anyone who has the right parts? That didn’t seem like a stretch. I don’t know any men but it’s not like I haven’t heard about their antics from the mouths of handmaidens. No, I don’t…I can’t like him. It’s not feasible.Idon’tlike him.I hate him.This has to be…some sort of witchery. I clap a hand over my mouth.
I don’t need potions.
What if it’shim?What if he’s doing this to me? Manipulating me with his magic. Would I even be able to tell? Why would he even want that?
The vision of those horses walking single file behind the soldier comes to mind. Because he wants me to be hispet.
You’ll be following me around like a puppy, eagerly waiting for my return, so desperate for whatever scraps of attention I give you, I’ll have you eating from my hand in no time.
This time I’m the horse. He’s manipulating me to quit fighting him. Except not with force or obedience—withinfatuation.
My pulse quickens. What if he makes it to where I no longer want to leave at all?
That thought is still running circles in my mind the next day and I pace the chambers, the daemon lashing under my skin like an angry beast. I can’t live the rest of my life like this. I don’t want this life sentence of being trapped in here to serve as someone’s punishment, subservient to a witch’s whims, not even knowing if my impulses are my own.
I can’t stay here with him. I need out of here. Before this wedding party tomorrow. Find the noughts that Div spoke of and…and… I tug the knife out from between the couch cushions and grip it tightly in my palm as I walk over to the sealed door. This fucking door.
I rear back and launch it at the pane of wood with all my strength. It bounces, reverberating all of the force straight back into my hand. I try again. Again and again and again. Not even a dent. I hack at the knob next. Maybe I can lop the whole thing off. The knife collides against the metal with a loud ping. It’s a good thing no one lives on this floor because I create a racket.
I scamper over to the chest of knives with a growl and remove a different one. Maybe one of these knives will have some magic in it that can break through whatever magic keeps the door sealed.
I stab every single knife at the door and toss them into a pile on the coffee table. By the time I pull out the last one, I’m a sweating, heaving mess.
It doesn’t work.
I launch the balcony door open and go after that invisible wall surrounding the balcony, praying I’ll hear the beautiful cracks of that force field shattering. Once I’ve repeated the process with every single knife, I sink to the couch in defeat, a bitter acceptance washing over me. The tantrum has at least washed some of my anger away, replacing it with apathetic acceptance instead.
This is my life now.I stick my head into the cushion and drift somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. The doorknob jangles, and I sit up straight. He’s back already? The sun is still out. My dinner plate hasn’t arrived yet. The energy shifts the moment he walks in the door. His magic filling the space so full I can feel it buzzing against my skin. A tendril of fear, a trill of something else. His hands are filled with an assortment of bags. He sets them on the table and comes to a still. “Pet…”
I relay him with a bland look, making great effort not to show a sliver of the effect he has on me.
“What are you doing?” He murmurs slowly,carefully.
“Nothing.”
His eyes dart between me and the coffee table, the towering pile of unsheathed knives. Guess I hadn’t bothered to put those away.
“Why are the knives out?”
“Oh…I was trying to hack the door down.” My voice is flat, monotone,defeated. “Didn’t work obviously,” I say with a shrug. The side of his cheek bulges from the scrape of his tongue. He’s trying not to smile.Prick.
He picks up a large fabric bag, hangers peeking out the top. “Your clothes. I’ll put them in the armoire.” I feign disinterest. “I got you some things,” he says as he strolls back in. He begins extracting items from the bags and stacking them on the table. A woven blanket in varying shades of blue, a notebook, pens, and paints.
Peace offerings, some sort of consolation for keeping me locked up in here. He draws out each item slowly, watching me for a reaction, like he’s dangling strips of meat out to a predator and waiting for it to lunge. Sewing supplies, a pair of black boots, a small silver item I’m not sure the purpose of until he flicks at the switch and produces a small orange flame like that of a candle, knitting needles and a ball of yarn.
Does he think I’m going to sit here and knit all day? I don’t bite. The last thing he draws out are books. My body betrays me with a twitch. He holds one up labeled ‘Rapunzel.’ “I think you’ll like this one. It’s about a witch that locks a girl in a tower. She even has very long blond hair.” He cocks his head, obviously amused as he lifts a palm. “She does eventually escape and you…won’t. But still, I thought you could relate.”
I seethe in silence. When I don’t respond, he sighs. “You should get ready.”
“Why?”
“So we can have dinner?”
“My dinner comes here.”
