As my vision clears, I find myself standing in a palace straight out of a storybook. The floors—ornate marble polished to a mirror shine—stretch out beneath me, and I’m utterly overwhelmed by the aesthetic cleanliness of it all. The air is crisp and fresh, not tinged with the soot that glitters in the lamplight and covers our underground homes in a fine layer. I drop to my knees, waving at my own reflection on the floor. We don’t get a chance to stare at ourselves often down below; we rush past polished bronze to tame our hair. But this is a full rendition of me. On the floor.
Unreal.
Like I’m kneeling on a thin sheet of glass.
A massive bed dominates the center of the room, draped in layers of fabric so thick and soft, they look like a stack of pancakes waiting for syrup. I can’t remember the last time I saw anything so clean, so untouched by the grime that coats every surface of the mines.
“You’ll have plenty of time to lick the floors, pet,” jokes one of the people from before. “Right now, you have to make ready for your husband.”
The Chins close the door behind them, leaving me alone in this impossibly opulent bedroom.
Wait…my what?
Husband, not groom. I’m here to bemarried? A skin bride isn’t a real wife. There’s no ceremony, no signatures—no titles. The thought reverberates inside my skull like an earthquake, dulling the shock of the room’s outrageous luxury. I was so caught up in the sheer otherness of the palace, in the shock of seeing something so clean and perfect, that the reality of my situation didn’t fully sink in until now.
Married. To whom?
Lord, I have never used the wordwhomin my life. Somebody check on me.
Married to someone I don’t know, someone who will see me as nothing more than a fetish? Legally bound to a machine forever? A skin bride has the benefit of being in a temporary arrangement. What the hell is this? Should I ask for a lawyer to understand the terms of this marriage?
I say the word out loud. “Marriage?”
The enormity of my questions makes my knees weak, and I steady myself against the bedpost to keep from collapsing.
I’m too far gone to turn back now. This place, as overwhelming and terrifying as it is, offers something that Josh ripped away from me.
And if nothing else, I will eat well.
I have always been hungry. It seems to be one of my defining traits—Fawl’s stomach growling, Fawl wanting more. But maybe my life belowground just…wasn’t enough.
I straighten, pushing away the lingering thoughts of Josh. Without hesitation, I strip down, peeling away the layers of clothing that cling to my skin, dirt and dust falling to the floor as I do. This is what I’m here for, isn’t it? To be examined, to be gawked at? For my every hole to be plundered? Each piece of fabric falls to the floor with a soft rustle, leaving me exposed in this pristine, unreal place.
The air in the room is cool against my bare skin. I stand there, eyes closed, arms out, legs akimbo, like a star.
Chapter8
Alas, a Pervert
When the door creaks open, I’m still standing there—arms out, head tilted back like some desperate priestess hoping for rain. It’s a wild thought, one I absurdly want to share with Josh. I even start to turn, instinctively reaching for him. “Josh, I—” But reality crashes back. Josh isn’t here. He’s with Dru, probably unpacking in their new place, sharing sweet smiles over a fancy lamb dinner.
And here I am, alone, aboveground for the first time. There’s no victory in it though. I feel gutted. Betrayed. The realization grinds like rocks in a tumbler, sharpening my resentment into something lethal.
“How much did they pay you?”
The voice snaps me out of my thoughts, and I flinch. I didn’t hear him come in. I blink, and then he’s there, a man, or a machine, or maybe some strange thing in between, looming in the doorway.
Dear God.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but not this. He moves like he owns everything, even the air around him. Behind him, three human-shaped bots move with eerie precision, like they’re a single monstrous creature split into parts. The bots are all I want to focus on, because the machine is terrifying.
The man bots have name tags: Crispin, Elton, and Hank.
Crispin is the tall one, built like he was designed to carry very heavy trays or possiblymeif I ever tried to run. Elton is the smallest, which is misleading because he moves like a knife in a bad mood. And Hank. He looks sweet and dumb and terrifying in aHulk smashtype of way. Okay, so my machine comes with three nightmare nannies.
Whoever this is, he’s no ordinary man. Three neuro-linked mannies? The sheer amount of brainpower it takes to control them all at once… No one belowground has even dreamed of seeing this. This is a trick, right? How insanely beautiful. How utterly, ridiculously gorgeous this man is in a way that makes my stomach hurt. I’m actually dizzy.
Shit!
