Kingdom of the Cursed (Kingdom of the Wicked #2)(18)

Despite the tense escalation of our argument, my little experiment was a partial success; Wrath could only detect a lie for certain when I spoke. It was a trick to add to my mental journal.

I glanced at the door and considered chasing him to wring his neck or kiss him senseless but shut those urges down. To find out what really happened to Vittoria, I’d have to disentangle myself from him eventually. And I might as well start now. I didn’t know all of the rules and etiquette of the demon realm, but at least I now knew the princes didn’t infringe on one another’s royal domain. Once I left for House Pride, Wrath and I would not see each other again. At least not for a while.

My lady.

What nonsense that was.

My attention settled on the robe and a strange feeling had my heart racing. I didn’t notice while the demon held it across the room, but the flowers embroidered on it matched our tattoos.

The pale lavender ink symbolized a betrothal I’d accidentally forced between us when I’d first summoned him. He knew within moments what I’d done and hadn’t bothered telling me the truth. I’d found out weeks later from Anir, the night we’d stumbled across another murdered witch in an alleyway. Wrath swore he was going to tell me, that he’d been waiting until our trust was built to reveal our impending marriage, but I doubted it.

Everything he did was calculated. Every move, strategic. There were games he was still playing and secret agendas he had that I hadn’t begun to figure out yet. Maybe they related to my sister’s murder, and maybe they didn’t. No matter how tightly he guarded his secrets, one way or another I’d find out what he was truly after. If I’d learned anything about him at all, it was the endless lengths he’d travel to get what he desired.

I looked down at my inked arm. I’d thought the matching tattoos would vanish when I’d cast a spell of un-making to end the betrothal that same night. They didn’t.

Despite the broken magic, they kept growing like seeds that had been planted and tended. Bits of each of us fed the design: his serpents, my flowers, the twin crescent moons within a ring of stars. They were a constant reminder of my inexperience and his lies of omission.

I traced the delicate stems and petals replicated on the robe, the fabric silky and cool. It was so beautiful, the exact thing I’d choose for myself if given enough resources to have such a fine garment made. He knew that. Knew me.

Maybe more than I gave him credit for. And yet, he still remained a mystery to me.

I gathered up the robe, swung myself out of bed, and stood naked before the crackling fire. Hours ago I was near death, my skin burning from ice, not fire. He’d stayed the whole night, cradling me against his body. A body that was not ice-cold as Nonna used to claim in her stories of the Wicked. He could have summoned a royal healer to do the task.

He also could have let me die like Anir suggested. But he didn’t.

I held the fabric to my face, breathed in Wrath’s lingering scent, then tossed it straight into the flames.





FIVE


“Death by wardrobe” was destined to be the epitaph on my gravestone, thanks to Wrath’s obsession with fine clothing and exquisite fabric. There were so many dresses and skirts and bodices and corsets and tunics and stockings and delicate, lacy undergarments and silk nightgowns and dressing robes, I had to close the carved doors and step back. It was too much.

At home I’d had a handful of simple corset-less dresses and frocks made of muslin. Two pairs of shoes. Sandals and lace-up boots. A few blouses and homespun skirts. Vittoria and I would often share clothing to make our meager closet appear larger than it was.

The items inside this wardrobe were unlike anything I’d seen in the mortal world. And it wasn’t simply the daring styles and scandalous amount of skin I’d be showing. It was the vibrant colors, detailed embroidery, and whimsical nature of them.

I took a deep breath and opened the armoire again. Shoes ranging from slippers to small-heeled shoes to boots in a rainbow of dark colors lined the bottom of the wardrobe. Blacks, charcoals, deep maroons, golds, and even some dark purple and silver.

Ribbons, lace, leather. Gowns with exotic and fantastical patterns featuring thorns and serpents and flowers and fruits and glittering fabrics to rival the night sky. Silks, tulles, velvets, and something that was so soft and fuzzy I rubbed it against my cheek.

Cashmere. A half-forgotten memory sparked to life. A little cabin deep in a frozen wood; a plume of silver smoke snaking into the sky. Whispers and cauldrons and… and Nonna had given Vittoria and me cashmere gloves when we’d visited her friend in northern Italy once. I liked the material then and loved it now. I pulled the pale lavender-gray dress out and swallowed hard.

“Oh.”

Fashion in the Seven Circles was a lot more formfitting and revealing than the clothing in my world. This dress would fit like those gloves and fall to mid-thigh. If I was lucky.

It was the obscenest piece of clothing I’d ever encountered, shorter than any nightgown designed for those who plied their trade in pleasure-houses. I wondered what it would be like, confidently owning my body and sensuality, neither apologizing nor simpering to anyone.

Suddenly, I imagined wearing the dress while I picked a fight with the demon who’d chosen it…

… his gaze would darken as it roved over me in a furiously slow way, making my blood boil. I’d shove him against the nearest hard surface, breathless as he flexed his fingers on the soft fabric at my thighs, carefully considering his next move.