Page 151 of The Blood Witch

And Amalia wasn’t any of those things, was she? She didn’t have her mother’s cold nature. Didn’t have her mother’s disdain. She felt everything—maybe a little too much.

Still… she’d tried. She’d let her mother dress her up. Prop her up before the citizens of the realm with a smile painted on her face. She’d been well-behaved. Cordial.

Aperfectlittle doll.

And then, just like that, her mother was gone.

And Amalia had let it happen again.

She’d become Linh’s doll. Something the High Priestess could prop up for the council and speak with her voice. Something she could mold into another queen, just her mother. Something she could set up on a throne, to replace the monarch she’d lost.

Nothing but a little doll.

Vee had been the first person to actually make her feel… special. Make her feel like…

Amalia gripped the shard in her hand even tighter, savoring the flash of pain.

Vee had made her feel like a real person. Like she could be something more. Made her feel like she wasn’t incomplete, like she wasn’t missing something. Like who she was had been enough.

But she’d been a toy for her, too, this whole time. And Amalia had been too stupid to recognize it. Too stupid to even realize she was being used.

Vee had used her to gain access to the palace. Used her to gain access to Kellos. To The Fallen King.

To Linh…

Amalia was responsible for their deaths, just as much as Vee was. If she hadn’t been so blind, hadn’t been so easy to manipulate.

Nothing but a little doll.

It should hurt more than it did, Amalia realized.

Setting the shard of brick down, she traced a finger down the side of her cheek, turning her head in the mirror.

It should hurt more, to know that she had caused this. And yet…

Nothing but a little doll.

Something inside of her that had cracked that night finally split open. Her power swirled under her skin like a tempest.

Amalia didn’t want to be a doll anymore. She didn’t want to be weak, didn’t want to be anyone’s plaything.

She wanted to be free. She wanted to be…

To beherself.

Maybe she was an incomplete version of her mother. But she didn’t have to be, did she? She didn’t have to beanyversion of her mother. She didn’t have to be anyone’s doll, anyone’s plaything. She could be whatever she wanted.

Couldn’t she?

Amalia fingered her long curls, soft and brown. Her father’s hair. In the mirror, a version of her did the same.

Gently, she gathered those curls in her hand, bundling the locks together at the base of her neck.

It was amazing how much hair she had. She could barely hold it all.

The cold night air tickled the delicate skin of her neck as she pulled the hair away from her skin.

With her other hand she reached out, taking hold of the sharp metal scissors her handmaids kept next to her bed, to cut the ribbons they used to braid in her hair. Back when she was someone the realm cared about dressing up. Back when she was a princess.

---