Page 142 of A Sin So Pure

I’ve been traumatized and abused. My mind’s been invaded and combed through like it was a stack of paperwork. And my wings have been shorn from my back without a care for the pain it would cause.

I deserve to take every little piece of power I can back.

And that starts right here, right now.

With killing my cousin.

I somehow manage to sneak on a dress without waking Imogen, which is a blessing. The last thing I need is her asking questions, or worse, asking to come with me.

The halls are quiet as I stroll straight through the double doors of the shared ballroom and to the Seelie side of the castle.

It’s no wonder the sprites were confused when I first explored the halls. They didn’t know where I belonged. They stare at me now, with their heads cocked and their wide, curious eyes drinking me in. Each step I take towards the Seelie revelry feels like an act of rebellion under their scrutiny.

They’re smart enough to let me pass, simply pointing me in the right direction with their taloned fingers.

Music grows louder as I climb the steps to a second level of the castle, a sultry cacophony of acoustic instruments. A deep drum holds a steady beat to which strings pluck a melody. Laughter floats alongside the music, a unique harmony.

When I crest the final bend of the spiral staircase, I’m met with a smoky den of debauchery.

You have to give them credit, the party is one out of a storybook.

Where the Unseelie have adapted to modern music, clothing, and social habits, the Seelie have doubled down, embracing more traditional versions of each. Half the dresses are sheer and flowing panels of fabric, draped and tied in a series of intricate designs unique to each wearer. The other half are in garb similar to the queen this morning, crafted with glittering shells, pearls, or beetle wings. The men are mostly shirtless—which makes my eyes roll internally—and sport outdated embroidered trousers.

I am sorely out of place in my simple black frock with beaded tassels that swish past my knees.

The room is decorated with fabrics draped across the ceiling in long strips; smoke curls up to the swaths, but it smells more of herb than tobacco. Some fae dance, some lounge, and some fuckin the darker corners of the room—all of them glowing under the floating Seelie fae-lights that bob across the room.

And of course, there are the wings. They are everywhere, glittering and fluttering and making my back itch with phantom pains.

I didn’t have mine for long before Pride decided it was best to“not take any chances”and shear them. It was pure luck that House Pride used the barbaric practice as a test of loyalty; it made it all too easy to explain why a freshly turned sixteen-year-old had such horrid scars on her back.

It was the right decision, in the end.

How do you convince anyone you’re Unseelie when you’re sporting a pair of green and black butterfly wings?

The gods surely laughed when they gifted me those.

A tanned hand waves over the crowd of fae.

Benevolence.

My eyes narrow on the bare muscular arm that leads to the man. He’s sat in the corner on a low chaise lounge with a gaggle of Seelie women draped across him—it’s not hard to imagine why, with his dimpled smile and honeyed voice.

Seelie side-eye me as I walk to him, but when I shift my cutting glare their way, they quickly avert their gazes. The Seelie courtiers lack courage.

“Pride,” Benevolence croons. “I’m glad you decided to come.”

I cross my arms over my chest.

“You wanted to chat. So, let’s chat.”

His smile falters.

“Excuse me, ladies,” he says, oozing with fake charm as he extracts himself from the lounger.

Benevolence leads me between the Seelie revelers, the scents of their sickeningly sweet perfume wafting into my nose as we pass. With his back to me, I’m able to appreciate his wings—there’s no denying their beauty, despite what they represent.

They are tucked low, but the design on the four-pronged wings is clear. A deep swath of blue-black expands from between his toned shoulder blades, followed by a band of bright blue and a stripe of white dots. A lacelike pattern of black and white lines the edge of the wings.

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