Page 14 of Omission

Mother in her last days and through delirium, exposed so much of his betrayal. I’m alive and mostly unharmed because of her warnings.

“You have thirty seconds, my bride.”

Five seconds pass before I decide, my throat bobbing harshly. “No food.”

“Is that your final answer?”

“Yes.”

“Have you eaten today?”

“I have.” There’s no point in lying when he was sitting across from me during breakfast. My meal might’ve been small, just a few pieces of fruit, but he saw. “Just breakfast.”

“Then your punishment begins tomorrow. For now, you will be given tea and laid to rest.”

No sooner had he made the decision, than a maid walked in with a dainty porcelain cup with a flowery design on a polished silver tray. Steam billowed from the top, and the aromatic scent of lavender and honey with a small touch of citrus made my nose twitch pleasantly, my body leaning toward it as if I were being pulled. It’s a combination I enjoy, this soothing blend bringing forth a warmth in me—reminds me of my mother—and these men knew it.

Red flashed across my processors, a clear warning, yet it was snuffed out quickly.

Present

…

They watched me drink it.

Every single last drop while looking more than pleased with themselves.

But then, that’s all I remember. After that, it’s all a muddled mess, and as I take in the bland room and overwhelming cold settling deep in my bones, I understand. Something in that drink put me to sleep, and the longer I’m awake, the harsher the taste in my mouth becomes—making me aware of their betrayal.

Brice knew it would. So did my father.

My only solace in this is that by tradition and law, I cannot be sexually touched before my wedding night. A trusted mage from my mother’s reign, a woman who does what she can to protect me behind our king’s back, would be the only one to perform the check to reaffirm I’m a virgin on my wedding day. She’d never truly touch or check me, but the rest of the royal fae court doesn’t know this.

My only silver lining.

“How long was I out?” My whisper reverberates throughout the empty room, bouncing against bland walls and back to me. I’m still a bit lethargic, and panicky yet having a problem moving, but still, I manage to toss the thick quilt off and sit up. There’s no heating in this room, the large stone fireplace dirty with soot and old, half-burned chopped wood while what appears to be vents atop the bed are closed.

The more I look around, the colder I become.

Yet, even as I start to shake, I find the simplicity comforting. Lovely, as I take account of the pristine white furniture and soft cream bedspread currently tossed toward the foot of the bed. One that I quickly pick up and drape over my shoulders as I shuffle on stocking-covered feet toward the room’s door. I’m still in the clothes I wore the day of my punishment, the frilly light pink dress doing very little to help build any warmth, and I have no choice but to tap into my powers.

The ability to heal comes in various ways.

I can fix a wound or eradicate a sickness, and right now, it’s helping me raise my inner temperature. It happens gradually as I close my eyes, taking in measured breaths as I concentrate on my core. With one hand, I hold on to the quilt, and with the other, I press the open palm against my abdomen.

Slow from disuse, my powers begin to throb beneath my skin, and my hand vibrates as the first rush of warmth blooms across my limbs, pulling a deep sigh from me. I’m thawing and fast becoming less stiff, and I know that whatever they put in my drink is now completely out of my system.

That bitterness I’d awoken with is gone. So is my anxiety, which leaves plenty of room for my anger to take the forefront ahead of fear—it keeps me from losing control of my faculties and rational thinking.

Instead, I harness the urge to destroy this place and heal myself. Water can be harnessed from where I stand; I sense it inside the pipes hidden behind the walls or the cold that surrounds me, but I don’t.

There will come a day I won’t pull myself back, but it’s not today.

I’m checking my aura while thinking and planning, tilting my head to the side as I search for any sign of life outside these walls. There’s none. No noise. Which I find surprising, and when the tethers of my magic turn a pretty blue color, I walk toward the wooden entrance. The padding of my feet is loud inside the quiet room, quickly followed by the turn of the plain black doorknob, but it’s my angry spitting of the word fuck that echoes, drowning out any other sound.

And thank the goddess there’s no guard nearby or they’d know I’m awake.

“They’ve locked me in.” Another hiss and I turn, making a quick sweep—search for a secondary exit—and coming up empty. There’s nothing outside of the bathroom and a small window mounted to the right of the bed and I walk toward it, trying to reach the ledge by standing on the tips of my unprotected toes. It’s higher than normal on the wall, way out of my reach, and its only usefulness is that of letting in some much-needed natural light. Not much with the prism-like film covering the glass panels, but it’s better than nothing.

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