Page 260 of Rage

The world around Scarlett seemed to be closing in. The wide corridor she stormed through felt narrow, forcing her to bump into Highborns that were chatting and drinking with one another. Up the stairs she went, her heels thudding off the carpeted floors. She tore the mask off her face, threw it away from her as if it was made from acid. Her chest heaved for breath, the gown and its cinched corset a tad bit too tight.

She gripped the chains around her neck, pulling them with a clench of her teeth. It wasn’t the first time they had been the target of her rage, but unlike the fabric torn from her body or the bruises marking her flesh, this was the one thing that remained unbroken.

Jordan painted such kind words of his ownership of her when he placed it around her neck. When he kissed along her shoulder from behind and said,“It’s because you’re my favorite.”

Was this how a favorite was treated? Made to give up everything, anytime he asked? Made to submit, coerced into it to be exact. And now, a choice that should’ve been hers made without consent.

While many Dolls were told not to daydream by their House Mistress, Scarlett couldn’t help herself. She spent days easing red pillowcases over her hair, pretending it was a veil of vermillion silk. How often she practiced her vows to the First Heir, the one that told her under the cover of night how much she meant to him. She bore her soul to him, her heart, her body. And in one menial sentence, he cast it all aside, making her feel small, used, and worthless.

Scarlett’s face twisted with grief, the sob now falling from her lips unable to be contained. Even slapping a hand over her mouth did nothing, just made her body crumple against the banister on the fifth-floor landing,

Her mascara ran down her cheeks. Whatever cheap kohl had smudged by her tear-duct burned her gaze, blinding her to the world. Sconces flickered in lapping bits of orange and yellows, highlighting the blood-red walls and the silverite mandala patterns. And when the banister rattled only slightly, drawing Scarlett’s attention, she couldn’t make out anything but a familiar crow mask just out of reach.

“Why so sad, Little Dove?” While her sultry voice seemed to withhold a mocking edge to it, there was nothing but genuine concern.

Scarlett wiped her eyes, smearing her makeup. “What the fuck do you care?”

The Crow set her arms against the banister. Situated on the opposite side of Scarlett, those cold, calculating eyes had since turned away. There were ten floors to go before reaching the rooftop—Scarlett’s original plan. She thought throwing herself from the top would at least teach Jordan what it was like to dim the little light she had in her life. At least then she’d have an inkling of control as opposed to crying her heart out in front of an Interloper.

Scarlett wasn’t stupid. A woman like that—the Crow—earned her place. She started at the bottom like all the others, took things with a smile like a babe who refused to share. And much like all other Highborn women, she didn’t know when to stop talking. Because she looked at Scarlett then and said, “Lover’s quarrel?”

Heat touched Scarlett’s cheeks as she rounded on the woman. Her sight had since cleared, giving way to the Crow’s vivacious smile; all white teeth, sharp fangs, and a long tongue carefully lapping at the bottom of her lip. Poised, confident, beautiful. “Don’t you have some poor Darling girl to harass?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Their eyes met, madness and mischief fighting for dominance.

Scarlett clenched her teeth. “Not for the likes of you.”

“But for the likes of the First Heir?” The Crow clicked her tongue. “Bad move.”

“Jordan Singh saved my life.”

“Jordan Singh is a parasite and Scarlett Emerson lives in her own head.”

How does she know my name?

“I know everyone’s name,” the Crow answered. “I know everything about everyone. It’s common for a solicitor of the Assassin’s Guild. The one who created it, I mean.”

Scarlett wished she could remember what that meant. She knew about the EU Underground, the one that had burned under the Federation’s eye and was rebuilt by a terrifying order known as the Assassin’s Guild. Alas, the moment of clarity and knowing passed, for the Crow eased off the banister and moved towards her like a cat slinking through the halls.

She crossed one foot in front of the other, looking Scarlett up and down. Whereas the men who came easing through the mahogany doors of the Doll House did so as if she were a slab of meat, the Crow accessed her as if she were a canvas. Somethingto be placed within The Louvre, something to be marveled at—hand to the heart, small little quivering gasps, a tear to be shed from such unnerving beauty.

“You don’t care much about the Singhs or the Syndicate. You don’t care about Nameless City and all its terrible little secrets. You,” the sound of a theatrical melody came sweeping through the Dark Palace, harps and violins melting into a breathtaking chorus, “want to dance.”

Scarlett blinked stupidly. “What?”

The Crow put out her hand. Black leather hugged her fingers like second skin, and when Scarlett took too long to move, the woman beckoned her forth with a finger. “All doves enjoy the sound of music.”

“I’m not some fragile little creature,” Scarlett seethed, entranced still by those molten eyes.

The Crow took hold of Scarlett’s hand, startling the girl. She had no idea when the distance between them closed nor when she’d given herself up to the stranger behind the mask. And even when the Crow set a hand on her waist and guided Scarlett’s to her shoulder, the Darling didn’t object.

She was swept across the plush red floors, weightless and floating. The Crow’s grip tensed only when she took the brunt of Scarlett’s weight, lifting and twirling her with ease. The world seemed to have quieted since their meeting, for now the sound of the masquerade ball came spiraling up the steps, blessing Scarlett with the sharp trill of violins, the elegant rise of a quartet, the harmonious melody of vocalists she could only imagine in her mind's eye.

“What’s the point of dancing if you take all the credit?” she meant it as a serious question, but it fell from her tongue in a bout of curiosity.

“You’ve already taken a lot of the spotlight today. All eyes were on you when you arrived, Little Dove.”

“Yours included.”

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