Page 67 of Bonds of Hate

I can’t resist the urge to reach out and touch them, cool satin and silk running through my fingers like water from a fountain. Every little girl might not dream of drowning in a neck-deep pile of taffeta and lace, but I was about to fulfill a closely held childhood fantasy. If I didn’t dislike Poe so much, I might be tempted to thank him.

“Oh, yes.”

Poe doesn’t leave the room as I try on the gowns. The look he gives me when I suggest he turn his back while I’m changing is mocking enough that I don’t bother making the request more than once. I decide to put issues of modesty aside before he changes his mind about helping me. At least, the flashes of skin he gets are quick and nothing he hasn’t seen before.

He keeps his hands to himself, thankfully. Though the weight of his gaze is almost as heavy as a physical touch. He studies me with a single-minded focus as I slip on each dress, dismissing most of them before I’ve even done up all the snaps and buttons, demanding I try this or that one next.

Though I could do without his critical commentary.

“Yes, purple and yellow are complementary colors. But this combination makes you look like a ragged patch of wildflowers that needs to be ripped out of the palace garden. Move on to the next one.”

“You have remarkably similar proportions to the queen, aside from those wide birthing hips. If Ares keeps feeding you like a pig being prepared for slaughter, you might actually get the tits necessary for a Queen Anne neckline one day. Until then, this looks like you’re hoping someone else will crawl into the front of that dress to fill it out for you. Take it off, now.”

“If you touch one more dress in any shade of yellow or orange, Omega, I’m making you walk back to the harem naked as the day you were fucking born.”

“You’re being ridiculously picky,” I bite out after thefifteenth dress he vetoes. Or is it the sixteenth? I’ve lost count at this point. “Since when are you the fashion police?”

Poe shrugs. “I’m better at this than you are.”

“I find that literally impossible to believe.”

His lip curls derisively. “You got lucky with that gold number at the welcome ceremony. If you’d stuck around much longer, someone would have noticed your dress was identical to a design Lady Farrow had commissioned last year but never wore because the color didn’t suit her. A future queen doesn’t wear someone else’s castoffs.”

I hate that I almost committed a social faux pas without realizing it. Made worse by the fact that Poe, of all people, is the one pointing it out.

Annoyed, I flick the nearest bolt of fabric so it swings on the hanger. “And what do you call what we’re doing here?”

“These are not castoffs.” He reaches for the dress I knocked askew and straightens it on the hanger. “These are relics.”

I’m about to suggest we reconsider one of the discarded gowns when Poe goes still. His gaze fixes on something in the depths of the closet. The sudden intensity of his focus makes me nervous. Before I can ask what’s wrong, he lunges forward and yanks a dress off its hanger with enough force that I worry he’ll tear the fabric.

“Try on this one.” He shoves the silvery-blue gown into my arms. The material looks like liquid moonlight and feels particularly soft against my skin.

“This was Queen Midale’s mating ceremony dress,” he explains, eyeing me critically as I slip the opening over myhips. I’ve been standing here in my underwear for long enough that I’m no longer bothered by modesty. “She wore it the night she and Leopold signed the contract and sealed their match over thirty years ago.”

My hands tremble as I slip the gown over my head. The silk settles against my skin with a whisper, perfectly fitted, as if it were made for me. When I look up, Poe’s expression stops me cold. His face has gone blank, but his eyes burn with an emotion I can’t name.

“The color...suits you. This is the one, I think.” He swallows hard and pushes a fringe of dark hair off his forehead. The nervous gesture is uncharacteristic of him. “You wear it as well as she did.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

He blinks, whatever vision is in his mind clearing as he focuses on my face. “How do I know what?”

“How do you know how well Queen Midale wore this gown? That mating ceremony happened years before you were even born,” I press, despite the mounting storm in his expression. “The Enclave had copies of old fashion magazines going back decades and I’ve never seen this gown before.”

“The queen re-wore her old gowns privately or at boudoir gatherings,” he explains, voice clipped. His gaze still wanders over the dress, lingering where it clings to the curves of my hips. “Especially if they were commissioned for sentimental occasions.”

There’s anger in his voice, though I can’t understand why. The way he’s looking at me now reminds me of how he watched me during that first confrontationat the rooming house — like I’m a puzzle he can’t solve, one that makes him furious by its very existence.

“Did you know her personally?” I ask softly. “The queen, I mean?”

The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with unspoken weight.

“I’ve served in the royal guard since I was twelve years old. Of course, I fucking knew her personally.”

I recognize the look in his eyes. Or at least, I think I do. That subtle flinch he tries to hide is the same one I’d see when some unlucky Enclave Omega returned from contract interviews with certain Alphas, the type who expected more than we wanted to offer.

A reckless feeling swells at the center of my chest, one that makes me want to dive into murky water without checking if it’s deep enough to be safe.

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