Page 2 of Fated or Knot

Cymora’s truth was revealed as the layer of my magic faded off her body. She was a curvy beta with extra weight in the length of her thighs. The skin of her hands and feet faded from a teal color to an ocean blue, which she liked to emphasize by wearing gauzy dresses and too many gemstones along the finned lengths of her ears and woven into the teal and blue strands of her hair.

She’d spent enough time in her land form, preferring two legs to the fin of a mermaid, that her scales were nearly invisible. A faded mark still made a purple arch on her brow, the tattoo she’d gained when she’d mated with my father. It was honorary now, with his passing, as was her title, Lady of Osme Fen. The money that’d once graced the name was gone, scraped out to buy her fine things and a lavish lifestyle.

She eyed my smock and plain servant’s dress, their worn brown patchwork setting off the dull gray of my pixie wings and pale skin. I hadn’t always been this color. As a girl, I’d been vibrant too, blessed with fae coloring that wouldn’t look amiss in the meadow outside this cottage. But that’d been before everything had gone so wrong and a childish vow to Cymora had reduced me to little more than her property.

Something dark creased her face when she finished her inspection. I took heart in one thing: I was the true omega in this cottage. No matter what else she took from me, she could not pluck out my designation and use it to replace what Laurel was,her spitting image down to her core. But if she could rip off my pixie wings and sew them onto my stepsister’s back, she would.

Through her scheming, she’d devised the next best thing. If Laurel was bitten into a wealthy pack tonight, it would be through trickery of her design. And my magic would be to blame for the illusion.

I swallowed a lump of guilt. Pixies, the only Seelie fae with the omega designation, were rare enough that I knew some desperate alpha would claim Laurel. And then they would be soul bonded and stuck together for life, dooming that pack to the grasp of my stepfamily. There was nothing I could do about it except escape before I paid the price for the fallout of tonight’s event.

Cymora beckoned. “Come, Lark. It’s time for you to be of use.”

Haven’t I been already?I asked myself bitterly. If she had any inkling that I was anything other than an obedient servant to her beck and call, she would punish me severely, so I pushed down my feelings to speak in a bland voice. “Yes, Stepmother.”

2

LARK

I’d already completed the more unsightly prep work on Laurel the night before we left for the capital, so grooming her today wouldn’t require anymore waxing or plucking. Tending to her when Cymora wasn’t around was like wrestling with a wet fish. She was slippery and very much wanted to sulk in the nearest source of standing water rather than face any sort of work or pain.

With my stepmother hovering nearby, Laurel didn’t shift her legs into a mermaid tail and splash me out of malice for my firm treatment of combing, brushing, and scrubbing her body to get her ready for the evening. Thank the stars for small miracles. After Cymora dismissed the last of our servants, this set of duties had fallen to me, amongst other tasks, and Laurel never made any of it pleasant.

“I don’t understand why you can’t just illusion me perfect,” she complained while I pinned locks of her hair into curlers and pulled them tight. She winced. Maybe I’d tugged a little too hard on that last one.

“My magic only works on sight,” I said, suppressing a sigh. How many times had I explained this to her? “You don’t want a handsome alpha running his fingers through your curls just to feel straight hair or a snarl of knots.”

“Hehe. Knots,” she repeated. Cymora, who was applying purple stain to her lips, shot her a scowl emphasized by her arched brow.

“Her magic has its limits and does its best work on enhancing what’s already there,” my stepmother said. “It’s already going to be hard work to hide this.” She reached out and pinched the side of Laurel’s belly, causing her to squawk in protest.

“Mom! It’s not so bad!”

“You’re beyond lucky the modiste could alter your dress so it still fits,” Cymora scoffed.

I ducked my head and bit my lip to stifle any hint of a laugh. There was no way I wanted them to notice how funny I found the sight of Laurel justifying herself. But on the inside, I was bent over with mirth.

Laurel’s love of rich food clashed with the style of dress pixies traditionally wore to the Omega Masquerade. It wasn’t her fault mermaids carried extra weight on their thighs, but she wasfinallygetting some kind of consequence for eating off my plate when her restricted portions weren’t enough.

“Well, she could’ve put an illusion over the dress,” Laurel muttered.

Cymora caught her cheeks between her hands, and I got back to work with the curlers once my face was a perfect mask of composure. “No, baby. All of her effort is going to make you stunning.Stun-ing.” She gave my stepsister a little shake for emphasis. “Every alpha in that room will be salivating to leave their mark on you. There is no chance you’ll leave the party without a new pack.”

Unless the alphas get a moment to talk to her first,I thought uncharitably.

Cymora released Laurel so I could finish preparing her. Laurel had replaced her usual pout with a smug smile through the powdering and painting to get her face as flawless as possible. She hadn’t been in her full mermaid form ever since my stepmother had hatched this plan of hers, which meant the scales that usually lined her cheeks and neck were small and soft. I hid them under a layer of paste that matched the blue of her skin. The scales on her arms and legs received the same treatment.

“She’s ready for the scent, Stepmother,” I said, not quite meeting Cymora’s eyes.

“Step back,” she ordered. She bustled to the bag filled with her things to retrieve the bottles I wasn’t allowed to handle.

Our local apothecary had taken a sample of sweat from my neck and a touch of my essence to make the jelly and perfume spray. He’d called his creation “concentrated pheromones” and guaranteed that it would make Laurel smell like me. As soon as Cymora opened the bottle and rubbed jelly between her fingers, a sugary scent wafted through the air.

My omega smell was of chocolate and honey crackers, and the recreation that she rubbed vigorously over Laurel’s wrists and neck had an undertone of sickly sweet chemicals. I secretly hoped an alpha would pick up on it and this lie would be exposed—once I was safely away from Cymora’s wrath.

She snapped her fingers at me. “Bring the dress,” she instructed.

“Yes, Stepmother,” I said.

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