Page 96 of A Storm of Fire and Ash
They got to work. Yara curled and pinned my hair. Kalista gave me dark, smoky eyes and stained my lips crimson, like fresh blood.
When she stepped back, Kalista grinned. “Perfect. You look like you could conquer the fucking world.”
Yara smacked her hand and frowned, “Kalista! That language is not ladylike!”
Kalista laughed, “Wanna hear me say it again?” She teased, and Yara chuckled. I think I was starting to like Kalista.
I looked in the mirror.And gods, she was right.“Wow. You guys made me look… beautiful.”
Yara gently stroked my cheek, “No, dearie. We didn’t make you look like this. This is all you.”
I blinked back a tear.
“What are you wearing tonight?” I asked Kalista.
She shrugged. “Nothing that’s as beautiful as your dress.”
I had an idea;I pulled open the armoire and took out Fintan’s blue gown he gave me and wanted me to wear tonight. “Here. From the Prince himself.” Kalista gasped.
“I—I couldn’t possibly—actually, yes. I absolutely could!” She grabbed it and twirled. “It’s stunning!”
Then she paused. “You and Fintan…?”
I stopped her. “Not a thing anymore. I… I think my heart’s elsewhere.”My cheeks flushed.
“He may be a good fu—”
“AHEM,” Yara cleared her throat and gave Kalista a look.
“I was going to say, a good fun time,” Kalista winked at Yara and continued, “But I have my eyes set on someone else.”
“Ooooh, and who might that be?”
Kalista pursed her lips, then made a show of zipping them shut, dramatically tossing away an invisible key over her shoulder.
Yara beamed. “Well then. Let’s get you both dressed.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The moment I stepped into the dress, it felt like slipping into another version of myself—the truer one.
It was black, but not the kind of black you saw on mourning gowns or stiff ceremonial garb. No. This was the color of a midnight storm rolling in from the sea. Of smoke curling off a battlefield. Of power. Dangerous, unrepentant power. The fabric clung to my curves like it had been sewn from shadows and whispered promises. It shimmered like tiny little diamonds in the candlelight, like liquid obsidian. The plunging neckline dipped low, the black lace edges curled over my skin as though they were alive, tasting my magic. The skirt fell in a cascade of layered, smoke-black tulle, each thread threaded with a faint shimmer so that when I moved, it looked as though the night sky followed me. Every step made the glitter dance like embers.
But it was the back that made me pause.
The gown dipped completely open, from the nape of my neck to the small of my back, leaving my scars on full display. Every welt. Every mark from the whip. The fabric didn’t try to hide them—it framed them. Like a fucking canvas. Like a declaration.
Let them see.Zayn wrote in his letter.
I was awoman. Asurvivor.
Let them see what the King did to me. What I lived through. What I crawled away from and still dared to stand. This dress didn’t cower in the face of those scars—it honoredthem. Wore them like a crown of thorns. The sleeves were sheer and long, tight at my wrists with black beaded cuffs that caught the light like dew on a spider’s web. Slits in the skirt ran high on both sides, revealing flashes of my thighs when I walked. There was nothing modest or soft about this dress. It was dark, sinful, and unapologetically bold.
It didn’t whisper.
It roared.
I dropped my glamour and let Yara and Kalista see me.
