Page 15 of The Surrender

She opens her twisted smiling grimace of a mouth and curves her talons to me. Gripping her spindly arm—the only one she has since the other is nothing but a decrepit wing—, I haul her inside. Her body stiffens beneath my embrace, but I linger, loving the familiar sensation of the feathers cladding one side of her face. I press my cheek to them and smile when the feathers of her wing ruffle from my action.

“Ladyyy,” she proclaims in that garbled squawk I love. “Ladyyy Tessieee!”

“Drago?” I wonder, taking a step back.

She shakes her head. “Lawwwd Mayccce.”

I smirk to one side, already considering how I might express my gratitude to the noble Fae king. Well...noble is a stretch, considering how much he enjoys stretching my back hole. Out of all the kings, I seem to know the least of the Fae, especially on the sexual side. He marked my ass. Merikh marked my breast. Drago my mound. And sweet Kyan marked the back of my shoulder. Will I ever get to mark them?

For now, I’m content with wearing pieces of them. I thrust the gown into Eyn-Amaru’s hands, clasp my pleading hands below my chin, and plump my bottom lip in a pout. “Will you help me with Kyan’s present? I have no idea how to put this on!” I add with a desperate breath and wide eyes.

Eyn-Amaru blinks, staring at me with those deep, mahogany eyes, warm yet stupefied. I lower my chin and blush, wondering if her role here is different within the Court of Storms. A chill shivers in my blood when I consider what would happen to her outside the Waste. In the Borderlands, her half-gray bird skull would mark her as a Waste folk. They would cast her out, beat her, and dump her into the mud pits at the edge of the Veil.

A vein of regret twinges through me when I consider the times I looked into the mud pits from a distance—and how many I could have helped with my vym. But aligning with Waste folk was the same as aligning with the monster gods: treason against the god-eater, against Kronos. My father would have been more than eager to cast me into the pits if I’d ever done such a thing.

Warm amusement ripples into me at the thought of where I am now.

“Ladyyy Tessie. My ladyyy...” she squawks again but in a softer tone, and my smile spreads into a beam: I am her lady no matter the court. And despite how many times the kings told me I could choose anyone else, someone more suitable like with two hands, I refused. I still refuse.

As she sets to work on helping me dress, her wing feathers tickle my skin, and I giggle. Naturally, I’m most addicted to the Kings’ sensual and sexual touches, but I love any and all sensations.

Her bony but skilled fingers rub the back of my neck to seal the throat and upper chest applique in place. Formed of leather and feathers—but the quality is unlike anything I’ve experienced. Once she fastens it to my skin, it seems to bond like magic in delicate scrawling patterns to seal around my upper throat in a snug choker and flow to exquisite curves and ethereal curves that flatter the rest of the tattoos on my body. I love how the applique feathers fan to my upper shoulders and curl into the air.

Eyn-Amaru applies secondary appliques to my shoulders to fix beneath the throat and chest. The feathers adhere to the leather, but instead of the fine-spun patterns of the former, the latter ones are long, curved, and sweep along the front of my arm—almost leaf-like. They end at my upper arm to overlap the lower drapery sleeves of the gown.

When I attempt to turn toward the standup mirror nearby, Eyn-Amaru screeches the objection, prompting me to freeze. I blush as she finishes buttoning the gown behind me. Tingles erupt all over my body at the thought of how the Kings will find me in the gown. I trace the plunging V-neckline and finger one of the many tendrils fluttering in the air from the shoulder appliques. The same curling patterns adorn the dress which hugs my body to exhibit my subtle curves.

After she’s finished with the back, my maidservant attaches the final triumph: long, narrow sheathes of closely packed feathers with four connecting points—two on the shoulder appliques and two shorter ones for the arm sleeves. A thrill rushes into my chest and multiplies to shower me with warmth.

Before I may consider moving, Eyn-Amaru burrows her fingers into my hair. As anxious as I am, I grind my bare toes into the carpet, bite my tongue, and remain as still as possible as she gathers part of my hair into a bun while leaving a few longer strands to tempt my cheeks. Her skill to braid with one hand and only talons from her dilapidated wing amazes me. She pins dried weeping roses studded with pearls to the side of my hair and even weaves feathers into the thin lower braids to flow down my back.

Finally, she touches my waist and pivots me to the mirror.

Something between a gasp and a squeal leaves my mouth. Tears pull at my eyes while my pulse quickens. So much of my skin had shown at Drago’s solstice celebration. He’d gifted me a bodice of his scales, but this...this is different. Despite his apology note, somehow, I know Kyan’s offering, this gift, is the true apology. It was not made in the Waste. A gown like this, a gown of this substance that seals to my skin like black stardust, like magic and dreams, comes from one place: the land of angels.

Was it something the fallen king managed to rescue before Kronos exiled him and his brothers? Or does Kronos permit items from their homeland to be smuggled in through the Veil? My mind reels from the possibilities.

“My ladyyy,” echoes Eyn-Amaru, her approval revealed in those liquid brown eyes. The tear shimmering at the edge of one is enough to punch an ache into my chest. I am no lady. I am no queen.

The gods may be monsters. They may be mad. They may give me darkness and nightmares and new scars from their teeth and claws. But they loved me at first sight. And I have only loved the feel of them.

A knot twists in my stomach to mirror the one in my throat. They’ve chosen to honor me as if I am a queen when I am nothing but a dark ghost of scars and ink. Kyan gives me a piece of heaven in the depths of hell. After all, I have as many demons in my soul as them.

The fallen angel king treats me as if I am his salvation, but I am just as fallen as him. How can I possibly win the demon inside of him?

12

That’s the wrong way…

QUINTESSA

If I don’t annihilate the dark storm of thoughts, I’ll go mad.

So, I turn to Eyn-Amaru, clasp her withered hand in mine, and lean in to press my lips to her cheek. Not the wrinkly skin but the hollowed indent of her gray skull. As soon as she flinches, I jolt and purse my lips, brow wrinkling in concern that I offended her. But when I glance up, her eyes are watery. I muster a soft smile, wishing I could give her more.

Chewing on my lower lip, I squeeze her hand and question, “Do you have family, Eyn-Amaru? In the castle or a village close by?” I remember the birdlike woman on the mountaintop as Kyan and I were bathing. Does Eyn-Amaru come from these mountains? Could the woman watching have been related to her?

Despite the tear rolling down her whole cheek, she releases my hand and sets about fluffing the feathers of the sheathes at my sides. “No familyyy. Ackkk!” She squawks again, a side of her lips pressing tight while her eyes narrow.

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