Chapter 9

9

KASSANDRA

I know almost immediately that I’m dreaming. The grass is too soft, the sky is too blue, and the air smells too fresh.

I wear a snow-white dress that I’ve never seen before in my life. It cups my breasts and hips before flaring out in an explosion of tulle and ruffles.

Another indicator that this is nothing more than a dream is my lack of gloves. For the first time in forever, my hands are bare, able to touch the grass beneath me.

I take a moment to study my surroundings.

I appear to be sitting in the middle of a clearing surrounded on all sides by colorful wildflowers. Wind combs through the fields and stirs my loose blonde hair. In the distance, I can see snow-capped mountains glimmering in the rising sun.

It seems to be a mismatched creation of all four seasons. The sweltering heat of summer. The unfurling flowers of spring. The snow of winter. The orange and red leaves of fall.

I lower my hand and allow blades of grass to run through my fingers. The potent scent of freshly bloomed flowers permeates the air.

And for a moment, I feel complete and utter bliss. All of my worries fade away, dissipating like vapor in the air. I can’t remember why I was upset in the first place.

And also why I was so incredibly happy and warm.

Where am I in the real world?

I suppose that question doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but this pocket of paradise isolated from anyone who may seek me harm.

“My child…” A soft, lyrical voice carries on the wind, and tiny bumps erupt on both of my arms. “You have suffered so much, and I’m afraid you’re fated to suffer more.”

The voice envelops me like a warm hug. I never knew my mother, but I can’t help but think that it’d be like this. I feel safe and secure and loved.

“Whatever do you mean?” I ask, craning my head back to stare up at the sky.

Directly above me is a sky so blue, I swear the color doesn’t actually exist in real life. It’s riven here and there with white, fluffy clouds that I just want to touch. In the distance, however, the sky turns pitch black, and a few stars wink into existence.

Spring. Summer. Fall. Winter.

Night. Day.

All of them existing in uncanny yet beautiful harmony.

“You’ve been branded, my child.” Feather-like fingers trail down my bicep, and I turn to see the rigid outline of a strange mark. For some reason, I feel like it’s important, but I can’t put my finger on why. “With the Mark of Chaos on you, he’ll be able to track you wherever you go.”

“Mark of Chaos,” I repeat slowly, testing those words out on my tongue.

I sound strange, even to my own ears, as if I haven’t used my voice in some time.

Wait…

A memory niggles at my subconscious.

This is wrong.

I can’t speak.

But even as I think that, I struggle to wrap my head around the implications. Instead, I focus on the strange, disembodied, feminine voice.

“What do you mean? Who’s after me? What did he do to me?” I rub once more at my arm. I swear the skin there feels as if it’s burning.

Prickles of unease and trepidation skate down my spine.

All around me, the wind begins to blow even faster. I desperately shove strands of golden curls out of my face.

“What…?” I whisper, tilting my face up.

The white clouds from before have turned gray and bloated. They move across the sky like an army preparing for battle, just waiting to unleash their torrent on the unsuspecting paradise below.

Something wraps around my throat, and I gasp in surprise. The pain is almost unbearable, and I kick out fruitlessly and struggle to get in air. The pressure intensifies as tears prick the backs of my eyes.

And then a new voice echoes through the clearing—deep, husky, and laced with madness.

“I found you.”

I jerk upright in bed as my fuzzy memories begin to become clearer.

Heat unfurls in my cheeks when I think about what happened the night before.

Blaze.

Oh my Gaia.

His fingers on my skin…

His lips melding with my own…

His mouth on my most sensitive area…

I expect to feel his strong arms around me or maybe even see him lying beside me. It takes me a tick too long to realize that I’m not in the same bed I fell asleep in.

I survey the large room with the four-poster bed, midnight-colored canopy, and mahogany dresser.

Draven.

I’m back in Draven’s room.

I’m still dreaming.

Only this time, I don’t have on the shackles that prohibit me from removing my gloves.

I wear a black nightgown that contrasts greatly with my cascade of gold curls. The material clings to my generous curves, but fortunately, the material is thick enough to not be revealing.

The room is, unsurprisingly, empty. No Draven. No Mikage.

But instead of feeling comforted and reassured, an uneasy feeling skitters down my spine.

Something isn’t right.

After throwing my legs over the side of the bed, I pad on silent feet towards the door. There, I lean my cheek against the cold wood and listen for any sound on the other side.

Silence.

Thick and potent.

I try to think through everything that transpired.

I was with Blaze—my cheeks once again burn at just the memory, and the ache between my thighs pulsates deliciously—and then I was in that strange clearing. Someone spoke to me there, but when I try to recall the words, they come to me garbled and indistinct. Now, I’m here, in Draven’s castle. The Night Prince must’ve summoned me.

So where is he?

I push open the door and inwardly wince when it creaks. I expect to hear the pounding of footsteps or the shout of guards, but there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. My breathing sounds abnormally loud in the quiet.

As I move down the hallway, I study the suits of armor lining the hall, polished to perfection and shining in the torchlight. Framed paintings are displayed on the wall as well, and I wonder if they’re Draven’s ancestors. All of them have midnight-colored hair, pale skin, and uncanny silver eyes.

My feet falter when I reach the door at the very end of the hall—a door I know leads down a long staircase and into the dungeons.

Why did I walk here?

And why is there an incessant tugging in the center of my stomach telling me to keep moving? It feels as if someone tied a rope around my waist and is now pulling on it. I move forward almost of my own accord, the trepidation I felt before amplifying.

Once again, I expect to be greeted by guards or servants or even the Night Prince himself. But as I walk down the steep staircase, I realize that this area, too, is empty.

The tugging sensation intensifies.

Down here, the stench of mold and sweat is unmistakable. It’s so pungent that I can’t help but turn my face away and bury my nose in my upper arm. Still, I keep moving, keep walking, feeling as if each step forward is altering my life in a way that’s utterly profound.

I pass the cell I’ve been held in on more than one occasion.

And then come to a stop at the cell directly beside mine.

A lone figure sits on the cement floor, his head lowered in a way that has his tangled black hair obscuring his features from view. The pressure on my chest—a weight I didn’t even realize has been there—eases. I’m finally able to breathe, my airways no longer clogged.

As if he can feel my eyes on him, the unknown fae lifts his head, and I’m greeted with a pair of eyes so silver they could be liquid mercury. They rest in an angular face that’s as handsome as it is familiar—though when I last saw this particular fae, he was almost meticulous in appearance, not a single hair out of place. This male looks as if he’s been in a fight with a pack of pacons…and lost. Dirt and blood are smeared across his face, and bruises darken his pasty skin. His hair is also shorter than I remember it being.

Still, his name comes to my lips without conscious thought, even though I know I won’t actually be able to speak it out loud.

My hands move of their own accord and shakily sign, “Draven?”