4. Scarlett

CHAPTER 4

SCARLETT

My cheek is still stinging when I return to my chambers. My face is flushed, and rage is making my jaw hurt.

I stab my heels into the soft rug along this corridor, hopelessly annoyed that my march to my room is a quiet one.

I want to scream and tear the paint off the wall. I want to find my brother and claw my nails down his stupid face.

I want to go feral .

That would be a great way to sign my death warrant, so, like the properly trained Lady I am, I stuff every single violent urge into a little box and mentally swallow the key—because I cannot let those feelings out. Not if I want to survive.

Unfortunately, bottled-up feelings festering inside my soul are only fodder for my nightmares.

I pause, wondering if I should turn around and curl up in my favorite reading nook until morning. The last thing I want to do is go to bed where my unresolved darkness will be waiting for me in full force.

I've always had rough dreams. Sometimes they aren't so bad.

Other times they are paralyzing.

And I can feel the itch of a night terror episode about to roll over me, taunting me from the recesses of my mind.

Pushing myself onward, I decide my room will be the safest place for me if I have a bad episode. At least where I'm located on my side of the wing, no one can hear me scream. I don't think too long or too hard about why I have a whole wing to myself.

Knowing my father doesn't want to deal with my hysterics doesn't make me feel any better. He can't fully fix me, not when he has to focus on my mother, who has invariably been his priority anyway.

I've always been a broken doll stitched back together. I've just been very good at pretending until I fall asleep.

My march now feels more like retreating, so I curl back my shoulders and straighten my spine.

"I'm not broken," I say to both myself and the darkness that feels like it's creeping in.

The hallway is dimly lit by magical globes floating near the ceiling. I used to enjoy their soft, purplish ambience, but tonight all I see is shadows leering at me from every corner. A strange draft I don't remember noticing before circles through the hall, making me hug myself.

Are our finances so pitiful that my father can't even afford to fix any drafty windows? I get that I'm in one of the more unused wings of our mansion, but it's still poor form to let it go into disrepair.

I pause at my door and glance at the reflective handle. Normally, it's silver.

Tonight, it's black.

Somehow I feel like my nightmare has already started. The only problem is that I'm still wide awake.

Unfurling my arms, I let the chill in, hoping it'll ground me in reality. I run my finger over the handle, finding the surface colder and more unforgiving than I remember it to be.

"I'm going insane," I whisper to myself as I withdraw and make a fist. My nails bite into my palm, but the pain doesn't seem to change what I'm seeing.

Even my words seem to echo in the hall, giving me the strange sense they're being carried on an invisible wind.

But who's listening?

Surely not Cain.

Perhaps praying to him was a bad idea.

He might not be a God, but he is a monster. And monsters tend to have various gifts.

But everyone knows the Elite City King's power lies in dreams. Praying to him is just a vehicle for him to spread his influence through the city, to remind his followers to think of him so that he can fill their minds.

I've never dreamed of him, and I won't start tonight.

Right?

For some reason, having prayed to Cain for the first time gives me an uneasy feeling, as if I've unlocked a new danger around every corner, but maybe I'm just exhausted.

And of course I'm uneasy. I just signed a blood contract with a dangerous Earl. Blood contracts are expensive, and the terms were no less costly.

Men like Earl Rinhold want to flaunt their wealth just to show they can own anyone or anything.

And my father had been the one to orchestrate the whole ordeal in the first place.

I hate men, I growl in my head as I rest my fingers on the door handle and force myself to adjust to the cold sensation.

I squeeze.

Tighter, a voice taunts in my mind, sounding far too much like my brother, making me frown.

It's not unusual that I hear voices in my nightmares.

But this time, I'm not sleeping.

Leave it to my brother to make my night terrors evolve into something new entirely.

Yep. I definitely hate men.

Cain's portrait flashes through my mind.

He's no man, I decide. He's a monster. One who hasn't the faintest idea that I exist.

I know one thing for certain. Cain is no God, no matter how much he pretends to be. He might have the other Elites fooled, but not me.

"Why am I even wasting my time on you?" I ponder aloud, then inch open the door to my bedroom. The icy chill in the hall seems to follow me, flinging my hair over my shoulder with a wind I definitely am not imagining.

"Lady Scarlett?" a bleary-eyed maidservant asks, stumbling from my writing desk she has clearly been sleeping on.

I immediately deflate because I hate that she's been waiting for me. "Sorry, Rosie. I didn't mean to wake you."

There's enough light from the magicked fixtures for me to see Rosie blanch. Her brown curls have flattened on one side, but her green eyes are still as bright as ever even in the low light. Her concern seems to chase away the cold sensation of my impending episode, making me grateful for her presence.

"Oh, no!" she says as she fluffs her hair. "Don't apologize! I shouldn't have fallen asleep." She immediately swings the door open the rest of the way and hides behind it, only peeking enough to make sure I'm going to come inside. "Please, Lady Scarlett. I'll draw you another bath if you like. I made one, but it's cold now and?—"

"No bath," I insist, even though I feel like I could use one. My brother's slimy words still seem to cling to me, and the blood contract makes me feel itchy just under my skin. I want nothing more than to scrub myself raw.

But a bath means being naked. And right now, I can't shake the sensation that I'm being watched.

An asinine idea. No one is watching me.

Then why does it feel that way?

I shake my head, rationalizing instead that I will have to be up in a few short hours for my duties as Lady of the house and I'm just exhausted. It's making everything worse, including my penchant for night terrors.

No one cares what time I retire or how bad my nightmares get. The morning will come after a few short blinks, demanding that I play host for a scheduled breakfast.

A breakfast with none other than Duchess Rinhold herself.

Now I know why my father set up the meeting for me with a Duchess—and why she agreed to it.

She already knew I would have no choice but to sign my name on her son's contract.

In blood.

She's probably coming to gloat. That, or lord over me with not-so-subtle reminders of my place, even if I do marry her son.

The wife of an Earl doesn't have much more power than the daughter of a Duke.

The only difference is I'll be a trophy, not an asset.

Won at auction…

Rosie's gaze drops to the slashes on my arm as I enter the room. She scampers to the nightlights and grabs one, then brings it to me. "Is that…?"

"Yes," I tell her as shock settles on her features. "My courtship begins in three days."

Instead of looking as upset as I feel, Rosie's eyes light up and she covers her mouth, which has tilted into a smile. "Courtship! Oh, my lady! Which family is it?" She immediately waves her question away. "Forget I asked. That was rude of me. I'm just so terribly excited for you after you've turned down so many suitors and?—"

"It's Earl Rinhold," I say, interrupting her.

I know that Rosie thinks marrying an Earl is the epitome of a Lady's existence, but it's really not.

"Oh," she says in a strained sound of distress.

Oh indeed.

"I never had any intention to marry," I confide in her, pitching my voice low as if someone might be pressing their ear to the door right now.

She nibbles on her pinkie, then thrusts her fingers through her hair before clasping them at her front. She has a nervous habit of biting her nails. It doesn't really bother me, but that bad habit can earn her strikes against the monthly servant quota.

Our entire society runs on a point system. Villages decide their selections based on points. Elite families are ranked by points, living and dying by them.

And servants are expected to maintain a nearly flawless record, or else they'll be downgraded to stations less attractive than working for an Elite family.

"But you've had so many suitors," she whispers. "You could have any man you want." She opens her mouth as if to continue.

As if to say, So why would you agree to a courtship with Earl Rinhold, of all people?

But she remains wisely silent and glances around as though she has slipped into my building nightmare.

She must notice the slight shiver I'm trying to hide, because she violates another rule by curling her fingers around my wrist. "Are you okay, Lady Scarlett? You're shivering."

A night terror is coming, I think, but I don't say that aloud.

No one can help me when the night terrors come.

"I'll be fine," I lie. "I just… I had hoped the additional earnings in the past couple of years would have gone toward a new settlement." I don't voice why that was my hope. Rosie knew that my brother would take on Nightingale Village, and if I was left unwed, I would have the opportunity to start my own settlement. I could have become a new Duchess and taken a husband if and when I felt like it. I sigh. "Instead…" My words drift off as pain squeezes my chest even harder than my corset does.

I don't tell Rosie that my mother has been in a coma for three days. She doesn't need the additional stress.

If anything happens to my mother, we're going to have to severely slim down. My father might even try to sell Rosie.

Over my dead body, I think.

A hideous voice rumbles in the back of my head, laughing at my thoughts. I can help with that, it says.

I bite my tongue hard enough to draw blood. Pain grounds me in lucidity, but it still doesn't feel like enough to keep my impending night terror from taking over.

But now that my ambitions are crumbling before my eyes, my nightmares have a foothold in my weakened psyche.

That's when they like to strike.

My father's words roll back over in my mind in haunting memory.

"I've spent all our money on medicine."

"Every coin."

It takes all of my willpower not to let the sting in my eyes progress into tears. I can't even entertain the idea that my mother won't improve. And, selfishly, I'm upset for myself most of all. Whatever future I had planned for myself is nothing more than a fantasy now.

And my dreams are nothing more than a prayer to a fake God in a corrupt city.

I won't be praying to you again, I decide.

There's a strange wave of grief that rolls through my chest, but it's gone before I can analyze it, so I focus on Rosie's little sound of distress instead.

"What are you going to do?" she asks.

I clench my jaw before I answer. "I'm going to let him court me."

That's all I signed up for.

I don't know what I can possibly do when the thirty days are up, but I'm going to have to take this one step at a time.

Rosie's throat works on a swallow. "Will you have a chaperone?" she asks. There's a little tremor of worry in her voice.

It seems that even the servants of the Elite City know of the Earl's reputation. One that I'm going to have to prepare myself to navigate if I'm going to survive the next few weeks.

Without a chaperone, there's not much to keep a handsy Earl from overstepping.

"O-of course," I sputter, even though I'm honestly not sure. That would be the proper thing, but then again, it wasn't in the contract.

Typically, a female relative would chaperone. Outside of my mother, there aren't any other remaining females in the Nightingale line.

Deflecting my gaze from Rosie's pitying look, I glower at the desk instead. Now would be the time to review every note I have on the allies and enemies of the Rinhold household.

Of course, the item that has all my secrets isn't on my desk. Something of such priceless value is safely tucked away in one of my room's many hidden compartments.

For some reason, I don't feel comfortable retrieving it myself, not when I'm feeling watched .

"Can you get my black book, please?" I ask as I snatch up my letter opener, then step into my closet, which is large enough for ten people.

Normally, it feels spacious. But right now, the walls feel like they're crowding in on me, and I'm itching to get out of my suffocating corset as a result.

Rosie nervously steps in and out of the entryway, clearly debating if she should help me undress or follow my instruction. She knows the location of my black book. She earned my trust years ago.

I don't need help undoing the laces. At least, not in my current mood.

I take the letter opener and shove it through the bars of my corset, smiling when it breaks and snaps open, finally allowing me to take a deep breath.

Rosie blinks at me, stunned, because I expect she knows how expensive the tailored piece was.

It doesn't matter, though. I'm about to become a Lady of the Rinhold residence. No matter how the courtship ends, I'm now his to dress like a doll he's just purchased, even if it's just for thirty days. I have no doubt there will be a whole new wardrobe of silky chains for me to wear.

"Rosie?" I press as I poise the knife over another taut row of laces. "My book?"

Her mouth bobs open and closed a few times before she answers. "O-of course," she stammers, finally composing herself and giving me a smile.

Her eyes crinkle, and I realize she's impressed. Rosie has always looked up to me, even though I don't feel like a great example for a servant who aspires to be nothing more than the perfect Elite family cog.

Because that's all we are. Cogs in a machine run by monsters and men.

Men can be the worst monsters of all.

I've long speculated why that is, and I find myself contemplating it now as I peel away the uniform of a Lady and slip into one of the few garments I'm allowed to choose for myself.

Since I don't have a husband, no one cares what I wear to bed. Maybe it's rebellious of me to dress outside of my station, but by now, it's become a habit I can't break.

That sensation of being watched makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, but I ignore it.

I can't exactly sleep in my tattered corset.

Slipping into a perfectly white, gauzy nightdress, I appreciate the sheer fabric embroidered with pristine floral designs. My skin pebbles as the chilly night air prickles across my skin, making me feel alive.

It's my version of a wedding dress, one that's reserved for a sacrifice to be given on Monsters Night.

From the broadcasts, I know that the Offerings typically wear more robust gowns. Attractive, yes, but not necessarily revealing to the point of scandal.

I like to pretend I'm one of them, sometimes, just before I go to sleep. If I were to ever be a sacrifice on Monsters Night, it would have to happen in my room, in my bed, in my dreams .

Because I'm a Lady bound by duty to the Elite City. A life gifted to monsters simply isn't for me.

It should have been, I think to myself, the thought a rebellious, bitter one.

The last thing I want is to be Earl Rinhold's bride. I can pretend I'll belong to a monster instead. Preferably one who has a penchant for devouring Earls.

Like a Dream Eater? I muse.

I know Cain is no God, so maybe praying to him can be my fantasy. One where he saves me from my predicament and whisks me away into a realm of dreams and nightmares.

Except, I know it doesn't typically work that way. If Cain did take a candidate, he likely wouldn't be alone. Monsters tend to mate in groups, as far as I'm aware. I've never heard of a Dream Eater besides Cain, so there probably isn't a compatible monster who could handle him in a group setting.

Perhaps that's why you've never taken a mate, I wonder as I undo my hair from its many pins and curls, taking away the silver chains to allow it to unfurl over my shoulders.

There's no one who can stand to be around you.

I swear there's a growl that comes from the full-length mirror in my closet, making me raise a brow at it.

Rosie scampers in with my black book plastered against her chest, her eyes wide as she fumbles with it and then holds the leatherbound diary out to me.

Because it's more of a diary than a real book.

It's where I've written all my observations and emotions that flutter around inside my chest when I read someone. Those feelings tend to slip away after a few hours, so I write them down.

"Thank you. That'll be all, Rosie," I say as I take the book from her.

She lingers in the doorway and pulls at her fingernails, then curls her fingers into fists to stem the bad habit. "Are you sure you're going to be okay, my lady? I could stay." She eyes the doorway. It wouldn't be the first time she slept on the floor on a makeshift nest.

Because of my episodes. My mother's illness gave her other things to worry about, so I stopped going to her early on.

I sweep her into a hug, surprising both her and myself.

I'm not supposed to become attached to the servants, but really, I don't have any friends.

I don't have anyone.

Rosie has been a part of my life for over five years, riding the wave with me through the sectors and my mother's illness.

Without her, I would probably have already gone mad.

"I don't deserve you, Rosie," I whisper against her ear as I give her a squeeze.

Once the shock has worn off, she tentatively hugs me back. "You deserve everything. You've been nothing but good to me, my lady." She pulls away and runs her thumb down my arm, avoiding the fresh cuts. "And now they do this to you. It's not proper."

The wounds don't bleed out, but they're red and angry. The mark will stay as a reminder of what's coming.

A reminder of what I've agreed to.

But what choice is there? Allow my mother to die and possibly my whole family to be killed all because of pride?

Bowing to any man is a severe hit to that pride. I'm painfully aware it's my weakness, but it's also my strength.

It's why I would have made an excellent Duchess of a new village of my making.

One where women rule—not men.

Now that plan is nothing more than a dream to be sacrificed along with all the selections from my father's village.

No… Duke Nightingale's village.

I know what happens to every male or female chosen for Monsters Night. They're put on a train and thrust onto the streets of Monster City, and we watch and wait.

We hope.

We pray . Or at least, the rest of my family has always prayed.

Not me. I know that our fate is one of our own making.

The past years have been good for my family. Many candidates are selected by compatible monsters, proving that my father's tactics in genetic manipulation, mental conditioning, and environmental factors can work well.

And they've also given us enough points to survive.

"Bribes," I mutter to myself as I unravel the ribbon securing my book, then open it as I sink into my writing chair. I curl a fluffy robe around my shoulders as I settle in to write.

Flipping past sketches of monsters and men along with their written impressions I've made, I ignore images of various family alliances and enemies—honestly, there isn't much difference between the two—and skip to a blank page.

I've never written an entry on my brother or my father.

"That changes tonight," I say as I accept the sinking feeling that my own family has now entered enemy territory.

They aren't my friends.

They're yet another political pawn to be watched.

The game has begun.

And if I'm forced to play… I'm going to win.