CHAPTER EIGHT
Mira froze. Her fingertips were still digging into his arms, her feet still pressed against the backs of his thighs. Over his shoulder she could see the portrait; mocking her, hating her, judging her. Her traitorous chin began to quake, and at the sight of it, Tarquin’s expression which had been— regret?— turned to loathing.
“What do you want from me?” he growled, still inside her.
She wasn’t sure how she could have said everything more clearly than she just had, so she furrowed her brow, set her jaw, and pushed at his chest. “I want you to get off of me, thanks. You’re really fucking heavy,” she said, carefully keeping her expression blank, cursing the way her eyes burned as she said it.
She rose and pulled on her gown quickly, focusing on her breathing, steeling her nerves and promising herself that she could do this later— just another minute and she would be alone. He was where she’d left him, nude on the bed, but as she stood before him in her stupid dress she had never felt so naked.
“Mira—” he began, but she shook her head and turned for the door.
“Thanks for the fuck,” she said, enjoying the face he pulled at her vulgarity. She laughed out loud, then slipped out the door and darted down the corridor, back to her room, hoping he wouldn’t follow her and wishing he would.
She drew another bath, cold this time, and scrubbed herself furiously until she could no longer feel where he’d touched her. She was sore inside, and she both relished and cursed the ache. Her mind was silent, for once; thankfully, blissfully silent. She wrapped herself in a stolen robe when she was finished, then proceeded directly to let her wet hair dry on the cold terrace.
She watched the stars, pointedly not thinking about what had just happened while simultaneously feeling it all over. She stayed outside for a long time, not thinking, not remembering, just feeling… empty.
She ignored the soft knock on her bedroom door, and ignored it again when it was a bit louder. She watched the stars and the lake and the inky blackness of its surface, and that reminded her of the time, months ago, when wings that dark had descended on her for the first time, terrifying her and changing her forever.
Before she crawled in bed she looked out into the corridor, faintly hopeful, and on the floor she found her neatly folded trousers.
Mira resolved herself to never seeing him again, but the next morning at breakfast, when he seated himself across from her and stared at her unashamedly, she revised it to seeing him as little as possible. She avoided his gaze as she ate quickly, then she slipped back up to her bedroom, in the dark abandoned wing of the palace.
She set off to explore more rooms, and found a white gown with a pretty top. She carried it back with her along with a golden goblet and a pair of ruby earrings. She stashed the cup and the jewelry in her cabinet, and then retrieved her pair of scissors and set to work separating the skirt from the bodice.
A few minutes later, she had what might pass for a blouse—if it weren’t for the badly frayed edges at the bottom. She sighed at it, disappointed she’d done such a poor job, then tucked it into her black trousers. She fingered the lace around her wrists as she wandered over to her mirror and looked herself over. She had a boyish figure with slim hips and small breasts, but she thought that the pants showcased her bottom nicely. She smiled at her reflection for a minute, and the face she saw when she did was unfamiliar. She dropped her smile and painted on her red lipstick.
She was dressed and pleased with her appearance, for once, but the only person whose opinion she cared about was the very person she was trying to distract herself from. It bothered her, how upset she was about what had happened. She hadn’t much cared about losing her virginity; she’d have stopped him if she had. She continually heard that name in her mind, though, the one he’d murmured so lovingly while he was still inside of her.
Aurelia.
Being alone with her thoughts was too much, so the next morning she made another trip to the queen’s parlor, wondering if it would become habit. It was the first time Mira had seen Ingrid in the parlor, but there she was, looking exhausted and pale and relieved. Ingrid was seated on a couch, slumped into her mate’s side, clinging to his arm and staring in his eyes. Mira felt as if she had intruded on an intimate moment, despite the activity from the other women in the room.
Lily smiled at her, though, and pulled her over to a small table, insisting they learn a new game together. She relaxed at that, pleased to not be lingering awkwardly in the doorway. She spent several hours that way, learning games and watching Olive poorly attempt to paint the queen’s likeness. Even Ingrid was laughing along, and Mira felt some relief for her would-be friend, who seemed to be brightening right in front of her. She clung to Helias’s hand, still, and he couldn’t seem to stop his eyes from roaming over her, an expression of disbelief on his face.
Mira was winning soundly at the new game she’d learned, pitted against Lily, Elsie, and Vivian— another of the queen’s ladies. She was facing away from the door and regretted it as she heard a familiar voice, the one that she’d finally banished from repeating her name in her head. She never thought she’d stumble into him here, not in this sunny room filled with light and laughter, everything he wasn’t. She focused intently on the cards in her hands, ignoring the way she could feel the space between them, trying not to visibly flinch when he strode to her side.
“I like your shirt,” he said quietly, just for her.
She glanced up at him, met his gaze briefly, and then returned her attention to the game before her. She didn’t like the way her stomach had jolted when she’d looked into his eyes, and she certainly didn’t want him to think that she was going to ever see him on purpose. She could feel the air as he opened his mouth to say something else, then seemed to think better of it, crossing the room to talk to his brother.
She tried to ignore their conversation, but couldn’t help overhearing scraps of words that floated her way. Helias was sorry about something that he wouldn’t stop apologizing for. Tarquin was insisting on something, over and over, that neither Helias nor Ingrid approved of.
Mira attempted to keep her gaze away from him but caught herself repeatedly studying him. She couldn’t help but watch the way his shoulders moved under his shirt, couldn’t help remembering the way they’d looked in the dim light— bare and tan and sweaty, couldn’t help remembering their unyielding firmness under her fingertips. He met her gaze once, then twice, until she’d finally won the stupid game.
She excused herself quickly and darted back to her room, bolting the door behind her.
Mira didn’t last long. She passed him in the corridor, later that evening, and maybe it was the memories she couldn’t shake from the night before— the good ones, or maybe it was the oddly concerned way he’d watched her as he passed. She suspected, though, that it was the thoughts that had been plaguing her; she didn’t want a summation of their history to have culminated in that awful experience.
She brushed his hand with hers, and then pushed him into a deserted room where they came together like it had been much longer than a day since they’d last touched.
Gone were the sweet, soft kisses of the night before. She kissed him like she wanted to hurt him. She faintly hoped his lips would be bruised and he would feel it afterward to remind him that she had been there, like she’d been reminded, all day, by the ache between her thighs.
He cupped her face in his hands, but she hated the affection in the touch, so she shook her head until he released her with a question in his gaze. She ignored the look and pulled his shirt over his head, then ran her lips and teeth and tongue down his chiseled front until she was on her knees.
“Are you sure?” he murmured as she reached for his pants, but she just shot him a disgusted look and returned to her task. She took him in her hand, running her grip up and down the length of him, wanting to explore him but not wanting him to mistake her touch as a caress.
They were in a small room with no bed, no couch, no soft surface, so he bent her over a table and thrust into her from behind, reaching around to tease her nipples and caress her clit. She came quickly, and then again, before he shuddered behind her and called her name.
It didn’t matter.
He bent to kiss her afterward, but she turned her face away and fastened her pants around her waist, and then left before he could say anything that she didn’t want to hear.
She returned to her room, breathing heavily, not sure if she hated him or herself more.