Page 36 of Born for Lace

With that, I turn to leave the den, feeling better in a way I cannot describe. A way that takes me by surprise. Giving her the La Mu might save her life or get her revenge, just like Isle did with the La Mu she traded for my leather jacket.

Just like Isle…Two weeks ago, I thought what she did was horrific.

Now, I get it.

I didn’t think about what handing that precious, rare plant over meant to me, for me. Being a Lace Girl and La Mu are mutually exclusive. We use all parts of it. We even moisturise with the oils. It’s why we smell a certain way, men notice and realise we are Lace Girls, that we must be shielded from impurities. I’m letting that go and moving on without it.

“Stop.” Sweets’ voice halts me mid-stride—mid-thought. “You know Lagos hasn’t spoken to me since I let you watch him with Beauty and Naturale. I have no idea why, but he really doesn’t like you. He told me to keep you out of his business.”

I don’t turn around in case she sees my throat roll as I swallow thick disappointment.

“I don’t care,” I lie. A big fat lie.

She clicks her tongue, seemingly hard up for more mean comments, but finally says, “Thank you, Lace Girl.”

“Dahlia,” I correct, peering over my shoulder at her, taking in her stunning silhouette set against the deep scarlet background. The erotic beat hums in my bones. “I’m more than my Trade. I can be anything now.”

She scoffs. It holds amusement, but not callousness for once. “Dahlia. A flower.” The undertone of envy flattens her voice. “Typical name for a Trade princess.”

“A Trade princess?” I feel my brows weave. “I’ve never heard that term before.”

“Some Trade people are named like, river, mountain, right? But you’re a prize for a man, like a Silk Girl or the likes. Kings sell princesses to keep the peace and seal alliances. Trade princesses are used the same way. Ultimately, you’re a bargaining chip to control the Trade men. A treat for good behaviour. You’re all named after flowers.”

I never thought of my Trade as a means to ‘control’ Trade men but as a way to help them. It’s therapy. This idea doesn’t sit well in my stomach at all, deceit gnawing me to a new perspective. “Yeah, but the Dahlia flower comes in all shapes, sizes, and colours,” I point out. “Maybe I could be a House Girl.” I shrug before leaving the ruby-hued room, deciding to walk to the glowworms to meet Tomar and Spero.

ChapterEleven

Dahlia

Pedalling Spero’s feet, I pretend he is on a little bicycle. It’s slightly cold down at the cove today, but he is warm and pink from our pretend baby-workout.

It’s fun to play with him, and he has started to look at me. Really look. And his gaze of wonder… It’s something else. It almost overpowers the headache I’ve been cursed with for days.

Stars could be bright, the moon magnetic, but a baby’s awe is magic.

“Tonight, I’m having lemon on the fillet Tomar brings me,” I say to Spero, my voice a silly, playful beat. Yesterday, after I untangled four nets, Tide offered me a lemon that a drifter gave him in exchange for a fish. I literally bounce in the air with excitement. “Who’s a lucky girl? I am. I am a lucky girl.”

I am being silly with Spero, melting against his playful gurgling, when a slither of energy tickles my spine and the hairs on my arms rise...

I look up.Of course.Onlyhecan make me feel like every part of my body is vibrating all at once—Lagos is crossing the cove, his hair pulled tightly into a bun at the back of his head. The shiny plate above his ear appears to be the shape of a quarter-moon. He is in the same black shirt I sawed a line into, with the hood gathered on his shoulders. It is too small for him; his muscles form shapes beneath.

Guilt hits me. Clothing is not abundant for people like us, and he may be a giant brute who hates me, but he has helped me. And probably hundreds of others alongside Tomar?—

“I can fix that,” I say, keeping my tone light and casual.

He pulls his shirt over his head, long, thick muscles up his sides tightening, moving. My belly clenches at the display. He drops the ripped shirt to the stony floor, and I consider grabbing it.

“I can sew,” I add, hopeful. “I’m good, too. If you wan?—"

“It’s just a shirt.”

He is so cold.

“I’m sorry,” I say plainly. He looks at me—bored. “That you have to help me and Spero. I know you don’t want to. I’m sorry. I appreciate your help.”

“Thank Tomar.” He starts to unbutton his jeans, his large hands drawing my gaze down to the thick girth of his hips.

“I will.” I stand and smooth my oversized shirt down my pants. I wish I’d worn my shirt-dress, but it was dirty. I don’t know what comes over me whenever he is near, but it’s equally primal and pathetic. Magnetic, even. A power inequality that throws me over.

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