Page 58 of Cursed Shadows 2

She’s without armour this phase. And I think it’s because of the considerable swell of her belly, that she can’t squeeze into the leathers anymore, and so she wears an ugly green sweater, and some type of stockings with a plain pair of white shorts.

I run the attire over with a mild look of distaste that intensifies when I lift my gaze to hers.

Her jaw ticks.

She doesn’t move from the entryway. Doesn’t peel away from the shelves and come closer to us.

Keeping her distance, she speaks nothing at all.

Father draws my attention back to him as he says, “I intentionally moulded you into a lady. From your birth, Iensured you would make a fine one. One that the lords would want as a bride, despite the circumstances around your birth.” The smile he gives me is small and tight. It’s sad. “All you need now is the title.”

My lips part around an answer, but before I can speak it, father lifts his hand to silence me.

“And that title,” he adds, his tone as suddenly stern as his stare, “is not wife of a dark male brute.”

The blood escapes my head and I feel the pallor of my face.

Through the heart lodged in my throat, I manage to utter a weak sound. I mentioned Daxeel only once in my lengthy tale to father. I mentioned only that he saved me from Taroh at the High Court.

But father knows me well. He knows that I would offer Daxeel up as a replacement fiancé.

Dark male brute.

He is so much more than that.

“Daxeel is of ancient blood.” I hardly summon the courage to strengthen my voice. It’s a hushed, pathetic sound. “He’s the son of a general, his mother is a viscountess. That is high status,” I plead, breathless. “I would have been more than a lady with a marriage to him. And I would have been loved.”

My cheeks are wet, like the sensation in my slick throat that I swallow back. Hands slipping from the edge of the desk, I fight the wobble of my bottom lip.

I hold father’s stare.

He’s made no decision yet, and so I have hope because above all that I am, I am a fool.

“I stole your future with him.” Father’s honesty shocks me into silence. “Because he is of the dark blood. He is of beasts, the unevolved of the fae, and he will never be good enough for mine. A prince, a generalson, I couldn’t possibly care less. No child of mine will marry one of them, no matter their status.”

“Father,” I breath the word like a prayer. The chair creaks under my weight as I reach out for him, hands pushing parchment across the desk. “Forget Daxeel. Will you spare me from Taroh?”

His face hardens.

Slowly, he lifts his chin and looks down his nose at me. “When Taroh comes to know you better, he should fall under your spell as your dark male did. With your talents,” and I know he means my seductive edge, a trait I’ve sharpened over time, “I have no doubts that Taroh will come to see you as a fine wife.”

The breath shudders from me; a shiver of pain and rage and heartache.

My hands flatten on parchment and slowly, I scrunch them in my fists, but my eyes don’t stray from father’s unyielding stare.

“Narcissa…” he starts with a kind, forced smile, “you are so pretty, you are a lover of the written word, you are a skilled and talented dancer. You want for baubles and room enough to keep your treasures. You want for love and protection, because it’s all I’ve shown you in your youth. I made you into who you are.”

I know what he’s telling me, the constant insult I get from Pandora, and a truth I’m suddenly all too aware of. “You made me into a brat?”

“You are what I wanted in a second daughter. This is what allows me to price your tocher so high. You are coveted, so coveted that lesser lordsons with unsuitable wealth or social standings have made many offers on your contracts, and I have rejected them—because I know your worth. I love you, my daffodil, but this is your purpose.” He sighs a soft breath. “You will marry Taroh.”

The finality of his decision strikes through me like a sword.

A sudden swell of heat steals my head, and I’m dizzy.

Slowly, I push up from the chair and I’m unsteady on my feet.

“You love me,” I echo his statement in a daze. Through clouded eyes, I keep father’s mahogany stare. “And so little you do.”

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