Page 2 of Gilded Wicked Mirrors
She clumsily stood up, and a man with a mirror-blessed tattoo reached out to steady her. The tattoo reminded her of the terrifying Mirror-Rite. The rite she had to make tonight on her twenty-third birthday or suffer severe consequences . . .
But she couldn’t think about that now because she had bigger problems to deal with.
Like her shattered ambitions.
“Thank you,” Quinn said, hopping to a storefront stoop as rivulets of blood soaked her tights and the street.
The man mumbled his reply and disappeared back into the crowd.
Once she sat down, Quinn reached into her pack and pulled out a small first aid kit. Making quick work of it, she threaded a needle before placing it between her teeth and ripping her tights off. The red staining her tutu nearly blended in with the maroon fabric, but her tights were as pale as her moon-white skin. Except, now, they were destroyed, caked with crimson streaks, and that would not do. It was better to go without tights than bloody ones.
Biting down tightly, Quinn sucked in a deep breath before pouring saline onto her left calf and lacing the needle into herdermis. She worked quickly through the pain as salty tears coated her cheeks. And Quinn hated herself for those tears. If it were up to her, she would never cry. She saw it as a sign of weakness. Showing emotion, showing how the world’s cruelty affected her, only made her feel frail and out of control, like prey—like a victim. And she never wanted to be that. She needed to control her own destiny. So, she stifled her feelings and allowed no one to see them.
But it was impossible to hold in tears caused by excruciating pain, and sewing your wound on the side of a dirty street without morphine was, at the very least, painful.
Halfway through her stitches, the voice of a devil echoed through the chaos. “Hello, Ginger.”
Quinn glanced up, and her eyes fixed on Emrys Avalon, Prince of New Swansea, her eternal adversary and the second in line to the throne. Her stomach coiled. The prince loved to make her life miserable and always showed up at the most inopportune moments. The needle in her fingers quivered as her heart turned into jagged icicles. Emrys was bad news incarnate, like nightmares made manifest. With his midnight hair and fiendish smile, he was way, way too attractive for his own good.
Disgustingly attractive.
She allowed her eyes to focus on him for a minuscule second before dismissively returning her gaze to her leg. But that moment was long enough to notice that he wore formal attire.
Formal attire at 6:30 in the morning.
He was dressed in a double-breasted pinstriped suit with a purple vest and silk cravat, which complemented his smooth, dark olive complexion. Topping the ostentatious outfit off was a gilded cane and a shiny black top hat with a grosgrain ribbon and a purple peacock feather. An outfit that screamed,look at me with my expendable wealth and deep-rooted narcissism.
No decent gentleman wore formal attire this early in the morning. But Quinn shouldn’t be surprised. Emrys, the notorious rogue, only cared about wasting money, fucking, having agood time, and being surrounded by courtesans and booze. He was probably on his way to the Viridian or Starling nightclubs to continue his constant stream of partying.
Quinn sighed.
Focusing on her task, she felt his irritation in the shifting of his stance. No one ignored the Playboy Prince.
“Whatareyou doing?” he asked the question in the sort of pompous way an aristocrat would ask a servant who had overstayed their welcome—like she had no right to be where she was and doing what she was doing.
Many untoward answers gathered in her mind, but she was suddenly aware of the crowd and cameras surrounding them. “I am suturing my leg.”
“Would you like help?”
Her eyebrows crinkled. Emrys Avalon was not chivalrous. He only did things that suited him and his needs, and as he reached out a hand to help her, an echo of flashbulbs ignited behind him. Oh, that was the reason. He wasn’t chivalrous, but he wanted to appear to be. In a society based on celebrity, it wasn’t the truth that mattered. Appearances and gossip ruled the day.
“Have you ever sutured a wound before?” She turned her chin up to catch his gaze but nearly sprained her neck doing so.
Emrys towered above. He always towered over her, but the difference was stark when she was on the ground. She was a short, petite little thing, and he was, well . . . the ridiculous stereotype of a tall, dark, and handsome actor in a silent picture show.
“Would it surprise you if I said yes?” A devilish grin danced on his lips.
Yes. It would.But that was not what she said. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of her surprise. “I am sure you’ve had many occasions to learn.”
His smile widened further. “I am sure I have. Danger is a beautiful bedmate.”
He moved closer as if to show his various skills, but she held out her hand to stop him. “Thank you for your offer, but I amperfectly capable of suturing a wound.” With that, she turned her focus completely back to her task.
“Yes, clearly,” he said. “I was merely suggesting that you allow someone to help you . . . in various ways.”
Quinn gulped. What the fuck did that even mean?
Ignoring him and the question, she looped her final stitch, tied a knot, and wrapped her leg in gauze.
