Page 10 of Once Charmed, Twice Cursed
Brendan has gone pale. “You can’t touch her, she’s cursed. What were you even thinking?”
A sob swells in my chest. The woman’s Mark is still there, which means mine is, too. But I cage my reaction with a swallow. “I’m sorry,” I lie. “I just...lost track of you. I was going to ask if she’d seen a boy with brown hair. I didn’t realize. I didn’t see her Mark.”
The Null woman fixes me with a piercing stare, and I beg with my eyes.Please don’t tell.
“Okay.” Brendan’s breath rushes out of him. “Okay, it was just an accident. But we need gloves. You have to wear gloves, so there are never any mistakes.”
“Yes,” I say, like the pliant, dutiful sister I am. “No mistakes.”
The Null watches as Brendan leads me away. The bustle of Pine’s End reasserts itself, and soon I’m awash in the hustle of vendors, the clatter of mule carts, the fragrant waft of cinnamon.
But a dull ache drags at me. I wassoclose. For one vivid, shining moment, I was almost normal.
When we reach the edge of the square, Brendan unlacesmy cloak, then studies my triquetra as if counting each point. “Mom and Dad would’ve killed me,” he mutters. “Youhaveto be more careful.”
“Right,” I say. “Careful. I will be.”
The memory—or dream—shifts and dissolves, releasing me into wakefulness. I open my eyes and blink up at the ornate canopy over my bed. A wash of gray light filters through the curtains.
Shame smolders in my belly. I sit up in the predawn and run my hands through my long brown waves. Fortuna help me, I hate that dream. I hate remembering what I did to that woman. I hate knowing I almost took away her choice.
I may have been a child, but that’s no excuse. Regret set in even before Brendan pulled me through the doors of our gigantic, unearned house that day, pleading with me not to tell our parents what he’d almost let happen.
I swore I wouldn’t.
I also swore—privately—never to do to anyone else what I nearly did to that Null. Never again would I treat someone as their Mark. As a means to an end. I, of all people, should know better.
Which is why, in ten years, I’ve never touched Weston, never grabbed onto him by “accident.” Why it would’ve had to be his choice.
At the thought, my chest twists, and I flop down again, giving the window my back. I should probably get more sleep. But when I close my eyes, only jagged pain awaits. Someone has hacked a decade’s worth of hope out of my skeleton and left a ragged, dripping wound behind. The agony of it steals my breath.
Is this what normality feels like? Maybe. Most unMarkedpeople have probably, at some point in their lives, wanted a thing so badly it’s fused with their soul, only to have it wrested away.
Maybe I’m not cut out for that, after all.
I stay in bed, but sleep eludes me. Today, my brother will sell me to the highest bidder. He’ll ensure my luck provides our family with yet another infusion of riches, and our parents will probably celebrate by extending the trip they jaunted off on six months ago. They’ll gallivant around the continent for another year or three, and I’ll spend my days making superficial conversation with Calder or Bastian or Theodore. At night, in bed, I’ll turn my gaze away. Stare at the wall until they’ve finished.
I burrow deeper into the sheets. I don’t actually care who it ends up being. Their faces blur together in my mind, a hazy composite of every man that isn’t Weston.
There may be ninety-nine choices, but to me, they’re all the same.
At least, that’s what I go into Brendan’s office believing, when I drag myself up to the third floor, two hours later. My attendant, Minnie, has dressed and brushed me and laced my corset tight enough to pinch.
Which I don’t mind, today. It distracts from the serrated pain in my heart.
Brendan looks up from the papers he’s perusing. Excitement glows in his face.
“What?” I say, wary.
“You’ll never believe it.” He can barely contain his grin. “We’ve had a hundredth proposal. Just this morning.”
My pulse stutters. “What? From who?” I try and fail to mask the hope in my voice.
“Well, as luck would have it...” Brendan pauses, seemingly for dramatic effect. “The duke of Alverton. He’s offered a fortune for you. And not a small one.”
The light flickering within me abruptly gutters out. The duke of Alverton. The duke ofAlverton?No, he’s a cutthroat shark of a businessman, twice widowed and with a reputation for being just as ruthless with his wives as his investment partners.
I don’t even question those rumors, because my mother used to invite the late duchess to tea. Even as a child, I understood that something terrible had befallen that woman. She cringed at the faintest sound. She only spoke when addressed directly. Every time I saw her, she reminded me of a horse whose spirit had been broken.
