Page 73 of Born for Silk
I slide from the high bed, dropping to my bare feet. Without a second of hesitation, I rush to the desk and grab the shiny scissors, holding them out in front of my body.
"Easy, Aster, I won't hurt you."
I spin to see a tall, gorgeous, dark-haired Xin De man in a purple cloak approaching unhurried and smiling, with the powerful aura and angelic features of a fallen angel.
"Why am I naked?" I ask, fingering the scissors.
"I undressed you."
I step backward. "Why?"
"I was checking you over.” He stops a few paces away and drops his gaze down my legs. “You have scars on your thighs. I wanted to see if they were anywhere else. How did you get them?"
I blink at him, biding my time as I consider what to say. "I don't remember." It’s all I have.
"My apologies,” —he opens his arms, seemingly finding my defensive stance amusing— “what terrible manners. Most people know me. I'm Master?—"
“Cairo,” I finish, realising. I have seen his picture before, studied him even, but he is different in the flesh in a way I cannot even put my finger on.
"No one came to me,” I offer, schooling my expression so he cannot see my disappointment, anger, jealousy. Shit. I clear my throat. “I don't need to be here. I am not in pain as no one chose me.”
"You fell unconscious,” he says, plainly.
"I was shocked by Lord Darwin’s passing.”
His dark eyes narrow on me, finding a clear target in my throat as I swallow my nerves down. “Very good. I almost believed you.”
Exhaling hard, I mutter. “I'm a Silk Girl.” I set the scissors down, surrendering, and glance at the fresh skin graft on my wrist, where my tattoo used to be, where my identity was marked in flesh.
Finding my head and ignoring my heart, I say, “My mother was a Silk Girl. I am one. What about my Meaningful Purpose now that no one wants me?”
He studies me. "It will change.”
"No.” I shake my head over and over. “No, I've been raised my entire life for this. I want it. I'm a Silk Girl.”
I can’t let them win, can’t let Iris win.
I am a Silk Girl.
My palms start to sweat. My jealous yearning sets ablaze to anger, the potent feeling incinerating my silly affections toward him, building ashy disdain around the name Rome. Rome who took this from me. “The king did this! Didn't he?” As the words come out, I know I’ve crossed a line, revealed myself and Rome, to the one person I should never bare my soul to.
One of his eyebrows lifts. “The king? That’s how you address The Cradle’s Monarch?”
I rub my palms down my naked thighs. “Sire.”
He makes a clicking sound with his tongue before walking toward the high examination table. “I am not one to smack a pet when the owner has clearly allowed it on the bed. So, tell me, Aster, has he touched you already?”
“No,” I peep.
“Are you lying to me?”
“No.”
He looks at me—through me. “On the bed,” he orders, the words uncompromising. “I will check your seal. If you’re intact, I will relocate you. You are lovely, your movements graceful, your eye contact is perfection, and you haven’t insisted on dressing so I can presume you’re not prideful and understand that your body is The Cradle’s, not yours. It would be a great pity if we let what we invested in you go to waste.”
His eyes track me as I stroll over to the bed, take the steps up the side, and lie down on it again. “You promise?”
“Promise?”