Page 69 of Forging Darkness
Staring at the lovely piece of finery in front of me, I can’t help but feel as if I’m another one of the creatures he wants to control.
“Screw this.”
Droplets of water from my wet hair leave a constellation of drips on the dress and bedding as I spin to the wardrobe. If I have a choice, I’m not letting someone dictate what I wear. In this situation, clothes are like armor, and I intend to dress for battle, not a ball.
I pass my fingers over the hanging garments, shuffling through them like a deck of cards. I fly over a few pieces and then pause, backtracking until I find what caught my eye.
“Now this I like,” I whisper. It only takes a few more moments to find the rest of the ensemble.
My still-damp hair hangs in clumps around my shoulders and down my back when Thorne knocks on my door. I don’t bother answering, since we both know the knock was a simple courtesy rather than a true request to enter.
I’m leaned up against the window, the thick bars pressing into my back, when he pushes open the door. His gaze flicks to where the dress still lies on the bed and then to me, taking a quick sweep of my body from head to toe. A half-smile quirks his lips upward. “Didn’t like the suggested attire?”
“Don’t particularly like being dressed up like a doll.”
“Glad to hear it.”
I frown at the unexpected reaction.
Shoving off the windowsill, I take a few measured steps forward. “Why pick something out for me if you didn’t want me to wear it?”
“To see what your reaction would be, of course.” He’s playing a game, I’m just not sure what it is. But I can’t afford to not win.
The outfit I settled on is a pair of white ripped skinny jeans, a simple silver tank, and chunky white army boots with gold laces. The whole outfit is anchored by an amazing cropped white leather jacket that looks like it was splatter-painted gold. It’s officially my favorite thing I’ve ever worn—I think I might be in love. Nova would be proud.
“Also, do you have something against color?” I ask, not knowing how to respond to Thorne’s comment about my reaction. “I look like a sheet of paper. And with the walls and décor,” I float a hand around the room to indicate the sea of whites and creams. “What’s the deal?”
Thorne brushes some of his light hair off his forehead. “What’s wrong with the color white?”
“I don’t even think whiteisan actual color.”
“Point taken. I can have some other things sent to you. Any particular requests?”
“Maybe something that doesn’t show blood so well?” I ask, fiddling with the red tips of my hair.
He nods in concession and then gestures toward the door. “Ready?”
We take the ancient elevator down a few floors. The gears grind to a halt, and Thorne pulls the grated accordion doors open. I’m surprised we’re not on the ground floor. Instead we exit the death box, and Thorne leads me through an exterior door that opens to the wall connecting this tower to the next of the compound’s structures—the Fallen’s barracks.
Blistering winds toss the ends of my hair, drying the still-moist strands. Our auras give both of us a slight glow in the darkened spectrum night. Thorne’s is just as bright as mine despite the lines of black lightning streaking through it.
Thorne nods at a sentry as we pass. The Forsaken’s eyes track my movements, his lip curling to reveal a pearly white fang. His gaze is like a slimy touch. I keep my pace steady despite the sudden urge to scamper ahead. It’s physically hard to turn my back on the hostile creature.
As we near the barracks, I notice something on the ground, tucked into the corner where the wall meets the side of the building. A pit of unease forms in my stomach as the full spread comes into view.
Thick furs are laid out on the stone ground. A single lantern throws a soft glow over a dinner of shaved meats, fruits, nuts, and loaves of bread.
Thorne plops down, positioning one of the many pillows scattered about behind his back so he can lean against the wall more comfortably.
He waves me over. “Come, sit.”
“What,” I have to clear my throat because it’s suddenly dry. “Is all this?” I finish.
“Dinner, of course.” Taking in my words and the rigidity of my body, Thorne’s face falls. “What’s wrong?”
I shift my weight from one foot to the next. My gaze bounces anywhere but to Thorne, first looking at the pile of pillows next to him where I’m supposed to sit, then the food, then off into the distance above his head.
“All of this makes me a little uncomfortable. It’s a bit more . . . intimate than I was expecting.” My cheeks heat as the words leave my mouth. I half-turn so I don’t have to watch Thorne’s expression at my admission.