Sweet and citrus… orange.

The queen smells like oranges.

Many moments pass by. And it’s truly surreal, but my soul finds an easy companion in hers.

“It was blue once. The sky,” I finally say.

“I would have liked to see that.”

I exhale with relief. "Tuscany is a lovely name.” I shuffle to look at her face, and she drops her cheek to the grass to meet my gaze. “If I were named after a city from the old-world, I would like to be London. If you were a flower, just a flower, what would your name be?"

Her lips make a tiny smile. "In all my life, no one has ever asked me a question like that before."

"I'm odd."

"Mm.” Her eyes, glimmering amber orbs, say she agrees. “I am odd, too. I'd be Marigold. It's bright, and the bees love them. I'll pollinate the entire planet until we are overrun with flowers.” She looks me over, nodding to herself. “We must look a sight lying on the grass together.”

I shrug. “I don’t mind, if you don’t mind.”

Her measured smile softens on me. “I can see you as London. It was supposedly a royal city.”

A moment of reluctance pauses her, but then she reaches for my wrist, lifting it up for her perusal. Her touch is lighter than the breeze.

"They mutilated you," she whispers.

She takes in the healing skin graft.

My brows pinch as I trace the sad curve of her lips. She has been through something traumatic, like me. Maybe. Or nothing like me, but something has scratched her soul. I can see the blemishes left in her eyes.

"They were going to eat me,” I admit.

She carefully lowers my hand to the soft, green blades. "Silk Girls aren't meant to have any negative experiences. It’s better for the cells, no cortisol, no stress, peaceful births and babies.”

My throat tightens. I’ve messed up. It’s not like it was a choice, but it is my problem. "I'm sorry, my queen."

"You're not a very good Silk Girl,” she mentions, and though the words are harsh, she utters them without malice. As though she were merely recognising the colour of my hair.

"I know."

She sighs long and slow. "I'm not a very good queen."

Wow.

"The fuck are you doing!"

Rome grabs my upper arm, dragging me to my feet, where I barely manage to stand.

It all happens so quickly. He is holding my arm too high. I’m too short. I cry out; the weight of my dangling body on my shoulder hurts. I feel as if I may split in two.

“Boy.” Kong is upon us. “Let her go.”

Rome drops me to the ground.

“Rome.” Tuscany breathes. “Don’t.”

I fall like a wet cloth, the grass scraping my arm as I land. Shocked, I peer up at him, shrinking into a tiny, insignificant puddle at his huge feet. I scoot backward on my backside.

He points at me. “You’re out!”

“Rome!” Tuscany yells.

“My king,” I plead, shaking hard. “She was sad. I was just talking to Tuscan⁠—”

“What?” He jolts toward me. “Did you just use her name?” If he could burn me to nonexistence with his dark, cruel gaze, he would. “You will never speak her name again! She gave that up for you people! You will never speak again. And that is a damn kindness. No more questions from you. No more special treatment. I don’t care who you are. I understand the need for obedience and conditioning right the fuck now!” he roars, his body shaking with rage. “There is no place for a girl like you here! You’re lucky you have your pretty throat. Get her out of my sight!”

His words are bullets, and they find their target, right in my heart. “My king, please,” I beg.

“Sire!” he roars, the sound booting me in the chest, his eyes burning with fury so powerful it sparks through the air.

“Come, girl.” Kong grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet, nudging me forward.

Shallow breaths racket through me—words, panic, pleading, apologies, confusion, all bursting up my throat simultaneously.

I stumble but peer back to see Tuscany—my queen— standing, angry, and waving her little finger at his broad chest, but Rome glares at me. She reaches up and, with one finger, she directs his cheek back to her.

My heart hammers.

I spin to face forward.

“Better not to look back,” Kong advises smoothly as he ushers me inside, almost protective, but that wouldn’t make sense at all.

Shame nests in my stomach.

It finds company with naivety.

Kong directs me like a towering guard to my small significant self, past the wide-eyed Silk Girls and Paisley, who cups her mouth in shock, all the way through the various halls until we stop outside The Circle.

“The first time I saw the effect you had over him, I thought you were a spy,” Kong says, “the entire raid a setup. But seeing you feed Odio changed my mind. That bird can see the truth inside everything. You’re too naïve to be a spy.”

Too naïve to be a Silk Girl.

I look at the door. Blink. “Do I leave now? Who⁠—”

“Stay in your room,” Kong states, and I turn to look up at him— basically a wall of muscles in dark leather armour. “Sleep. Tomorrow you will know what is next for you.”

I grip my shoulder as a dull throb circles the joint. Kong notices and frowns. He has a distinctive stance, as though the plates in his back are made of pure indestructible metal, never bending.

I feel numb. Everything escalated so quickly to a place I didn’t realise was possible.

I have been so wrong, for so long. Daisy was right. Rules are there for a reason. Iris was right. There is something wrong with me.

“Will I be executed?”

“That is unlikely.” Kong’s voice is the deepest note I have ever heard. “The Trade has invested in your womb.”

My eyes burn; I barely ever cry. “You saw me. You let me speak to her.” I clear my throat. “To the Queen. You could have stopped me.”

“I was thinking about what she would have wanted,” he says, roughly. “Not him or you. I was thinking about her.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to. And if you know what is good for you, you will stop trying to understand.”

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Nine

Aster

Silk Girl Vows:

For The Cradle, I will guard my seal of purity.

A voice stirs me.

The Endigo’s snarl coils around me. “Your tongue can’t be trusted, little girl. Let’s take it off for you. It gets you in so much trouble.”

I wake up to those words and a rumbling stomach. I cover my face, breathing into my palms.

Panic and anguish coil together in my mind, growing in size with each new thought.

‘You will never speak again.’ ‘No more questions from you.’ ‘Your tongue can’t be trusted.’ What about my Meaningful Purpose? What about all I have endured to get here? The nights I convince myself it would be better here, the split toes from ballet training, the hope of being a Sired Mother. The loneliness and optimism and perseverance.

The ball in my head pops.

Jolting upright, I fist my pillow and toss it across the room, knocking a small fertility statue over, the thing falling, shattering across a black boot.

Wait.

My eyes shoot up from the steel-capped boot to see Rome sitting in the dark corner of the room on the large red leather sofa I’ve yet to sit on.

Radiating confidence, he is leaning back, his thick arm draped over the high rest. His chest is bare—shirtless— and shadows dance across the deep grooves of his abdomen.

I swallow.

He stares at me. “You dream.”

Shit.

I’m not ready to see him.

My pulse thumps so hard the thin column of my throat seems to protest.