ISKERA
The new hostile girl flushes a violent shade of crimson at my question, which informs me of two things instantly.
One, she has a massive, agonizing crush on Vane. And two, he has absolutely no idea she exists in that way.
The realization is so delicious it amuses me.
"Why is that stupid smile on your face?" she snaps, her voice high and tight.
I shrug, leaning back against the plush headboard of my new queen-sized sanctuary. "Because I love smiling? It's a novel concept, I know."
Her scowl deepens, her gaze tracking over me as if I'm some kind of laboratory specimen she'd like to dissect. She takes a predatory step toward me, her hand twitching as if she's debating an all-out attack.
I watch her, poised and entirely unbothered. Smirking, when she stopped her advance.
Atta girl, good choice, I mutter under my breath.
Not because she would have incurred Vane's cold wrath—though she certainly would have—but because Nox was currently pacing in the back of my mind, practically begging for an excuse to show this girl one or two shadow tactics.
"You are lucky," the girl spits, her eyes narrowing. "You're only here because you're needed to spoil the treaty. A temporary tool."
I'm not thrilled that she's guessed the singular fact of my existence here so easily, but I keep my expression smooth. "And that's perfectly fine. A useful tool is still more important than whatever it is you are."
I pause, cocking a brow at her. "So, you do like the Prince. You're clearly not a relative. Are you royalty, then? A noble? What exactly is your high-ranking position in the den of the Alpha King?"
Instead of an answer, her face turns an even darker shade of maroon. She looks like she's about to spontaneously combust, which is an answer in itself. She is none of those things.
This time, I'm the one who laughs. It's a high, boisterous note, uneven and raw. And when I catch sight of her boiling temper, I go into another bout of laughter until I'm clutching my stomach and a stray tear slips past my lashes.
"So, you are nothing," I finally say, my voice dropping to a dangerous purr.
That breaks her.
She marches toward me with ill intent, her footsteps heavy on the expensive rug. I stay poised yet, watching her with a crooked smirk. At the foot of my bed, I can literally hear her teeth grinding as she contemplates striking me.
The impulse wins; she raises her hand, the arc of a slap beginning to form, but before it can find its mark, the door flies open.
Grace steps in, her face pale. "Oh my God, Calista! What on earth do you think you are doing?!"
The girl—Calista, I now know—clicks her teeth in annoyance, dropping her hand and whirled toward Grace. "Mom, she has a loud mouth! She's being a brat!"
Mom?
I blink. The head matron is her mother?
"And you are stupid if you think you can hit her and get away with it!" Grace's voice is sharp, trembling with a fear I haven't seen yet. "Do you want to get on Prince Vane's wrong side? Don't forget his mercies toward us can turn ice-cold the moment he senses rebellion."
Calista stamps her foot petulantly, crossing her arms over her chest. "I know, Mom, but she…" She points a shaking finger at me. "It's her fault! She looked down on me when I reached out to be her friend!"
That is so far-fetched I actually let out a dry, sarcastic bark of a laugh. If I had truly avoided her hand of friendship—which never existed—does that warrant a slap? Is friendship mandatory now?
Grace looks at me quizzically, and for a moment, I feel the need to explain. This woman has been good to me; she shook my hand without the protection of gloves. I won't let her daughter paint me as a villain.
"Your daughter is lying, Grace," I say calmly. "And I'm not entirely sure how she does it with such a straight face."
Grace sighs, a heavy sound of exhaustion, and tilts her head in a slight bow—much to Calista's visible chagrin. "I apologize, Miss Iskera. This won't happen again. I would be most grateful if you didn't... report this to our Prince."
"Mom!" Calista cries.
Grace doesn't hesitate. She covers the distance between them in two strides and smacks her daughter hard on the arm. Calista looks utterly bewildered, rubbing the spot as her mother urges her to apologize.
"Mom…" she whispers, as if she can't comprehend the world turning upside down.
"Do you want to enter the Prince's bad graces, Calista?" I muse, picking up my fork and following Nox's silent advice.
If I expect to be respected during my stay—if I refuse to be abused like the girl in the attic—I have to start now. I have to put my best foot forward and tolerate nothing disrespectful, even if it means using Vane's name as a shameless shield.
Calista meanwhile looks affronted, her hands balled into white-knuckled fists. "You—"
"Apologize, Calista. With a bow. Or else you won't be entering this mansion again to see your precious Prince."
Even Grace blanches at the severity of the threat as she forces her daughter's head down.
Calista finally bows, though it's grudging and stiff. "My apologies, Is—"
"Add a prefix, like your mother does," I say, flashing a sharp smile when I hear her teeth gnash. Perfect harmony.
"I apologize, Miss Iskera. This won't happen again."
"Good," I mutter. I use my fork to spear a piece of diced fruit, moaning softly as the juice hits my tongue. I flick my hand at Calista in a dismissive gesture, indicating she can leave.
She looks scandalized, but she marches out of the room, her back as stiff as a board.
"Is your daughter going to be a problem for me, Grace?" I ask once the door clicks shut.
Grace shakes her head, watching me with entirely new eyes. I'm clearly not what she expected. She likely expected someone timid, shy, and broken.
I would have been that girl a week ago. But as I've felt since turning eighteen, I am becoming something else: bold, reckless, and tired of hiding.
"I'm sorry again," Grace says softly. "And thank you for forgiving her. She can be... too much. And as you've noticed, she has a very foolish crush on the Prince."
I shrug. "It's fine. Did you need something?"
She nods. "Just to help you arrange all of these new things."
I return to my food as she begins sorting through the boxes. My mind, however, drifts back to Calista's earlier comment—that Vane had given them my sizes.
I purse my lips over a piece of melon. How did he know all that just from holding me for a few minutes at the club? Or has he been watching me for much longer than that?
My heart stills. Had he planned to pluck me from my attic long before the Moon darkened?