A Girl in Black and White (Alyria 2)

I growled in frustration, pulling on the chains. It’s like he knew exactly what to say to make the rage fester inside me. Why was he doing this? What had I ever done to him?

He walked away from me, the panic building in my chest once again. “I don’t know why you’re doing this. I saved myself earlier. I can fast-travel when I really need to.” Not exactly true, and I didn’t mention that the spark I had felt was nothing but a flicker, only saving me by the tiniest hair.

“You need to right now.”

I gritted my teeth, my heart beating hard in anticipation.

This time I tried so hard that a sweat broke out on my skin. I focused on the burn in my palms, but the fear of the pain was a constant battle in the back of my mind. Panic rolled down my spine and then was interrupted by a sharp pain in my other thigh.

I screamed in frustration, tears burning my eyes. I didn’t need to look to know that the cut was the deepest yet. They were getting deeper each time until the fear that he’d throw one directly at me sent a nauseous roll of horror in my stomach. He would do it. The emotionless gaze directed at me said that we weren’t leaving until I’d figured this out.

“You could have died earlier.” His voice was cold. “I’m surprised you made it this long. Now fast-travel. Because this time isn’t going to be a scratch.”

A scratch? I was covered in blood, warm and sticky. It dripped down my arms and bare legs. The wounds were already knitting back together, but the pain wasn’t any less. And the idea of a full stab wound made my heart stutter so hard in my chest, I lost my breath.

“One.”

“I hate you!” I scre

amed. I’d been focusing so hard, so damn hard. My head ached with the beat of my heart. Bu-bum. Bu-bum. Bu-bum.

The flame in my palms . . . the burning. Why couldn’t I find it? Maybe like he said, it wasn’t in my body—but in my mind. I frantically searched, panic engulfing me from my shoulders down.

And then there was a click, a ringing in my ears. Buried behind thoughts, memories, was a wall of black and white, built stronger than stone: the knowledge of who I was, of what I was meant to do.

“Two.”

Each stone was stacked on top of one another, not with glue, but with resentment of what was taken from me: a normal life, freedom.

My gaze was blank and unseeing, my weightless body swaying from the light ocean breeze as a numbness overtook me.

Save yourself . . .

Be the hero of your story . . .

I wanted it more than I wanted my old, sheltered life.

I felt the shift in the air as he threw the blade. With a fire kindling in my stomach and then expanding, the clink of the empty chains rattled against the wooden wall as I stood beside Weston, gazing emotionlessly at the knife that would have stuck itself into my thigh completely.

I had suppressed my magic, didn’t accept it. And therefore, it didn’t accept me.

My vision blurred. I blinked, taking a swaying sidestep, but with a rush of dizziness, I was held against a familiar chest as he walked down the dock.

“You left your blades,” I said, so numb.

“I don’t want them.”

The blood had dried on my skin, most of the wounds having knitted themselves back together. It looked like someone had dripped tar on me, across my white dress, down my legs and thighs.

But there was an undeniable sense of peace that rushed over me. As if I had spent the entire day in the sun and water. Black faded into my vision, weight pulling my consciousness down. Glancing up at his expression, it was still blank, shut off, as if this was merely a chore for him. But just before the dark took me all the way under, I rested my hand on his chest . . .

Bu-bum. Bu-bum. Bu-bum.

I blinked my eyes open, my brain dazed and confused as I looked around. The sun was shining through my bedroom window, and I knew I’d missed breakfast. Mid-groan, last evening came back to me.

Bloody hell . . . What was I going to say when I went downstairs? It wasn’t like I could blame this one on my monthly. I climbed out of bed and glanced down at myself. I was wearing one of my nightgowns, but still had dried, black blood all over me. He’d changed me, but I bet he didn’t even look. He was always telling me to keep my clothes on, or putting them back on for me. How aggravating was that?

After last night, I wasn’t certain about my feelings. I should have been angry that he took it that far, without my consent. But I couldn’t help but feel thankful for this constant warmth in my palms.