A Ruin of Roses (Deliciously Dark Fairytales 1)

“Why would he look lesser for dating someone more attractive than him? I’d think other men would be clapping him on the back in congratulations.”

“I don’t know. I can only assume it had something to do with Jedrek, this dickface in the village. He wants to mate me mostly because of my appearance, I think. He’s likely been thinking about this for a while. I bet he spread rumors or picked on my ex. Men’s egos are so fragile. No offense.”

“I wouldn’t have gotten far if I took offense every time someone spoke the truth.”

I laughed, trailing my fingers down his cheek. “That whole ‘pretty’ thing annoys me. Everyone’s one and only compliment to me has always been about my appearance. It’s all I get to be.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m so much more than my appearance. We all are. I’m as well read as I can be in this village. I’m smart and strong and good at problem solving. I have courage—mostly. I’ve created various healing remedies people use, not to mention the one that keeps their family members alive. But I only get praise for being pretty. It feels like, in this village, if you’re beautiful, you’ve reached the highest level of achievement for a woman—something none of us can control. Something given to me and that I didn’t work for or have any choice in. And if you aren’t perceived as beautiful, or if you don’t play up your beauty, you’re constantly told ways to fix yourself to look better—hair, makeup, clothes, whatever. As if we somehow need fixing because someone else doesn’t like us the way we are. As if we should care what others think over what we think of ourselves. It’s bullshit.”

He didn’t respond. I heaved out a sigh.

“I want to be known for what I do, not how I look. I want to be praised for my achievements. But in this village, I feel like all I am is pretty and full of flaws. I just… I just want something more, I guess.”

“You will have it,” he whispered, and I could tell his strength was failing him. He needed sleep. “You were meant for great things, Finley. Things this kingdom cannot provide you. One day you will see a crack in your cage, and you will fly.”

16

I blinked my eyes open and took a moment to get my bearings. The sun highlighted dust motes swimming lazily through the air of my room. I breathed in the familiar smells, happy to be home again. Happy to have gotten to see my family.

It took me a moment to realize Nyfain’s eyes were open and staring at me.

A shock of panic made me suck in a breath and jerk, thinking it was a sightless gaze. Thinking he’d died between the time I crawled into Sable’s bed in the early morning and now. He blinked, though, and resumed his stare.

I eased back to relax on my side, facing him.

“How do you feel?” I asked, bone-weary and my limbs aching. I’d needed stitches, salves, bandages, and rest, and I’d gotten everything but the last.

“How do you feel?”

“Great. I didn’t almost die, though. Mostly because you saved me.”

“I was the reason you ran away in the first place. The reason you even had to run away. The reason you are trapped in this kingdom—need I go on? I didn’t save anything.”

“Your surliness is back. You must be feeling better.” I yawned and stretched, flopping to my back.

“How many of those creatures did you kill before I got there?”

I thought back. “I think only one. The rest I just stabbed with a pocketknife. It didn’t seem to slow them down much.”

“And you were hurt at the time?”

“Yeah. The hellhound with the fin got me. That wasn’t pleasant. I think I’d rather take on boars. You can at least drop down on boars without worrying about being stabbed with a fin.”

“Before that?”

“A dybbuk. He was nothing.”

I turned my head to the side, meeting that beautiful gaze. The lighter gold streaks were highlighted by the sunlight filtering into the room. His wild hair and loose curls made his sharp cheekbones stand out.

“Did the curse change the color of your dragon’s scales?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Were your eyes always gold?”

“No. Close, though. Hazel. But something about forcing the shift burned my irises. Or maybe it is something baked into the curse, forcing me to remember what was lost. I need only look in a mirror.”

I nodded and then pushed to sitting. I stretched again for good measure.

“You should get more sleep,” he said. “You look terrible.”

I swung my legs over the edge and stood, my pajama bottoms—which I’d put on fresh after patching myself up yesterday—falling to my ankles. I bent over him, running my fingers over his back. The black of the poison was all but gone. I pulled up some of the bandages covering the claw marks. Only a few blackened threads wove through the puffy pink-red wound.