A Girl in Black and White (Alyria 2)

She fucking died.

I leaned against the twisted iron bars of the terrace, bowing my head in thought, and trying to rein in the anger pulsing through me. Maxim was a cheating, lying son of a bitch. But he just made something importantly clear to me.

Roldan had always been against the opening of the seal. Titans were humans, their skills and size bred to what they are today; once the seal was open, it would collapse, before new order could be formed, if it ever was. My brother’s motivations had always been for Titan, but it now seemed that he’d realized time was creeping up on him, and he’d changed his opinion.

Frustration welled inside me as I wrapped my head around the best option. I would figure this out in the next two days, and then I would leav

e as planned. Firstly, I needed to speak to my brother. More like threaten the son of a bitch, and remind him that I spared his life one year ago.

And secondly, she needed to learn how to use her magic, but I wasn’t prepared to show her how.

Not at all.

She really would hate me for this.

“ . . . and you shall make sure that Farah does not ever, I repeat, ever, fortune-tell ever again—” When the witch in question shot me the dirtiest glare to exist, I sighed loudly. “Fine. Cancel that. She can do it in moderation, but only to those willing.”

Farah only rolled her eyes, and I called that fair.

“Now enjoy your evening,” I finished.

Her mother blinked a few times, before turning around and walking back down the hall towards the drawing room.

I crossed my arms, eyeing Farah’s suddenly triumphant expression. She’d teased her curls, making this poufy style that would make me look like I’d been caught in a storm before living in the forest for a year. “You sure that persuasion’s going to stay?”

She nodded. “I gave her a tonic to assure it.”

What I would do to be skilled at spells and potions . . .

“What are you going to do now?” I asked her. “You have to choose somebody.”

“I shall pick someone my age, at least,” she said. “Preferably handsome and not daft.”

“And polite.”

She raised a perfect brow.

“Make polite a priority. Trust me,” I sighed.

Why am I allowed to make my own decisions? That’s what I’d been asking myself since I climbed into my window and changed my wrinkled dress for the gathering. My thoughts were in turmoil about the entire day, and I couldn’t even work out how I felt about earlier.

“And who are you going to pledge?” Farah asked. “You act like you don’t have to at all.”

Well, that was the reality I was trying to maintain, yea, until witches ruined it.

“I do not like men,” I announced, like that completely negated the fact I would have to marry one.

She only snorted at that. “Say, what’s Alis doing with Juliana?”

I peeked around the corner into the drawing room to see that Alis was indeed, completely enraptured in Juli’s every word. She was smiling with this whole sickening glow about her—well, only sickening to me, probably—and looked truly happy. I could only hope that I made the right choice in compelling Alis. And well, if I didn’t—I told you that I shouldn’t be allowed to make my own decisions.

My mother was chatting with a few men I’d come to know over the months—more potted plants—and I knew she was speaking to them in my favor, but their attention was completely hers. I let out a breath of amusement. She was trying to sell me off to a bunch of men who seemed half in love with her.

For the rest of the night, I said my hellos to any of the men my mother requested while trying to push Weston out of my mind, of his hands on me; but every so often, it would come back to me with a flush. I never could recall much of what I’d said to any of those men; the whole time my thoughts were fixed in Weston’s bed, him looking down at me, his hands by my head. I was trapped once again. But this time I wasn’t so sure I wanted to break free.

It wasn’t until the next evening that I’d gotten myself into a tangle. Actually, I would say having a noose around my neck while thirty onlookers stood silently waiting for my hanging . . . a little worse than a tangle.

Though, the most disturbing thing about this scenario was the crowd. They were as quiet as church mice and it didn’t appear as if they were even blinking. Wait, there. There was one—oh, and look, there was a yawn. They were alive, at least, and not impressionists of Sylvian prisoners next to magical rocks.