Page 23 of Vicious Kings
"And now you will learn that presentation is its own function. How you appear reflects not only on yourself but on your future mates, your household, your entire lineage, and not least of all me as your teacher." She moves to the door. "Dinner is served at seven sharp. Tardiness will not be tolerated."
She's gone before I can respond, the door closing without a sound, as if she's mastered even the art of shutting a door like a fucking lady.
I'm alone.
First things first, the window. I cross the room in five quick strides, reaching for the latch. The collar warms immediately, then sends a jolt of electricity down my spine that makes me stumble back.
"Fuck!" I grab my neck, the metal warm under my fingers. Not hot enough to burn, but definitely a warning.
Okay. Windows are out. For now.
I prowl the room, looking for potential weapons. The sitting area has a fireplace with a poker that could do some damage. The bathroom—and holy shit, that bathroom is bigger than my entire room at home—has mirrors that could be broken into nice, sharp pieces.
But first, I need to see what kind of ridiculous clothes they expect me to wear.
The closet door opens to reveal a space that boggles my brain. It's bigger than the bedroom, rows upon rows of clothing in every style imaginable. Gowns with unnecessary bows, laces, and puffy skirts. Robes that flow like water. Things I don't even have names for in fabrics that probably don't exist in the human realm.
And the colors... fuck, I hate that she was right, but they're all in shades that do look good against my skin. Deep jewel tones, rich blues and purples, silver and black accents. Even the casual wear, if you can call anything in here casual, is clearly custom-tailored.
I pull out what looks like the simplest outfit I can find: flowing pants in deep sapphire and a tunic in silver. There are undergarments too, things that make what I wore at the compound look like burlap sacks.
When did they measure me for all this? The thought makes my skin crawl. While I was unconscious at the hospital, probably. Fae hands on my body while I couldn't even protest.
I strip off the hospital clothes—and yeah, now that I see actual clothing, I realize what I've been wearing is basically their version of a hospital gown, but still fancier than anything a hunter would wear—and put on the new outfit.
It fits perfectly. Why wouldn't it?
I catch sight of myself in one of the many mirrors and almost don't recognize the person staring back. The clothes transform me, make me look like I belong in this world of impossible beauty and casual cruelty. My dark hair against the silver, my pale skin given warmth by the jewel tones.
I look like an omega. A pretty, pampered pet dressed up for display.
The thought makes me want to tear it all off, but I don't. I need to play along, at least for now. Need to learn their game before I can destroy it.
Seven sharp, she said. I glance at the clock, an ornate thing that probably tells everything from the time to the optimal moment to piss, and see I have two hours before dinner.
Plenty of time to explore my new cage and start planning how to pick this lock.
Eight
BILLIE
Two fucking weeks of this mind-numbing bullshit, and I'm starting to understand why they call it "assimilation training."
They're literally trying to assimilate my brain cells into mush.
"The key to a proper nest," Madame Loriyne drones on, arranging silk pillows in what she probably thinks is an artistic pattern, "is creating an environment that speaks to your inner omega's deepest instincts. It must be both protective and inviting, a sanctuary that?—"
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning out loud. We've been at this for three hours. Three. Fucking. Hours. Of watching her fluff pillows and arrange blankets like she's preparing for some kind of supernatural slumber party.
The "classroom", and I use that term loosely, is another exercise in Fae excess. Circular room with walls that shift between transparent and opaque depending on the angle of the sun. The floor is covered in carpet that feels like clouds made solid, soft enough to sink into but firm enough to walk on.
Perfect for nest-building practice, apparently.
My ass has gone numb from sitting cross-legged on a cushion that's probably made of some endangered creature'sfur. The collar around my neck is a constant reminder that I'm not here by choice. Every time my mind wanders to thoughts of strangling Madame Loriyne with one of her precious silk scarves, it pulses gently. Not enough to hurt, just enough to say "we're watching."
Fucking magical leash.
"Miss Moreau, are you even paying attention?" Madame Loriyne's voice cuts through my murder fantasies like a knife through butter.
