Page 27 of Vicious Kings
I start building my own nest, but instead of the soft, rounded construction Madame Loriyne demonstrated, I create something that looks more like a fortress. Pillows stacked like walls, blankets arranged in defensive positions. If I have to build a nest, I'm building one that says "stay the fuck out unless you want to lose important body parts."
"That's not—" Madame Loriyne starts, then stops. Because technically, I am following her instructions. I'm building a nest that reflects my innermost desires. It's not my fault my innermost desires involve fortification and the ability to defend myself against anyone stupid enough to try to get close.
Anastasia catches sight of my construction and grins. "Nice. Very 'fuck off unless you've got snacks and a death wish.' I approve."
"Language," Madame Loriyne says, but her heart's not in it. She's staring at our nests, Anastasia's phallic sculpture and my defensive fortress, like they personally offend her.
"Now," she says, rallying with the determination of someone who's been teaching too long to give up now, "let's discuss what your nests reveal about your emotional states?—"
And that's it. That's my limit. I'm trapped in a velvet prison, dressed like a doll, learning how to arrange pillows in a way that supposedly signals my readiness to be my mortal enemy's incubator.
This is my personal idea of hell.
But at least now I have company.
Nine
BILLIE
The morning of my "graduation" from this velvet-lined torture chamber arrives with the fanfare of a funeral dirge.
After six weeks of learning how to sit properly, speak demurely, and arrange pillows in ways that supposedly communicate my deepest desires to potential mates, I'm deemed a proper omega. Or close enough to a society that's already short on them.
If I have to hear Madame Loriyne say the word "propriety" one more time, I might actually commit murder with a decorative throw pillow.
My bags are packed, if you can call the obscene amount of clothing they're forcing on me "mine." Everything fits into three gilded trunks that are presently being loaded into the carriage that will unknowingly carry me to my mission.
I stand in front of the mirror, barely recognizing the person staring back. They've dressed me in traveling clothes that somehow manage to be both practical and ridiculous. Deep purple pants that flow like water but cling in all the right places, paired with a silver tunic that's cut to show just enough skin tobe "enticing" without being "vulgar." And the collar around my neck has been polished to a shine.
"You clean up nice, goth chick."
I spin around to find Anastasia leaning against my doorframe, arms crossed and wearing that trademark smirk that's gotten her into so much trouble over the past weeks. She's managed to sneak away from whatever bullshit task Madame Loriyne assigned her this morning, which is impressive considering the old bat has been watching us like a hawk ever since that first day.
"Don't you have somewhere to be?" I ask, but there's no heat in it. Truth is, I'm glad she's here. We've barely had five minutes alone together since that first meeting, always under the watchful eye of our illustrious headmistress or her legion of servants.
AKA, living security cameras.
"Probably." She saunters into the room, closing the door behind her. "But I figured you could use some actual advice before they ship you off to the shark tank."
"Shark tank?"
"Valemyre." She drops onto my bed, messing up the perfectly made sheets with vindictive glee. "You thinkthisplace is bad? Wait until you're surrounded by hundreds of supernatural assholes all trying to prove who has the biggest magical dick. And there's plenty of the old-fashioned dick measuring, too."
I snort, moving to sit beside her. The bed dips under our combined weight, and for a moment, we just sit there in companionable silence. It's strange, having a friend again. I didn't realize how much I missed it until Anastasia bulldozed her way into my life.
"So," I say, breaking the silence. "Any words of wisdom for the departing prisoner?"
Her expression turns serious, which is alarming enough on its own. Anastasia doesn't do serious.
"Listen," she says, voice low. "I know you've got your whole badass hunter thing going on, and trust me, I respect the hell out of it. But Valemyre isn't like here. That place isn't just some finishing school for wayward omegas. It's..."
She pauses, searching for the right words. I've never seen her struggle with words before.
"It's what?" I press.
"It's a fucking battlefield dressed up in silk and jewels." The words come out in a rush. "And the worst part? It's not the Fae you need to worry about. Well, not just them."
"You're talking about the other omegas."
