A Wicked Game [The Crown Saga II] (Under Editing)

A Crack of Truth

I hummed, annoyed that the creaking of my bed had interrupted my concentration for the fifth time in the past hour.

A frustrated grunt made my nostrils flare wide as I jumped out of bed. The swaying was too distracting; the sheets were too warm. The floor hadn't proven any better the past two days, but my options were limited.

I slumped down onto the shaggy carpet in the middle of the room, crossing my legs and taking a deep breath. Beads of sweat already coated the line of my brow, exhaustion drawing clear lines across my face. I was tired, but I couldn't give up yet. The sun still painted faint lines on the horizon; I had more time.

My hand trembled as I lifted it, bringing the tuning fork to level with my eyes. The tines shimmered in the colorful swirls of the sundown seeping through my windows; the metal felt cold against my fingers, its base stabbing my damp palm. Pain was good; pain was a path for me to focus on.

I spent a few moments settling into my new position, shutting out the distracting sounds around me. I held my breath, but it wasn't enough. The steady beat of my heart was louder than a storm against a house of glass, my pulse more deafening than a roaring machine.

Black spots started dancing before my eyes again, and I released my breath to avoid passing out for the third time.

Nothing. Not even the slightest movement between the tines—not even the faintest melody. Then—as if the spirits were playing a cruel joke on me—my stomach growled, finally filling the room with some tune.

Dinner had ended almost an hour ago, and I'd foolishly missed it because I'd been so focused on the tuning fork. I hadn't eaten much during Lunch either, which seemed to be catching up with me now.

"Shut up," I muttered when my rumbling midsection complained again. I squeezed my eyes together to dismiss the persistent hunger when a chair fell over.

My eyes flung open, and when I twisted my head to look for the source of the noise, I found Faye standing rigidly by my vanity table, a bowl of steaming soup in one hand and a golden package in the other.

"Faye," I whispered, startling her awake from her paralysis.

She clumsily placed the soup on the table, spilling precious drops in the process. "Cursed blood!" she hissed, pulling her hand back as if she'd burned herself.

It had been days—maybe weeks—since I'd last caught as much as a glimpse of her. She'd started tracking my schedule and only appeared to manage her duties while I was engaged. So, this may be my last chance to settle this obscene dispute and apologize.

"Faye, wait," I said when she placed the package beside the bowl and raced toward the exit. "We have to talk."

She didn't even look at me as if the faintest glance in my direction would set her on fire. I knew those fears all too well, and I couldn't bear to see them twisting Faye's face because of me.

"Faye, please!" I shouted. She still didn't turn around, and my famished body and groggy head would make it impossible for me to reach her in time. I only had one option left.

A cool, breeze-like sensation shot through my veins. The door slammed shut right before Faye's freckled face, pushed by a sudden gust obeying my shaken command.

"Please." I wrapped my hand around Faye's wrist, desperate to make her look at me, but my heart only plunged through the floor when she did.

Fear, raw and cold, glazed her green eyes. My eyes seared at the sight, my soul shattering into a million pieces.

"Spirits, Faye. I'm so sorry." I fell to my knees, still clenching her wrist in my hand, scared to let go. "I—I never meant to scare you. I never, ever intended to hurt you. Please, Faye. I am so sorry."