Marry or Kill

41

S O L

I've been drenched in water at least five times, the heat enough to sting my skin, likely an idea by Atticus. Gasping for breath, I lean against the tiled bathroom wall with my energy depleted, its smooth jade green contrasting with the opulent chandelier overhead—the fanciest fixture I've seen here besides the ballroom.

Soap residue lines my hairline and dribbles down my cheeks, its floral scent overpowering yet strangely refreshing—the cleanest aroma I've encountered in this place. My chains clink against the white shower floor as I turn, the cascade of water abruptly ceasing.

Stubbornly, I've kept my clothes on, making them to soak me more than necessary. Surveying my now clean skin, I take in the fashionable bathroom, its elegance highlighted by the dangling chandelier.

Chains tug at me, urging me to move faster, and I nearly lose my balance. "Change into the dress," the maid commands, unlocking the chain tethering me to the wall.

She shoots me a nasty glance as she departs, leaving me dripping with warm water that cascades from my hair. It's clear she sees me as a traitor to The West.

Alone in the room, I'm swallowed by cold silence. My gaze drifts to the aqua blue dress, its silken fabric shimmering on the hanger. I reach out, running my fingers over the smooth material with a grim look on my face.

Slowly, I shed my clothes, each layer peeling away onto the floor. As I undress, my eyes are drawn to the mirror, a reflection of the changes I've undergone.

The hollows of my cheekbones, the thinness of my hair, and the scars that mark my skin.

With trembling fingers, I trace the contours of my body with my eyes and horror shapes my face.

As I slowly turn around, my scars are laid bare. The marks from the lashings, the harsh imprint of the number twelve etched deeply across my back, are impossible to overlook. They stand out as ragged lines etched into my flesh.

I hadn't had the opportunity to truly see the extent of the damage before. I gasp, a hand flying to my mouth to stifle the sound threatening to escape. The wound remains raw, the ugliness of it still fresh and horrifying.

I slip the dress over my head, feeling the soft fabric embrace my curves before cascading down to my feet. It fits like a glove, the perfect fit almost unsettling. The design exposes my back entirely, a deliberate choice made by Atticus, no doubt, intended for all to see.

Despite the poison still coursing through me, weakening my resolve, I push down the pain that threatens to overwhelm me as I step out of the bathroom in my bare feet.

And there he is—Atticus, standing before me in a suit, his tie matching the shade of my dress.

The sight of him nearly causes me to stumble backward, the urge to retch rising in my throat like bile. The bedroom surrounding us is vast, the carpets pristine white and the bedsheets an unsettling shade of green.

It must be his.

Atticus's gaze darkly sweeps over my form, and an instinctual urge to recoil washes over me. "I've never admitted this, but it's almost unsettling how you manage to be somewhat beautiful, Sol," he remarks, his words dripping with an unsettling mix of admiration and possessiveness.

Suppressing the retort bubbling within me, I endure the weight of his scrutiny, feeling his eyes linger on every cut and scar that mar my skin. My hair drips onto the carpeted floor, and I feel the cold water slide across my bare back.

"You're taking me to the ball," I blankly say, my voice barely above a whisper, the question hanging heavy in the air.

"Hadn't we discussed this?" he asks, as if the answer were obvious.