To Bleed a Crystal Bloom (Crystal Bloom, #1)

by Sarah A. Parker

Because lies are pretty little masks we place on our words to tint the truth into something palatable.

“Mates, Orlaith, are a fairy tale. A tragedy painted with the pretty face of a happily ever after, but at its core, it’s still a fucking tragedy. If you believe everything you read, you’ll be disappointed when you finally step into the real world.”

“I ... I forgot.” “Don’t lie to me.” Two sharp points punctuate the thumping flesh of my neck and I gasp, mouth dropping open. The pressure increases, as if he’s about to break the surface and bite into me. Spill me.

“I—I was jealous.” “And why were you jealous, Orlaith?” The question skates over my fervid flesh like the smooth slide of a blade, dropping my thrashing heart into my stomach. “Because in the gardens, when I first saw you ...” I pause, knowing I shouldn’t say what I want to say. Knowing that’s crossing a line that should be left uncharted until I draw my last breath. “Go on,” he commands, and the simple slash of it almost brings me to my knees. Probably would if I weren’t tethered to the way his lips move against my skin every time he speaks. “I saw you smile at her ...” His body locks. Though it only lasts a fraction of a second, I revel in the brief drop of his shield. “Greedy girl,” he whispers, voice akin to the wind shaking my window panes in the dead of night. “You want them all to yourself?” I shiver all the way to my toes. Always.

Because I deserve gentle. I deserve gentle when this man is so boldly destroying me.

I’m in love with a man who’ll never be mine—who’s unavailable in every way, shape, and form—and I’m certain it’s going to ruin me.

“What a pretty flower to keep locked in a big, rocky tower.”

“What I want, what I need, and what is right are three entirely different things.”

“Despite how murderous I am,” he mumbles, and there’s a roundness to his words, like they had to veer their course to get here, “you do look ravishing in that color.”

“I know every glimmer in your eye, every rapture that makes your soul sing. I know that right now, your spine is locked not by your own accord, but because my fingers have you wound like a puppet on a string,” he says, tightening their delicious swirl and making me throb in places that ought not to throb.

“I know that your cheeks are flushed because you’re embarrassed by the dull ache between your legs. By the wetness you can feel smeared between your thighs. You’re worried I can smell it. I can.”

“And eventually ...” his expression softens, “eventually, those feelings will turn to love. It doesn’t matter who you are, where you’ve come from; it’s in our nature to fall in love with the shackle that binds us.”

“You want a fairy tale?” he spits, waving it in my face. “I’m your fucking fairy tale. I’m nailed to your soul, Orlaith, and believe me when I tell you there is no happily ever after. Not for me, and certainly not for you.”

“Don’t come at me with that fire, Milaje. Not unless you’re ready to be torn to shreds. And I don’t mean your body—I mean your fucking soul,” he says