Sing Me to Sleep

by Gabi Burton

I’ve spent the past nine years working harder than anyone else, swallowing my own shame, battling off the disgust of my fellow Deltas, pushing myself harder than anyone else, to be the best. The Prince has spent his life drinking himself sick and throwing parties from the safety of his oversized bedroom. But I don’t say any of that. “I can’t imagine our spirits would have much to discuss, Your Highness.”

I never get tired of the burning taste of their craving for me. Or that look: that dazed, ravenous look. It’s not because of vanity—at least, I like to think it’s not—but because of the power that courses through me like a river. The power they unwittingly or unwillingly cede to my beauty.

My price for unwanted physical advances is steep. If warned, I doubt they’d be willing to pay, but I figure as long as they don’t ask, neither will I.

The audacity of him, claiming he has no power, infuriates me. When Hayes walks into a room, he commands respect. He has to ask people not to bow to him. No one bows to me. If I look like a siren, they try to bed me. If I look like an ikatus, they despise me. “You have power, Your Highness. And sometimes, you choose to use it.

I’ve been doing it her whole life. Coddling her when she doesn’t need it. Shielding her when she never asks. And she lets me. She lets me pretend like I’m protecting her. She lets me suck up all her air so I can breathe. I don’t visit Rain because she needs me; I do it because seeing her always lifts whatever weight I’m carrying and makes me feel less like the monster I know I am.

My face and soul are a double-sided blade. A curse. Those who think I’m ugly don’t know I’m beautiful. And those who know I’m beautiful can’t see my ugly. Except for Hayes. He sees both. He sees me.

Rain soaks my every thought.