Threaded, p.51
Threaded, page 51
Finally, he spoke.
“Are you ready?” His voice was quiet and unreadable.
She held his gaze. “Yes. Without a shadow of a doubt.”
“Good. I have no doubts either.” He smiled at her again, but it didn’t quite touch his eyes, didn’t quite fill the devastatingly beautiful planes of his face. Suddenly, with her hands gripped in his, she was hit by a prickle of unease that started low in her chest and washed out towards her skin. She broke his stare and glanced more carefully around the courtyard.
And … that was when she noticed it. Alarm clamored through her soul, her magic instantly unspooling and writhing as she surveyed the courtyard.
There was no circle of candles, no chalk etched on the ground, no wickedly sharp knife to draw the blood needed to bind their souls. The space around them was utterly bare, nothing that was needed to complete the bonding ceremony present.
“Are … are we going somewhere else? I don’t see the candles or the knife—” She stopped herself when she looked back at him, her words frozen with confusion and shock on her tongue.
His smile had devolved into a smirk, the coldness on his face morphing him into a stranger. Her confusion melted further as the heavy weight of terror pressed against her skin, her magic surging just as Andrian’s grip on her wrists tightened to the point of pain. Before her magic could force its way out, his right hand, the one that had remained in his pocket, flashed, his movements impossibly, inhumanly fast. Cold stone replaced the heat of his grip, and with a quiet click that beat against her skull like the fall of a hammer, her magic snuffed from her veins, those threads vanishing like a whisper across the stars.
Vanished, along with the six mental ties, those bridges of magic connecting her to her Armature. The familiar presence of those consciousnesses against hers were extinguished, as if they’d never existed in the first place.
In an instant, she was so suddenly, coldly, horribly alone.
She looked down at her wrists, slowly, taking in the cuffs of tawny gold stone streaked with black now encircling her skin. She didn’t know what it was, had never once seen or read about anything like it, but it felt vile and dark and wrong, as if it were lunestair but twisted and corrupted into something evil.
And Andrian had just shackled her wrists in it.
That thought had her heart shattering into a million pieces, fracturing along with her already damaged soul.
Mariah turned her gaze back up to his, her disbelief, shock, horror, humiliation, and brokenness writing themselves across her face. Her focus solely on him, she barely noticed the movement behind him—six men emerged from that dark alcove he’d stared into so intently when she’d arrived. She ignored them as they moved around him to stand behind her, their quiet steps those of trained assassins.
“Andrian?” Her voice dripped with the blood of her broken heart.
His smirk didn’t falter.
“You made this all far too easy, My Queen.” She flinched back from his sneer, as if he’d physically struck her. “So pathetically trusting, so desperate for love and attention that you’ve always sought from the wrong people. You believed every word I fed you, gobbled it down like you were facing a death sentence and it was your last meal.” Andrian leaned in close, his breath whispering against the shell of her air, something that used to bring her such pleasure.
Now, it only made her want to slump to the ground in horror and pain.
“As if anyone could ever love a whore like you.”
That was when she broke fully. Her soul fragmented, pieces of gold and silver and black shards falling around her, picked up by the early morning breeze and carried far, far away from that brilliant castle on the coast.
Tears streamed down her face as he withdrew and turned on his heel, putting his back to her. The men behind her moved, and the rustle of a burlap sack pulled at her fractured attention. She opened her mouth, one last time.
“How … how could you?”
Andrian froze, twisting just enough to look back over his shoulder, hate glimmering in his cold blue eyes.
“My father sends his regards.”
And with that, the sack was thrown over her head, smelling of sour tears and the worst kinds of pain.
Hooded, bound, and broken, Mariah was hauled away by the men who’d come into her home, let in by one she’d foolishly thought she could trust. She was thrown into the back of a carriage, rolled away from the palace, out of Verith. Farther. She didn’t try to keep track of where she was, where they were headed, who was with her.
She was utterly broken, betrayed, and alone. And there was no one coming to save her.
Not even herself.
To be continued…
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Just the fact that I’m sitting here, writing these, is perhaps one of the most surreal things I’ve ever done.
Okay, maybe that’s a lie, but looking back on the crazy journey that led to the creation of Threaded, I honestly cannot believe it all came together. This story, these characters, would not exist without my people. When they say writing a book takes a village … they really aren’t kidding.
First, to my family, who have never done anything other than encourage me—even when they STILL find my random childhood word ramblings laying around the house. Mom and Dad, while I hope you never read Threaded (specifically Chapters 35, 39, and 53) (and if you do, please don’t tell me), your support is everything to me. This has been a tough year for us. Writing this book has helped me cope. Not once did you tell me it wasn’t a good time, and instead lifted me up with pride and encouragement. I love y’all—more than the moons in the sky.
To my book besties, Lauren and Anna-Marie: the internet is a weird place, but it brought you both into my life, and by the Goddess am I so happy it did. You both have been with me since the very beginning of Threaded’s creation, when I had only drafted maybe twenty chapters and was still figuring out where this story was going to go. Threaded literally wouldn’t even have a TITLE without y’all. All that credit goes to both of you. You guys are the best internet friends a girl could ever ask for.
To my work wives, Abby, Christie, and Haley: similarly, you guys all put up with my insanity of trying to write and publish a book while working beyond full-time (y’all know what I mean). Your daily excitement and toleration of me sending unedited snippets or art or cover designs or god-knows-what-else made this whole process so much more enjoyable.
To my editor, Brit: I know I’ve said it a million times, but Threaded wouldn’t be half of what it is without you. Your passion and love for this story helped me fight back the imposter syndrome that so often reared its ugly head. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
To my alpha/beta readers, Jess, Vanessa, and Les: your excitement for this story and these characters, along with your critiques and tough love, contributed in more ways than y’all will ever know. THANK YOU.
To everyone on Bookstagram who has been following along with this process for no joke a year and a half: the best parts of my day are when I get to chat and hang out with you guys online. Our community is, without a doubt, unbeatable.
And finally, to you, the reader. I’m tearing up just thinking about how much I owe to you and how much I appreciate you. You took a chance on a chaotic little indie author like me, and for that I am eternally grateful. Thank you for making all my wildest dreams come true.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tay has been a fanatic of stories, especially those with epic love and a dash of magic (and dragons?) for as long as she can remember. After a few decades of inhaling every book she could get her hands on, she decided to sit down and write the stories that had kept her up at night for just as long.
When not reading or writing, Tay still often finds herself daydreaming, but hopefully it’s now vastly more productive. A walk through the woods, a day by the water, a glass of smooth bourbon whiskey, or snuggles with her pup also make her unreasonably, ridiculously happy.
Tay Rose, Threaded
