The Rise of Deragon (The Deragon Duology #2)

17

Pandora

I avoid Andie and Kit the rest of the day despite my mind whirring with frantic questions, the main one being why I—Urovia’s Crown Princess—would be named after a widely renown and revered story in Mosacian root history.

I avoid them because there’s only one person I trust to explain it fully for me, likely because he knows all the buried intricacies.

Tonight is particularly prickly weather wise, the heat nosediving once the sun fully sets. My teeth chatter against each other at the base of the dock. Although, as I watch Madman steer his gleaming boat towards me, I don’t think it’s from the chill in the air.

I haven’t seen Madman or visited his alcove since the night he instructed me to start sneaking books and save my skin. Primarily because I’ve been reading every spare moment I’ve been granted, but also because there’s been the persistent inclination that each night I spend in his inner sanctum, the more my trust in him begins to evolve into a deeper reliance. A physical response to an unspoken, emotional fascination.

Sure enough, as Madman steadies the boat in its mooring, those weeks apart suddenly feel like years. The notion of how lonely I’ve been hits me like one of the waves splashing onto the jagged shoreline, and when I gear my eyes towards Madman’s, the same sentiment mirrors back at me.

The beginnings of a somber smile tug at the corner of my mouth, but it blooms in full when he whispers into the evening wind, “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

“It’s nice to see you again as well,” I say as mild-mannered as I can manage without letting my excitement seep through.

“I didn’t expect to see you waiting down here for me,” he continues. “You’ve . . . never done that before.”

“Been feeling a bit stir-crazy in my room, that’s all.”

Madman chuckles under his breath, eyes drifting towards his dark boots. “I figured you’d be celebrating with the rest of the house.”

My face heats at the same time my smile deepens. Of course he remembered.

“Andie was mad I wouldn’t let her bake a cake.”

“But you love sweets,” he says, concern illuminating his eyes. His mask faintly ticks to one side as the muscles in his face adjust to his outward surprise. “Lady Andromeda is also said to be quite the baker. Why turn her down?”

As he asks me the question, he offers his familiar, onyx-gloved hand in efforts to help me cross over from the wooden ledge into the boat. I ignore the faint sizzle in my blood as we touch. “I didn’t want to make a fuss,” I say, clunking into the boat and settling into my designated seat as Madman begins to row us out of the bay. “Besides, I spent most of my day reading.”

Madman’s head tilts in renewed attention. “Oh?”

“ Mosacian Ideologies and Stories of Old . Kit’s collector’s edition.”

“I can only imagine the trouble you went to in order to swipe it undetected.”

I choose not to shed light on the near encounter Kit and I almost shared, even as the gravity of what almost occurred shows all over my face. Instead, I mask my guilt for dread and tell him, “I read the story of Pandora today.”

He rows us onward, angling his stance to turn us to the left. “Feeling sentimental?”

“Confused is a better word for what I’m feeling, actually,” I say, crossing my legs at the ankle and sinking deeper into the cushion. “I still don’t understand why my mother would name me after the story. She knew nothing about Mosacia when she had me, and even after that, all she knew was what Venus and Jericho told her—”

It hits me like a blow, right then and there. The realization physically jolts me, and Madman nearly loses his balance as I thunk against the backboard.

My mother didn’t name me at all.

+

After Madman closes us in the darkness, he crosses the space and gestures me over to the divan. I follow in silence, sitting where he offers me respite. “Tell me what you know about my name. How I got it.”

“Your mother felt indebted to Venus when she gave birth to you. Because of her relationship with Jericho, she was able to provide their family comfort, security, and wealth. Without Venus, your mother would have raised you in squalor, and to express her gratitude, she asked your aunt to bestow your name upon you.”

“And Venus picked Pandora of all things?”

Madman shrugs plainly. “Maybe she heard the story from someone and liked the name.”

Or its significance.

“I think it suits you. Not because you’re destined for a violent takeover or you bring out the worst in everything like the story suggests, but because Pandora is lovely and fiercely curious.”

I try not to roll my eyes. “Maybe, but those qualities tend to get me into trouble.”

The kind of trouble that had me taking a guard to my rooms just to try and feel known for who I am and not who the Deragon Dynasty paints me to be. The kind of trouble that likely makes my aunt and uncle see me as gullible for following Madman out of Broadcove so easily. The kind of trouble that nearly had me drifting towards Kit Andromeda’s mouth and preparing for a kiss that could cause a rift in all my previous beliefs. The kind of trouble that has something inside me reeling the longer Madman looks at me, stoking an unknown fire inside my lungs.

Madman peels his eyes from the floor when he notices I’ve gone quiet. “But those qualities are what make you one of a kind, Pandora.” His tone of voice is grave, an implied warning that I ought to brace for what he says next. “You perpetuate a contrived narrative about yourself to better your family’s dynasty, not to better your own agenda. You read books and read people like you’re searching for hidden magic rather than their buried weaknesses. But most of all, you look into the eyes of an assassin and willingly offer your hand. Time and time again.”

Then, Madman makes a move for one of the shelves, revealing an unwrapped oak box with an indigo bow fastened across all four sides. The deep brown lacquer catches reflections of dispersed candlelight, and he transfers it into my hold. Before I reach for the notch, Madman drapes his hand over mine, the sensation chilling me to the bone just as much as it warms something in my middle.

“Read the note.”

That’s when I notice the folded piece of parchment with my name scrawled across its plane, tucked under the dark ribbon. The sight of Madman’s handwriting—surprisingly meticulous and ornate—stirs something in my chest. I take it into my fingertips and read each word with care.

Dearest Pandora,

Of course, you—my greatest source of captivation—would be named after a story most of us in Mosacia grew up with. Fate seems to have a sense of humor like that: how, in some aspect, I’ve had your presence in my life from a very young age.

It is fate’s kindness, however, that brings me to writing you this. I once told you that your name held great significance, and it does—as does this gift. I thought you should possess your very own Pandora’s Box.

I lift my eyes and meet his own. “Madman, you—”

“Keep reading,” he presses, recognizing that I have not reached the end of the page.

Considering what this story entails, you might wonder why I gave you something with such ill-omened roots. And perhaps it is not the most cheerful or logical of reasonings, but it’s the truest thing I’m allowed to tell you: you deserve better. Everyone you know—both here on the Isle and back in Broadcove—has been lying to you. The full truth of everything I’ve uncovered lies within this box. Open it alone and when you feel ready to face disaster.

“Disaster?” I say with an uncomfortable laugh. “You boxed up heartache for my birthday?”

“I gave you an option to take your life back,” Madman clarifies in a slightly firmer tone.

I glance over the written words once more, hovering over a specific sentence.

Everyone you know—both here on the Isle and back in Broadcove—has been lying to you.

“Everyone?”

The beauty in my mother’s face burns within my brown eyes, and Madman senses it with a grim expression. “Everyone,” he answers.

The polished box seems to scald my hands in affirmation.

No, I’m not ready to uncover everything. Not when it means dismantling everything I know about my mother and her love.

I block the images of my family and the two other residents of Andromeda House out of my mind, bracing myself where I stand before Madman. “You said you kept the necessary things hidden, so what changed? Why give me the chance to know the truth, now?”

“It’s not that anything changed, but rather that something was recognized.”

“And what’s that?” I ask.

Madman releases a long breath. “The depth of my affections for you.”

My eyes round out at the words, and I will myself to remain calm, to not be rash. To not entertain the full breadth of my looming thoughts and emotions that have flooded my senses each time I thought about Madman. To not blurt out just how much I found myself missing his presence while he was away, and what the confession of such a notion would mean for my future visits to his private, shadowy haven.

“All those years I spent collecting intel, gaining leverage—it was all just busywork, the labor of the day before turning in for the night and finally finding rest. Because in the silent moments when you’d return to your rooms and go about your routine, when you’d glance out your window even as your mind wandered thousands of miles elsewhere, that’s what watching you from afar felt like. It felt like coming home.”

I gulp at the sentimentality of what he’s saying—that a man forever on the run found a grounding point, a place of refuge . . . in me .

“And now that you’re here, it’s like I’m anchored to the earth again rather than floating above it. Like every symphony I struggled to compose finally came together when you followed me to this place. And each time you come back I worry I’ll do something to scare you away.” Madman looks down at the box I hold uncomfortably, meaning to go on.

But a sudden surge of uncharacteristic confidence rushes through my bloodstream. “What if the terrible truths inside that box are nothing compared to the terror I experience when I think about my feelings for you?”

He takes a careful, calculated step towards me, but says nothing.

It’s a behavioral pattern that I haven’t seen from other men I’ve encountered. Aside from people who have been taught not to interrupt—though only in concerns of respecting my Urovian title—most people tend to talk over me or try to finish my sentences before I can get them out. But not Madman. He never assumes things too quickly. He always gives me my space to formulate my thoughts and opinions. To let me clarify myself.

But after what I just spoke into the universe, I feel as though the right words might spoil the moment. “This won’t do,” I whisper, setting the box on the floor.

Madman’s voice is the sound of pure ache. “What do you mean?”

I force the fluttering nerves to settle in my stomach, and I gear my eyes towards Madman’s with all the inner strength I can muster. “I don’t want the only gift I’m given for my birthday to be ominous. I’d like something else, something . . . happier . . . to neutralize it.”

Madman doesn’t move a muscle other than the ones it takes for him to form the words, “Is that so?”

I nod, suppressing the lump in my throat.

“A boat tour around the Isle?”

I shake my head, a bashful smile plastered across my lips.

“A song?”

Truthfully, the offer is tempting, but the glimmer in Madman’s eyes tells me that he could do better—and I’m inclined to take him up on it.

Before I even realize that he’s done so, Madman closes the distance between us, our hands intertwining. “Tell me what it is you desire, Pandora.”

Desire.

The word burns through me like a wildfire, eradicating any realization for how rash or impulsive this may be—but I don’t care. I tug Madman closer to me, untangling my fingers from his in order to set his hands over my hips. Our torsos brush, then meld together, and I feel his heartbeat pounding against his ribcage like it’s trying to break out of prison. Then, I drape my arms around his neck, stretching to meet his height better.

I don’t allow myself to think about how crazy I am for finally saying, “You know exactly what it is I desire.”

To know that my faith is not misguided.

To prove that there’s more to Madman and me than mere trust.

His smile dips, saddening a touch. “I’ll show you when I’m ready,” he murmurs.

I shake my head faintly before bringing my forehead to his own, to the surface of his mask. It’s not as cold as I anticipated it to be against my flesh. My words are barely audible, even in my own ears.

“I know you will . . . but that’s not what I mean.”

My fingers graze through the dark waves along his scalp, and it untethers something in the both of us. His eyes sparkle. And then, Madman softly laughs at the gasp that escapes me as he pulls me impossibly closer and, just this once, surrenders his mouth to mine.