Withering Rose (Once Upon A Curse Book 2) by Kaitlyn Davis Page B

warning.
    It worked.
    It’s only when I get back to my room,
panting and out of breath that I realize I completely forgot about
my magic. I was so terrified, so much the coward, I didn’t even
think to fight back. I ran immediately. I chose fear over strength,
as I always do, but this time it hurts more because I could have
used my magic, I could have showed him that he didn't scare me. I
still could. But my limbs are shaking, and I don't have the
strength to turn around and face him. I barely have the strength to
cross the length of the room before collapsing onto my bed
    As I curl my knees into my chest, lying on
my side, I eye the broken lock on my door. Then my gaze travels to
the ivy still wrapped across the wall.
    I funnel my magic into those twisting vines
and wrap them securely across the entry. Locking the animals out.
Locking myself in. Doing the beast's job for him.
     
     

 
     

     
     
    I stay in my room for days, too afraid to face him
again, haunted by the idea that my father was right. That I should
never have come here. That coming here was the biggest mistake of
my life.
    Every so often an animal pauses outside my
room. The click of paws is unmistakable, as is the low growl. I
wait until they've left before cautiously opening the door and
retrieving the little bag of food left behind. Usually they give me
apples and dried meat. Once there was a loaf of crudely baked
bread. I won't complain, not if it means having to leave my room,
which I don't. So far, my screaming bladder has been the only
source strong enough to force me to leave the sanctuary of these
four walls. I found the washroom at the end of the hall on my first
day here. The twenty-foot walk to that room is the farthest I'm
willing to go, and I don't let my thoughts linger on why there are
always fresh buckets of water waiting for me when I need them.
    Mostly I lie on the bed, watching the fire
or looking over the town below. The only joy I've found since
arriving is in finally being able to use my magic freely. The walls
of my bedroom have come to resemble a jungle. Ivy vines cover every
inch of the stone. Beautiful pink and yellow flowers break up the
monotony of green. Today I decided to focus on adding roses to the
décor. The deep burgundy buds have just begun to open up. My
namesake. But they remind me too much of the dying flower at the
center of my soul, marking the toll the magic is taking on my life.
So with the flick of my wrist, I change them to white petals, crisp
and clean to match the snow just beginning to fall outside the
window.
    I don't think I'll ever tire of the warm
tingle that washes over me whenever my magic is being used. I've
become used to the light pain that follows. I hardly feel it
anymore. The awe that lifts my heart when I bring life into the
world overshadows everything else.
    I know I promised my father I would try to
get rid of it. But it's my birthright. It's beautiful. It makes me
feel like part of my mother is still alive, is still with me. I'm
beginning to believe that fifteen short years of having magic, of
being able to use it, would be better than a long lifetime without
it. But where would I spend those fifteen years? In this room,
hiding? I can't live the rest of my life at the base. I can't live
it here. I'm not sure there is anywhere in the world that is safe
for me when the magic still runs through my veins.
    The sound of thudding boots pulls my
attention away. With one last glance toward the newly grown ivory
petals opening up to welcome the sun, I roll off the bed and walk
to the door, pressing my ear against the wood.
    The sound of footsteps grows. I furrow my
brows, confused. Is it the beast? Is there another human here among
us?
    The stranger stops before my door. I wait,
holding my breath, unable to fight the trickle of fear making its
way across my chest.
    But then the stomping returns as the man
walks away, turns around, walks back, walks away, turns around,
walks back.
    Is he pacing?
    Is