Free Bind the Soul by Annette Marie Page B

anxious as he came up to her. He searched her face. “Piper—”
    “Do you think he cares?” she asked. “About what I went through trying to save him? Protecting that damn Stone? Maybe it ended up being you and not him who I saved, and maybe I lost the Sahar in the end, but I still . . .”
    “He knows, Piper,” Calder murmured. “He appreciates it. He really does.”
    “You think so?” She stared blankly down the hall. “You know what my mom said? She told me she was proud of me. I don’t ever remember Father saying that. Not even once.”
    “He loves you, Piper. He wants to protect you.”
    She didn’t believe him. Couldn’t believe him. Maybe protecting her was a part of it, but he also wanted her out of the way. To get his embarrassing failure of a daughter out of sight so she couldn’t mess up his career anymore.
    “I’m going to my room. I don’t want to be bothered.”
    “Piper . . .”
    Tears threatened at his obvious concern. She turned and looked into his eyes, at the open caring in them and the worried wrinkle between his brows. Her mouth trembled. Why couldn’t Calder have been her father? Why did she even care what Quinn thought at this point?
    Calder opened his arms. She collapsed into his hug, shaking with sobs as all the hurt inflicted by her father overwhelmed her, worse than any injury from her Styx fights.
    . . .
    Piper stared into the mirror.
    Her hair was done. Her arms ached from two hours of painstakingly curling and pinning locks into an elegantly messy twist at the back of her head, with long curls dangling artfully around her face. She’d dismantled an old necklace and woven the chain with its tiny clear crystals through the twist.
    Her makeup was done. A dramatic dark outline with black eyeliner made her eyes pop, the smoky look completed with plum eye shadow to complement her green irises. Three coats of mascara made her eyelashes properly thick and dark, and a touch of blush and wine-red lipstick completed the look. Thankfully, she didn’t have any pimples to cover up. Even more thankfully, the makeup hid any sign that she’d been crying for an hour that afternoon.
    Yes, from the neck up, she was ready. Her gaze dropped to her t-shirt and stained sweatpants and panic simmered in her belly. What would she wear? She had nothing. Nothing .
    She went back to her bedroom and stared at the mess. Every article of clothing she owned was scattered around the room. Only three things waited on the bed for her decision: a short black dress, a dark gray pantsuit, and a sundress. She glared at the offending clothing. How could she not own a single fancy dress? She glanced at the clock beside her bed: 6:43. Miysis was picking her up in two minutes! Where had the last half hour gone?
    She pulled her sweats down and worked her shirt off without touching her hair. Her black bra and panties were lacy and pretty—her only appropriate garments, pointless because no one would see them. Unless she had a repeat of her visit to the Styx. Grimacing, she pulled on the little black dress. It wasn’t nearly formal enough, but it was better than the pantsuit and way better than the sundress. She yanked on strappy black sandals and wrapped the silk ties halfway up her calves. Her only jewelry that wasn’t cheap or gaudy was a pair of diamond studs from her sixteenth birthday. And, of course, Lilith’s truth pendant. Best she could do.
    Kneeling beside her bed, she pulled out the final piece of her outfit. The Glock 26 wasn’t the smallest handgun available, but it was compact enough that the thigh holster tucked neatly under the fluttery skirt of her dress. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was better than going unarmed.
    She didn’t like guns. It was too easy to kill someone with a gun. Consuls weren’t supposed to kill people. Bladed weapons were way better for self-defense. With a gun, you either shot the person or you didn’t. With a dagger, you could hold them off, scratch them up, or