As the sun sets, the cool night air surrounds me as I walk through the gardens towards the grand hall for the feast. Roaring laughter and fine music penetrate the castle’s stone. Even the scent of ale and wine sully the fragrant florals of the gardens.
During my time here, I studied all the hidden pathways. Killing Titus out in the open would be reckless; finding him in his sleep would also be unwise, since only whores enter the soldier’s barracks.
I need to be a shadow that is both seen and ignored.
I stop at one of the famous Blackthorn rosebushes. Such ugly flowers; dark, deceitful, and riddled with numerous tiny thorns. Porcupines would look better in a vase than these roses.The black flower is a symbol of death to me. They grow all over these lands, devouring all the other florals, taking over everything.Killing and killing until only they survive.
Reaching for a lone one, I snap the stem in half and hold it gently, making sure the thorns do not pierce my skin.
Not yet. All in due time.
I walk off the path, and my heart skips a beat. I force it to settle when I slip into one of the hidden passages that the florist use. The scent of the black roses stifles my nostrils. Musky, velvety, woodsy notes. Elegant yet garish… like my husband.
A small set of stairs curls up towards the roof of the hall, resembling a tortured spine. It functions like a skeleton, allowing servants to hang the chandeliers and decorations without being seen.
Galen loves for the roses to line the rafters of the feast halls, and I intend to use their shadows as my cover.The passages are never used during the feast since everything is already set up.
A smile curls my lips. I’m alone here, with my thoughts and thirst for vengeance.
I run my fingers along the walls of the stairwell, pressing my fingertips into the cold stone. The stairway opens up onto a hallway. Large shelves line the walls, storing a variety of lighting options.
And what I hid last night.
Every few feet, narrow slits too small to be called windows line the walls. They’re only big enough for a head to fit between; these small holes secure the ropes supporting the floral decorations hanging in the feast hall.
Or a hole big enough to shoot an arrow through.
“Finally.” I bend down, hike up my red silk dress, and untie the arrow. The trembling in my fingers increases. “That won’t do.” I need a steady hand.
I push up on my tiptoes and tuck the arrow along the same ledge where I hid a bow I had stolen a few nights ago. I was wise enough not to use my bow but rather one from Galen’s army barracks.
My heels hit the floor, and my exhalation is so heavy that it knocks me into the stone wall.
“It’s almost time,” I whisper, but first, I need to make my appearance.
Welcome to the den of vipers. Yes, they bite out in the open. They are vampires, after all.
Stiffen your spine. Okay, chin high.
I nod toward the guards. A loud groan signals to the guests inside that the doors are opening, but it feels like my lungs are closing. Each step I take is labored as the weight of the eyes in the room pivots towards me.
Whether they are looking at my face, the new necklace Galen gave me, the red silk dress, or my body, I don’t care. They see I’m here, which is all I need.
Soon, they will be too drunk to remember when I leave. I never stay long at these parties, and everyone knows it.
The dancing stops, and the crowd parts so I can walk down the aisle towards the king’s table.
I’m not a plague, I’m a fae. You can step closer. Unlike you, we don’t bite.
There, in the center, my husband sits upon a large dais that houses his royal table. Arrangements of candles give his skin a magical glow. Black roses in polished vases create a receiving feel that Galen exploits down to the very last drop. His thick, curly brown hair wraps around a crown made of white-gold and embellished with black diamonds, like the vines of those thorny roses he adores, claiming it and ensuring no one will grab the item from his head.
Oh, look at that smile. Marble can’t be carved that straight.
I admit, his smirk has fooled me until he flashes his two sharp fangs. He holds a goblet filled with blood, as he does a woman’s hips with admiration and authority.
My masked smirk falters. Galen’s always sipping blood, ensuring his magic is at peak reserves.
How has he not slipped into total bloodlust? It’s a mystery we've all asked. The only work he does is with his dick, so his magic doesn't need to be rechargedthatmuch.
