My Queen.
Finally.
The library stretches around us in its carefully curated grandeur—shelves climbing toward shadows I've memorized across endless decades, tomes I've read so many times their contents have become part of my consciousness rather than external knowledge. The floating candelabras continue their eternal dance, flames shifting through spectrums of gold and silver that I stopped truly seeing sometime around my third century of imprisonment in this gilded cage.
But her?
HerI see with clarity that borders on painful.
I drink in every detail with the particular hunger of someone who has survived on imagination alone for far too long. The silver of her hair catches the candlelight and transforms it into something more precious than any metal—living luminescence that frames features sharp enough to cut and soft enough to worship. Her skin carries the particular pallor of someone whose vampire heritage fights against whatever else flows through her veins, creating a canvas that makes every flush of emotion visible, every surge of blood evident to eyes trained to notice such things.
The dress I conjured for her fits exactly as intended—midnight fabric clinging to curves that my hands itch to explore properly, transparent panels offering glimpses of treasures I've waited lifetimes to claim. Gold threads trace patterns across the material that echo the incantations still visible on her flesh, constellations that speak to power she's only beginning to understand.
Beautiful.
The word feels insufficient.
Devastatingcomes closer.
Perfectmight actually capture it.
Having her sitting here, present and furious and confused in equal measure, after centuries of waiting, longing, being trapped in this cycle of academy misery for the sake of my bonded one arriving when the worlds saw fit... it was daunting. Exhausting in ways that transcended simple physical fatigue. There were moments—dark moments, desperate moments—when I wondered if the prophecies were lies designed to torment rather than promises meant to sustain.
Yet now, in this moment, I need to soak it all in.
Appreciate what the universe has finally delivered.
Acknowledge that patience, however agonizing, has yielded rewards beyond what imagination could construct.
I've never been one to be glamorized by women.
The admission carries no arrogance—simply factual observation accumulated across more years than most beings can conceptualize. Centuries of existence provide ample opportunity for romantic entanglement, and I experienced my share in the early decades. Beautiful women throwing themselves at power they sensed but couldn't understand. Clever women attempting manipulation they believed subtle. Ambitious women seeking alliance through whatever means their bodies could provide.
Boredom at best.
None of them carried what she carries.
None of them looked at me the way she's looking now—threat and curiosity warring in eyes that have shifted from silver to crimson, vampire hunger bleeding through whatever composure she's attempting to maintain. The red suits her in ways that the silver doesn't quite capture. It speaks to depths she's only beginning to acknowledge, power she's been taught to suppress rather than embrace.
I can see the rebellion in those glowing depths.
The promise of violence barely contained.
The particular fury of someone who has been maneuvered into position without their consent, forced to confront truths they didn't request and bonds they didn't choose.
Magnificent.
The women of my court—back when courts existed, back when my kingdom was more than memory and ash—would have accepted bond marks with simpering gratitude. They would have preened and posed, showing off their new decorations like jewelry acquired through purchase rather than destiny. Themark I bear, the mark now mirrored on her forehead... they mocked it in whispers they thought I couldn't hear.
Who would want thorns?
What lady would bear such aggressive decoration?
Surely the prince's bonded will be disappointed by such harsh imagery.
They envisioned delicate flowers, soft curves, the gentle aesthetics that defined courtly beauty in eras long turned to dust. They couldn't comprehend that some bonds require strength in their marking. That some connections demand visual acknowledgment of the battles they'll weather rather than the pleasures they'll provide.
Yet this woman—mywoman, whether she accepts the designation yet or not—didn't look distraught when she saw the thorns traced across her skin.
