Page 27 of His Eternal Claim

“…and the wedding must have $500k flowers. I love roses. Honestly, Zagreus, the centerpiece height is important for the photos. I think we should go with pink roses. What do you think? Oh, and also, what about the cake? I think chocolate is on trend. What do you say?”

Crystella sits there, draped in labels that cost more than most people make in a decade, flipping through a bridal magazine as if she’s planning a gala and not a funeral for my soul.

The wedding planner sits across from her. He’s suggesting ways to make this more extravagant, though it’ll only be miserable for her as I’d planned.

My hands flex once, then go still, before I let anything reach my face.

The ache in my head is keeping time with the urge to reach into my desk, pull out my Beretta, and put a bullet between her vapid, sparkling eyes.

Fucking leech. She doesn’t want a husband; she wants a throne and a credit line. And I am giving her none.

“Jasmine,” I rasp.

Crystella freezes, her hand poised over a picture of a three-tiered cake. She blinks at me, her perfectly laminated brows drawing together. “Jasmine? It’s too delicate. Besides, it wilts. It doesn’t have the structural integrity of a rose.”

I lean forward, and I don’t bother hiding the predator behind my eyes. I give her the glare that makes seasoned capos stutter. I want her to feel the frost in my marrow.

And tell her she doesn’t mean shit to me.

“We’ll have jasmines,” I repeat, my voice dropping to a growl. “Every square inch of the cathedral. Every table. Every hallway. If I smell a single rose, I’ll burn the florist’s shop to the ground with them inside.”

Crystella pales, her eyes flickering with a moment of genuine fear before she recovers, smoothing her features into that practiced socialite mask. She forces a hollow laugh, her fingers fluttering.

“Wow… such a great idea,” she stammers, scribbling something down with a gold pen. “You know, you’re right. Roses are so outdated, so cliché. We should definitely do jasmine. It’s so… exotic. So unexpected.”

Expected.

Everything in my life is expected now. The marriage. The ports. The slow poisoning of my own heart.

I stand up, the chair screeching back, and walk to the floor-to-ceiling window. The city of Rome stretches out before me like a map of my own sins.

Somewhere out there, in a room I’ve erased from the records, Selene is breathing. Or maybe she’s screaming. Maybe she’s lying in the dark, hating me with a fervor that is the only thing keeping us both connected.

I think of the way she looked at me when she asked if I was going to take her against her will.

The memory is a serrated edge sawing at my throat. I didn’t take her.

I will never force myself on her.

I let her go. She fled like a wounded animal, and I stayed in the silence, surrounded by the scent of her surrender and my own filth.

“Is there anything else?” Crystella asks, her voice tentative now.

“Get out,” I say, not turning around.

“But the seating chart—”

“Get. Out.”

I hear the rustle of her silk dress, the click of her heels, and finally the heavy thud of the oak door, the planner trailing out after her.

Silence.

I lean my forehead against the cool glass. The jasmine won’t be for the wedding. It won’t be for Crystella. It will be a shroud. A reminder of the woman I’ve buried alive so that I can wear this goddamn crown.

I am the King of the Underworld, and my kingdom is made of ash.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a small, crumpled ribbon, the one she dropped in her haste to escape me. I press it to my nose and inhale. It’s fading.